SG1: Sand in My Boots
Posted on Tue Jan 20th, 2026 @ 4:55pm by Lieutenant Colonel Jonathon Raynor & Master Sergeant Ezekiel Chambers & Chief Petty Officer Marisa Harlan & Major (майо́р) Lyudmila "Mila" Sorokova
Mission:
Echoes of the Fallen
Location: Abydos
6543 words - 13.1 OF Standard Post Measure
/// ON ///
Raynor adjusted the strap of his P90 across his chest and scanned the horizon through the HUD tint of his lenses. The pyramid itself loomed massive and ancient behind them, half-buried in time, its carved symbols worn nearly smooth by millennia of wind. He’d been here before, years ago, when Abydos was still the center of every question Earth couldn’t answer. Now it was quiet. Too quiet.
“Chief, secure the perimeter,” Raynor ordered, nodding to Harlan. “Sterre, let’s get some readings on ambient energy levels. I don’t want to assume this place is dead just because it looks like it.”
Stepping out from the cool inside of the pyramid, Marisa gave a out a slight gasp, when the desert heat hit her face. It was a soft gasp, she was rather glad for the tinted goggles which gave protection from the glare of the unrelenting sun.
Marisa moved out, looking for any signs of possible signs of anything living besides SG1, the sand shifted beneath her feet as she moved. So far there was anything, well except for a lizard that had popped up from beneath the sand and was trying to move along in her shadow.
As they spread out, he crouched near a stretch of disturbed sand just beyond the temple steps. At first glance it looked like erosion, natural, chaotic, but as he followed the pattern a few meters outward, the marks resolved into something more deliberate. Lines. Parallel drag paths, half-faded but deep enough to have resisted years of wind. Something had been moved from the pyramid, or dragged away from it.
He stood, brushing the sand from his gloves. “Harlan,” he called out, “get eyes on this.”
She turned when she heard Raynor call for her, and she moved towards him to see him crouched down beside something that didn't look natural. Not from a closer perspective.
"That doesn't look natural, and could it be from early on?"
“No,” Raynor murmured, scanning the horizon again. “But not ancient either.” He tapped his comm. “Wander, this is Raynor. We’ve got signs of prior movement outside the Abydos temple. Drag marks — worn but still visible. We’re following the trail east by northeast, bearing two-seven-zero.”
He motioned for the others to form up. “Let’s move.”
They crested the first rise, sand crunching underfoot, the wind carrying that familiar low hum of shifting grains against stone. The world was vast and empty, the pyramid shrinking behind them until it was just another jagged tooth on the horizon. The drag marks wound across the dune like scars, fading and reappearing as if the desert itself was trying to erase the evidence.
Raynor was about to order a brief halt for sensor calibration when the radio crackled in his ear.
"Copy that. We will be standing by, Raynor out."
It took a couple minutes before they were close enough for the desert wind to carry their voices clearly, Raynor gave a curt nod, eyes flicking between the three newcomers assessing, not unwelcoming but cautious.
“Major,” he greeted evenly, his tone professional but edged with curiosity. “Didn’t expect Moscow to be sending field physicists into the sandbox. Guess Command’s really doubling down on the buddy system.”
He let the words hang a moment before adding, with a faint, dry smirk, “Welcome to Abydos. Hope you brought sunscreen this planet’s got a hell of a tan policy.”
Mila stopped beside them, giving Raynor a brief nod of acknowledgment. Her fair skin was already taking on a subtle rose 'blush' along her cheeks and nose. No amount of sunblock would stop her skin from burning - ah, the curse of the fair-skinned.
“Colonel.” She answered by way of greetings, her accent sharp even with just the one word. She took in the sweep of desert with a slow, assessing look — not impressed, not intimidated, just… filing it away. When she answered, her tone stayed flat, unhurried. "One sandbox is much like another..." She glanced toward the drag marks cutting across the dunes.
“Either way, something in it is usually trying to kill you,” she added dryly. “Feels familiar already.”
Marisa had looked in the direction that Raynor was looking, she shifting her stance to one of watchfulness, and was keeping tabs on Raynor's reaction towards those who arrived. She was curious as to the new arrived.
"Additional support..." Raynor questioned what he was informed but this wasn't something they should have seen last minute. But it wasn't his call, nor was it this Major's fault either. He made a mental note before nodding at both of the Russian officers before shifting his sun glasses and turned back around and noticed the Marine NCO. “Sergeant Chambers, Good to see you. Did you get assigned baby sitting duties?"
"You know how it is Colonel, gotta play nice with our new Russian friends, make them feel all cozy and welcome," Chambers smirked as he nodded to the officer, he didn't salute, but they were on mission and he was used to not saluting when down range. "I guess the higher ups thought it wasn't too dangerous, cause they only sent one Marine."
Sorokova heard it — the clipped edge in Raynor’s voice when he muttered, “Additional support…” — like perhaps he’d just been handed a spare tire instead of a strike team. Mila didn’t take offense. She’d been on too many tarmacs, too many handoffs between too many governments to waste time feeling slighted over any first impressions.
Instead, she let the silence breathe for a moment, just long enough for everyone’s attention to hang in the heat. Then she answered — not stiff, not defensive, but with the kind of wry delivery that suggested beneath all the protocol and granite-honed discipline, she was still human. Dangerously so.
“Da. Additional support…but, don’t worry, Colonel,” she said, tone light but dry as the desert baking around them. “We didn’t come here to step on anyone’s toes.” Mila paused, hooking a thumb back toward her team while her eyes remained fixed on Raynor’s. “We’re just here to help everyone look good...” Meanwhile, young Durov looked like someone had just explained humor to him for the first time and he wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Sorokova went on, shrugging one shoulder as though her team’s unexpected arrival were nothing more than an internal memo that hadn’t quite survived the fax machine.
“Truth be told,” she added, “We figured someone needed help establishing a reputation out here. Maybe plant a flag. Get on the good side of any locals. And hey — if it turns out all you really needed was more sunscreen and a joke, I think we can manage even that.”
She held Raynor’s gaze, the glint behind her eyes unmistakable — not mocking but challenging in a way only kindred spirits understood.
“Do not worry,” she finished lightly, “if anything tries to kill us, we promise to die in a very flattering way. Really elevate the team image…after all—we’re all here to make each other’s after-action reports look heroic, da?”
John smirked at her words before nodding. He turned on his heel before he moved to lead the pack. "... SG1, let's see where this leads us, shall we."
Marisa took point following the strange markings. While she moved she called over her shoulder. "Welcome to SG One." giving a bit of a smile. Pulling up her kerchief to cover the lower half of her face, Marisa moved forward.
Moving through the sand, the granules shifting beneath her feet. Marisa felt the wind move a strand of her hair which had escaped. Her head was on a swivel, looking for any signs of life, if there were any. Up one rise, then into a dip, then up another rise. With what seemed to be around a half an hour something pinged and she held up her fist for others to pause.
Through the shimmering of the heat, from the sand, shapes could be seen moving. Marisa pointed. "Colonel, there's some movement"
She also looked behind to where the newly arrived people that were there. "Hey sorry for not saying anything earlier" looking towards Mila. "I'm Chief Petty Officer Marisa Harlan"
Mila’s head dipped just slightly in acknowledgment, her fair lashes narrowing as she focused on the ridge the chief identified. The wind carried sand in slender, spiraling threads, and she stood perfectly still, every sense tuned.
“Major Lyudmila Sorokina,” she replied, voice level and low enough not to carry, but friendly in a sense that she answered readily, as it was part of her order set to Играйте хорошо с местными жителями. (Igrayte khorosho s mestnymi zhitelyami) 'Play well with the locals.'
Unable to help herself, she then then took the liberty to introduce the junior officer accompanying her. He was the source of the garlic on the C-130, and now he had become her own personal 'albatross,' apparently. Mother Russia was ever so giving...
“And this—” Mila gestured lazily with two fingers “—is Sidekick Sasha.” There was the faintest emphasis on the word sidekick, as if she’d plucked it out of the air and affixed it to him as a private joke.
The young man straightened, though the attempt at military posture didn’t quite erase the wide-eyed awe glued to his face. Taller than Mila, yes, but his shoulders hadn’t yet learned the weight of command or consequence. His olive drab uniform was still too crisp, and somehow, despite the oppressive desert heat, he already looked out of place—too clean, too polished, too...everything.
“Junior Lieutenant Sergei Durov,” he blurted out, shoulders pulled back, voice filled with the self-importance only youth and wealth could conjure. The vowels were clipped, the cadence practiced. “Graduated from—”
"не имеющий отношения." (ne imeyushchiy otnosheniya - Irrelevant.) Sorokova cut in, voice slicing clean through the desert silence. She spoke without cruelty — just unvarnished truth. It silenced Durov. It was a good start.
Mila's weight shifted, rifle up, gaze narrowing to a sniper’s tunnel. "What did you see, Chief? What am I looking for?”
A small dust cloud puffed across the line of sight, for a moment, then it cleared "I thought I saw movement just over in that direction." turning towards Mila as well as Raynor.
Raynor narrowed his eyes against the glare, even with his sun glasses in place, the horizon blurring in the rising heat. Shapes moved ahead... faint, uncertain. Through the wavering air, he could just make out what looked like a small encampment, which seemed to be weathered tents of leather and wood, half-buried in sand, flickering like mirages.
He raised a hand, signaling the group to stop. “Looks like movement, alright,” he said quietly, scanning the site through his binoculars. “Locals, maybe. Could be scavengers, survivors, or something else entirely.”
The wind hissed across the dunes, carrying no sound from the camp, just silence and shifting dust.
Ray glanced toward the NCO approaching from his flank. “What do you think, Master Sergeant?”
"That we're in the land of sand and sun, sir," Zek turned towards the movement and pulled out a small spotting scope and started looking in the direction of it. "Hard to tell what it is, but if it needs killin' we got the gear to do it."
Marisa moved towards Mila and the other who had come with her., all the while looking towards the master sergeant who had brought up the rear. "Nice to meet you." Marisa holding out a gloved hand to both Mila and her side-kick. (Well that was what Marisa was thinking of the younger one as)
She was taking a moment or two to get a bit better to acquaint herself with the other two, before they resumed their movement. She also looked over her shoulder to still keep watch where what the small encampment was. She could feel the heat from the sun overhead beat down upon the top of her boots. Her eyes went over to where the quiet Sterre was standing.
Sorokova's expression softened just enough to signal openness beneath the rigid posture of a deployed officer. Without breaking eye contact, she clasped Marisa’s gloved hand in a firm, sure shake—no rank posturing, no hesitation. Respect, clean and simple. “Chief,” she said with a nod, her tone warmer than before—but still carrying that undercurrent of Russian dryness. “Good to meet you.”
When Marisa extended her hand to Durov, he stepped forward with a polished ease that didn’t quite match the harshness of the desert environment—but fit perfectly with someone who’d spent his formative years in well-tailored settings. Sergei offered his hand with an easy, practiced smile—warm, a touch mischievous, and just enough to hint that somewhere in his past there had been ballroom lessons and diplomatic dinners. “Chief Harlan,” he said, his Russian accent subtle compared to Mila’s. His handshake was surprisingly confident—firm, but not overcompensating. “Lieutenant Sergei Durov. A pleasure.” There was a glimmer of sincerity in his eyes as he continued—not the overeager blurt of a rookie, but a youthful charm tempered by privilege and good breeding.
"Are we done with greetings?" the Colonel asked as he continued to focus on the camp before them. Raynor's eyes still fixed on the distant shapes wavering through the heat haze. The faint outline of movement was there again — subtle, rhythmic, not the aimless shuffle of wind or wildlife. “They’re organized. Whoever they are, they’ve been here a while.”
He slowly lowered the binoculars, sand whispering against his boots as he straightened. “No sign of weapons, no vehicles. Could be locals or could be a forward team scouting the pyramid.” His jaw tightened, tone measured but edged with that practiced field calm that came just before a storm.
“Sorokova, get a closer look. Take Harlan with you—low and quiet. No contact yet. I want to know what we’re walking into before we show our faces.”
He adjusted the strap of his P90 again, eyes narrowing against the glare. “Everyone else, hold position and stay sharp. If they’re not friendly, I don’t want our first introduction being a crossfire.”
Sorokova’s chin dipped once in a curt nod. “Understood.” Her tone shifted, all business now, and her voice carried just enough for Raynor to hear over the wind before it was swallowed by the vastness of the dunes. The soft traces of civility she’d offered during introductions vanished as she slung her rifle across her shoulder and moved past the group.
“On me, Chief,” she said to Harlan, her voice low but steady against the hum of the desert wind.
A silent nod was what Marisa gave, moving with Sorokova. There was something about the solidness of the russian woman that Marisa liked. The confidence which exuded from her.
The dunes were massive here — rolling, sun-blasted mountains of shifting gold that moved like tides. Each ascent demanded effort: boots sinking deep, sand sloughing away underfoot in slow cascades. By the time they reached the crest of the massive dune, the wind was whistling between the crests hard enough to sting the skin through fabric.
Sorokova eased down to one knee at the dune’s summit, the world stretching before her like a pale inferno — dunes folding into one another in molten motion, the air trembling with heat. She unhooked her AK-12 from her shoulder, the weapon catching the sun in a dull glint before she leveled it forward. The stock nestled into the crook of her shoulder, the cheek rest finding her jawline with unconscious precision.
She lifted the sights to her eye, breath slowing until the sound of the wind dimmed and the world snapped into alignment. There, at the edge of a distant ridge, something geometric interrupted the natural rhythm of the desert.
“Structures, 10 o’clock, approximately 500 meters,” she murmured softly.
Marisa lowered herself to the top of the sand dune, having pulled out her foldable binoculars from her pocket, and took a look. Zeroing in on the structures ahead. To her wonderment, Marisa saw what was the remnants of buildings made of tawny colored stone, with bricks that were crumbling ,scoured by the desert wind and sand. Adjusting the clarity, Marisa picked up near the structures which seemed to proivide some sort of wind break. There were Tents made of some sort of leather,possibly goat hide. she was thinking. Worn tattered strips of cloth flapped in the wind, that their colors faded away beneath the sun. The tents reminded her of the movable abodes of the nomadic tribes in Egypt. They were leaning more or less to one side.
Quietly she reported to Sorokova. "I don't see any movement except for the wind moving some strips of cloth, upon some tents. Do you see anything else?"
Her eyes widened once more, as she thought she noticed movement, the flap of one of the tents opening. "I see someone peering out from one of the tents. " Marisa lowering the binoculars.
Sorokova adjusted immediately, her movements controlled and silent. The faintest shift of sand whispered beneath her knee as she pivoted the AK-12, following Marisa’s line of sight. Through the scope, heat shimmer gave way to definition: the sun baked fabric of a tent, its seams fluttering like a living thing, and there — a flicker of movement. A figure. He appeared suddenly, framed by the ragged opening — skin bronzed and coarse from the desert, eyes dark, wary, scanning the horizon with that native stillness she recognized from veterans and hunters alike. No metallic glint of weapons, no body armor. His garb was simple, layered cloth and leather worn pale by sun and sand.
Sorokova exhaled through her nose, a slow, controlled release that steadied the scope. Her jaw tightened slightly as she studied him, cataloguing every detail: posture, hands, direction of gaze. Then she lowered her voice, barely audible over the wind.
“Got him,” she murmured. “Single contact. No visible weapons. He’s watching the ridge.” Mila thumbed the PTT once — a sharp, efficient click — and spoke in the clipped, operational cadence she kept for short-range comms.
“We have visual: single subject visible at some sort of primitive encampment. Male, approx. mid-thirties, sun-darkened, wearing patched leather tunic and head wrap. No visible modern arms or comm gear. Range ~450 meters. I have him in my sights. Holding. Awaiting directive.” She released the button and let the radio hiss die. The dune wind fell and rose around them; Sorokova’s sights never left that solitary figure's center of mass as she waited for Raynor’s orders.
"If it's a local, good bet he ain't surprised we're here," Zek said it more to Raynor before he took another look through his spotter scope. There wasn't much more to see and he'd need to get a lot closer. "Do we want to make contact?"
"The one thing that I find interesting is how much awareness that those who live out in the wilderness have. Knowing the smallest detail and changes in the atmosphere lets them know." Marisa voice rather soft, knowing that the wind can actually carry the faintest of whispers which would alert someone, that something or someone was out there watching. She watched as the subject they were observing was looking around, as if he did sense something.
After catching up with the scouts, Raynor crouched beside Sorokova, peering toward the distant tents through the heat shimmer. The wind carried grit across his boots as he listened to her report.
“Good eyes,” he murmured. “If he hasn’t raised an alarm, we still have a chance. They’re desert folk — they’ll notice anything out of place. Keep low, minimal movement.”
He lifted his binoculars briefly, confirming the lone figure’s watchful posture.
“Chambers, Marisa, contact seems non-hostile. If we approach, we do it slow and open-handed.” He nodded toward Sorokova. “We’ll move in pairs. You and Harlan take the left—”
A sharp cry cut through the wind.
Two natives appeared suddenly at the side of the encampment, one pointing directly toward the dune line where the team lay hidden. The other shouted toward the tents, voice rising in alarm.
More shouting answered from the camp.
Raynor’s jaw tightened. “Well… they noticed.”
He steadied himself, voice low but controlled. “Hold position. No sudden moves.” His eyes stayed locked on the growing stir in the camp. “If they panic, we don’t escalate unless absolutely necessary.”
Sorokova’s reaction this time was sharper — still precise, still professional, but carrying that unmistakable edge of irritation that simmered just beneath the surface like a knife warming in the sun. The moment the shout cracked through the wind, her jaw tightened hard enough that Marisa, closest to her, likely heard the faint grind of teeth. It wasn’t fear, or even surprise.
It was annoyance. Cold, controlled, deeply Russian annoyance. Such was life — most plans never survived first contact, never mind first discovery.
She kept her posture welded to the dune, cheek pressed to the stock, scope locked on the lone watcher at the camp’s edge. Her voice, when it slipped out, was low and dry as desert sand.
“Ну прекрасно,” she muttered under her breath—just perfect—before answering him in English. “Copy. Holding.” Her tone was flat, clipped. Ill amused. Through the scope she watched the primitive camp erupt — people spilling out of tents, voices rising, arms pointing toward their position, dust lifting in frantic plumes.
Marisa did indeed hear the grinding of Sorokava's teeth, glancing over to look at her, then back to the people looking upwards. She noticed several kids who came out to look curiously to where the adults were looking at, only to be dragged back inside one of the tents.
"They've got children. " her voice soft.
One of the people there, his skin dark from the sun, strode towards the front of the gathering crowd, he handed his weapon to someone near him, raising up his hands, and made a sign, his hands flat against each other,right palm over the left palm, changing to left palm over the right palm then drifting the hands palms downward as if spreading them like wings.
"Okay his hands are empty, the movements look almost like wings, okay I've seen this before. Almost like uh--" digging into her memories. She wished she had concentrated on learning sign language.
"Empty hands normally mean non aggression..." Marisa stated.
Sorokova did not immediately answer. She stayed welded to the rifle, cheekbone firm against the stock, vision focusing on the 'target.' The encampment below had shifted into full alert—shouts, movement, shapes rushing between tents—but her focus pinned itself to the man who’d stepped forward. She tracked him through the scope, noting angle, posture, muscle tension. Not a charge. Not a feint. No tightening of fists. She inhaled slowly, the edge of irritation cooling into something sharper, more analytical. When she spoke, her voice was dry, low, and razor-thin.
“Да… I see it.” A heartbeat. Click of a dial as she adjusted magnification. “Palms open, rotating. Exposing the forearms. Means he is showing he carries nothing and has no intent. Some tribes do this to show they bring no curse, no blade, no ill omen.” The faintest pause. “It tracks. They know we’re watching. They do not know what we are.”
She shifted her sight just a fraction, ensuring no one behind him made a move with a hidden spear or blade. Nothing. Only frightened villagers and stirred desert dust. Then, without lifting her eyes from the scope: “Raynor,” Sorokova murmured, tone level but carrying that quiet steel beneath. “Chief Harlan's read is correct. This is non-aggression...”
Raynor kept watching the man with the open hands, letting the team settle after the initial spike of tension. The camp was alert, but no one was reaching for weapons now. The gesture looked deliberate. Measured. Someone trying to speak without words.
“Alright,” Raynor said quietly. “Let's go meet the people.”
He rose from the dune in one slow, controlled motion, p90 still over his chest, but ready to go. He gave a small nod to Sorokova and the others.
“Stay tight. Follow me down.”
Raynor started down the slope first, boots sinking into the loose sand. The wind carried the shouts from the camp, but none sounded like warning cries now more confusion than aggression. He kept his pace calm, steady, letting them see every step.
“Eyes open,” he said over his shoulder. “Weapons low. We treat this as a meeting, not a threat.”
As they closed the distance, the reaction became clearer. People stepped out of their tents and watched in silence. Some stared with wide eyes. Others whispered. A few dropped to their knees the moment the team came into view.
Raynor slowed but didn’t stop. He glanced to Marisa, then to Zek.
“Hold steady. Don’t mirror them.”
More villagers bowed as the team reached the edge of the encampment—dozens now, all lowering themselves as if expecting something from the strangers walking toward them.
A small group of elders broke away from the crowd. Older, sun-worn faces. Simple robes. No weapons. They approached with care, but not fear, stopping a few paces in front of Raynor.
Raynor came to a halt, shoulders squared, hands open at his sides.
“Alright,” he murmured to his team. “We let them speak first.”
He met the elders’ eyes, steady and calm, and waited.
"غرباء الرمل... أنتم تمشوا من غير خوف. قولوا غرضكم عشان نعرف نيتكم," the elder said, his voice steady. His gaze moved across the team with the kind of caution that came from experience. He didn’t step forward or raise his voice; he simply watched, measuring them.
Raynor understood none of it.
The words washed over him like noise, and that familiar flash of uselessness hit hard for a moment. He glanced over his shoulders, hoping someone on the team might recognize the language. No one did.
He tapped his chest. “Lieutenant Colonel Raynor.”
He pointed to himself, lifting his brows in a simple universal question.
“Anybody?” he asked the team.
The elder frowned and glanced briefly at the people behind him before looking back up the hill.
"هذا لا يفهم… لغته غريبة." He tapped his own chest in return. "حوسُف."
Behind him, two younger men whispered anxiously. "منين جاين؟" one asked.
The other leaned around the elder, staring at the team’s gear. "ليه لابسين حديد زي محاربي رع؟"
Another villager’s voice wavered. "يمكن جاين من التشابّا’اي…"
A second hissed back, panic tightening his words, "لو كانوا من التشابّا’اي… هل حيقتلونا لأننا ما ركعناش؟"
A third voice followed, barely above a breath, "ولا يمكن ياخدونا للتعذيب…"
Sorokova pushed herself up from the sand with a low, irritated grunt, boots grinding into the crusted dune. Grains slid off her uniform and rifle alike as she rose to her full height, slinging the AK-12 into a low, relaxed hold—barrel pointed at the ground, hands loose, safety already on. She muttered under her breath in Russian, voice edged with dry contempt: "Чёртовы песочницы…"
Then she stepped back down the slope with practiced care, rejoining Raynor’s side like a shadow slotting back into position. The wind tugged at her sleeve, but she kept her rifle steady and her gaze locked on the villagers below—watchful, but not aiming.
Mila blinked at all of them—then let out a sharp, incredulous scoff. “You are telling me…” she hissed softly, switching to English, “that I—the Russian—know the most Arabic on this team?” Her expression was priceless: equal parts disbelief, annoyance, and of course this is my life now.
Raynor glanced sideways at her, lips twitching despite himself.
“Well,” he said dryly, eyes still on the camp below, “congratulations. You win the language badge today. Try not to let it go to your head. We still need you for the shooting.”
“And here I thought Americans loved invading deserts,” she muttered under her breath. “Could have fooled me.” She blew a tight breath out her nose, eyes flicking back toward the villagers, studying their posture, their whispers, the gestures the elder had made moments before.
Raynor huffed a quiet laugh and adjusted his grip on the binoculars.
“Yeah, well,” he said without looking at her, “We usually bring a phrasebook. And air support. This time we’re improvising. Thought we'd throw an easy going Russian to the team mid mission.”
“I understand a little,” she admitted grudgingly. “Enough for fieldwork. Enough to know they’re asking who we are, why we walk without fear. They… expect judgment.” A tilt of her head indicated the kneeling villagers. “They think we come from something—Chappa’ai. The stargate?”
"That was what the Jaffa call it as well," John spoke outload ad he looked at her. "What else do you understand?"
She adjusted her rifle slightly to show a clearer non-hostile stance, her voice dropping as she half-translated, half summarized: “They said… ‘strangers of the sand.’ Asking our purpose. Wondering if we will kill them for not bowing fast enough. They fear we are soldiers of Ra.” She let that hang in the air a beat. Then added, quieter, still incredulous: “And again, I must emphasize—the Russian knows the most Arabic. Unreal.”
"Major, have you ever heard of someone saying you complain to much for your own good?" Raynor shook his head.
Marisa looked at Mila, shaking her head. "You're just a little bit more--up to date on the language skills. And here I am part of communications as well. Most often we had a trusted translator."
She said softly. "Okay so I'm very rusty on the spoken, easier to read the language, when it is dealing with the mechanical part, even on Russian vehicles. And I learned barely enough Russian to get by--" she slung her rifle over her shoulder making certain her hands were empty.
"We come in Salam, uh.." showing her hands empty "Rise up from the ground. Assalamu alaykum" she stumbled over the words. Hoping that she didn't somehow insult them.
The elder stiffened slightly at the sound of the words, surprise flickering across his face as the greeting landed—rough, imperfect, but unmistakable.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the villagers.
"سمعتِ؟ قالت سلام."
(Did you hear? She said peace.)
One of the younger men leaned closer to the elder, his voice low but urgent.
Raynor felt the translator kick in, the words settling into place a half-second later. He couldn’t help the corner of his mouth from lifting. He reached up and toggled his radio to broadcast.
“See?” he said lightly, glancing sideways at Mila. “Good old American problem-solving. No all-knowing Russian required.”
The elder’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in thought.
"لسانهم مكسور… بس الكلمات معروفة."
(Their tongue is broken… but the words are known.)
Slowly, deliberately, the elder raised one hand, palm outward. Not a command. Not a threat. A question hanging in the air.
The elder’s gaze dropped—not to Raynor’s face, but to the small box clipped to his vest. The faint crackle. The flat, even voice that followed Raynor’s words, reshaping them into something familiar.
A beat of silence passed.
Then quiet realization spread through the group.
"الصندوق يتكلم…"
(The box is speaking…)
One of the younger men’s eyes widened. He leaned toward another, fear and awe mixing in his whisper.
"يعرف لساننا."
(It knows our tongue.)
Another swallowed hard, glancing between the device and Raynor.
"سحر؟"
(Magic?)
Sorokova caught sahr and frowned.
“Magic,” she muttered. “Of course.”
She stepped forward before Raynor could say anything else, lifting one hand in what she hoped was a universally non-threatening gesture. Her Arabic came carefully, each word chosen like stepping stones across a river.
“Lā… siḥr,” she said. Then hesitated. “Hādhā… āla.” She gestured toward the translator. “Machine.” The device relayed her words smoothly.
The villagers’ reaction, however, was… mixed. The elder’s brows drew together.
"آلة؟ مثل الطاحونة؟"
(A machine? Like a mill?)
A younger man leaned in, whispering urgently. "لا، يمكن يقصد روح محبوس."
(No, maybe she means a trapped spirit.)
Sorokova blinked. She caught rūḥ and maḥbūs and felt her stomach drop.
“That is… not what I meant,” she said, under her breath.
She tried again, slower. “Not spirit,” she said, then searched for the word. “Not… jinn.”
The translator obligingly rendered it. Unfortunately, the dialect did her no favors. A ripple of alarm moved through the group.
"تقول ليس جنّ؟ يعني هو جنّ."
(She says it is not a jinn? That means it is a jinn.)
Sorokova exhaled sharply through her nose. “Raynor,” she murmured sideways in English, “if this turns into an exorcism, I am blaming you.”
Ezekiel couldn't help but find the entire thing comical, he traveled through a ring to some distant planet only to find a desert with a tribe of people that spoke Arabic. The Russians comments about Americans made him want to laugh out loud but he kept hit face neutral as he watched the people of the village. The thought of making a comment about finding oil in this desert would cause the US Government to sent an entire battalion through the Stargate, but he kept that to himself. He kept his M249 pointed down at the ground, wanting to maintain that he wasn't a threat. As much time as he'd spent in Iraq, and the things he'd done, had given him a unique advantage point.
"No, it's not a jinn," Chambers finally confirmed in Arabic, his Texas drawl coming through even though he spoke another tongue. "We come from very far away to meet you, my name is Ezekiel." That seemed to get a few looks, another thing he was used to from his time in Iraq considering how Hebrew his name was. "We only wish to be friends."
Raynor waited a beat as the Arabic washed over him again, the translator lagging just enough to irritate him. He glanced left. Right. He sighed, tapped the small box on his vest, and muttered dryly,
“Just checking. Am I the only one out here who needs the damn magic box, or is this a group deficiency?”
A few villagers stiffened at the sound of the translated English spilling back at them in their own tongue. The murmurs sharpened. Eyes dropped again to the device.
The elder stepped forward this time. Older than the rest. Lean, weathered, his presence quieted the whispers without effort. His gaze stayed fixed on Raynor. He was not afraid, but wary.
"اسمك فهمناه… يا راينور."
(We understood your name… Raynor.)
He placed a hand over his chest.
"أنا كاسوف."
(I am Kasuf.)
A pause. Then, carefully, as if weighing every word:
"هل جئتم من تشابّا’اي رع؟"
(Did you come from Ra’s Chappa’ai?)
The question hung in the hot air, heavy with memory and fear.
“Yes,” he said calmly, the device carrying his words into Arabic. “We came through the Chappa’ai.”
A brief pause, then he added, “But its not Ra’s.”
He looked directly at Kasuf, holding the elder’s gaze.
Kasuf studied him for a long moment before lifting his hand, palm up, in a cautious but deliberate gesture.
"إذا لم تكونوا من رع… فمن أنتم؟"
(If you are not of Ra… then who are you?)
He glanced past Raynor, eyes lingering on the weapons, the uniforms, the quiet discipline.
"ولماذا تحملون الحديد إن لم تأتوا للحرب؟"
(And why do you carry iron if you did not come for war?)
A murmur rippled through the villagers as Kasuf asked one final question, softer but no less important.
"وهل جئتم لتبقوا… أم لتمرّوا فقط؟"
(Have you come to stay… or only to pass through?)
"Ten years in the sand box with MARSOC, Colonel," Chambers answered the unasked question, most grunts didn't learn the language. Maybe a phrase here or there, but it wasn't necessary. As someone who'd been part of the special operations command, he was in a position where learning the language was almost necessary.
"We carry iron to defend ourselves, for our own protection. These are tools," Ezekiel explained simply, he wasn't sure how to answer the who and why but that might be a better answered by the resident officer.
Kosauf listened closely, eyes moving from Chambers to Ezekiel, weighing their words the way a man weighed grain, carefully, without waste.
He nodded once at Chambers, slow and thoughtful. “Ten years in the sand… that teaches a man patience, if it does not teach him words.”
"Right... whatever that is supposed to mean," the colonel muttered as he watched the elder and his body language. His gaze lingered a moment longer, not unkind, just curious.
Then Kosuf turned to Ezekiel, eyes dropping briefly to the weapons before lifting again to the man’s face.
“We know iron.”
A faint murmur passed through the villagers behind him.
“Iron either protects… or it takes life,” Kosauf raised one hand, palm outward; not submission, not challenge. Balance.
“If you came to use us as tools, then tell us. But as we told our God, Ra, the mines do not offer up much.”
He gestured subtly to the horizon, to the mining entrances.
“Ra has fled, but his shadow has not.”
His eyes returned to the group, settling briefly on Raynor, then opening the question wider.
Marisa spoke up, "We are not here to use you as tools, that isn't why we are here. We are investigating, as the Chappa’ai sent out its signal. And we came to see what was on the other side."
"And to kick some Goa'uld ass," Zeke added in with a slight smirk, although he wasn't sure how that would translate seeing that it was more of an idiom than anything else.
Sorokova had already begun to drift—slowly, deliberately—half a step off the conversational axis the moment Marisa started speaking.
While the words flowed—we are not here to use you… we are investigating…—Mila’s eyes tracked the periphery. The encampment edges. A different flutter—low to the ground, tucked between two tents where the fabric should have hung still. A quick, human tug-and-release, like someone trying to peek without being seen. Her shoulders squared subtly. The AK-12 came up just enough to be ready, not enough to alarm. She stepped away from Raynor, Harlan and Kasuf, boots sinking quietly into the sand, posture loose but predatory: not rushing, not hesitating.
Zeke caught the russian's movement and even though they weren't exactly pals, here they were watching each other's backs. He started searching the direction she seemed to be looking as he brought his weapon up more into a ready position. The barrel was still pointed down, but he could have it up and spitting fire at a moment's notice. So far the people here seemed to be friendly, but there was nothing wrong with being aware of one's surroundings.
Kosauf paused for a moment as he scanned them once again before slowly nodding understanding. Although he didn't fully understand. “I do not know what you mean by Goa'uld or their asses.” he looked at the Master Sergeant before looking at Raynor. " Please, join us. We are about to do our evening prayer and have our evening meal."
/// OFF ///
Jonathon Raynor, Lt. Colonel
SG-1 Leader, SGC
&
Major Lyudmila Sorokova
SG-1 Member, SGC
&
Master Sergeant Ezekiel Chambers
SG-1 Member, SGC
&
Chief Petty Officer Marisa Harlan
SG-1 Member, SGC
