Of all the places
Posted on Thu Mar 26th, 2026 @ 2:47pm by Chief Petty Officer Marisa Harlan & Major (майо́р) Lyudmila "Mila" Sorokova
Edited on on Thu Mar 26th, 2026 @ 2:55pm
Mission:
Echoes of the Fallen
Location: Outside of Tent
Timeline: The "Six degrees of Kevin Bacon" in action
1437 words - 2.9 OF Standard Post Measure
Night had fallen, a cool breeze rustled the tent that SG-1 had partaken of the meal with the desert people. Stars were shining brightly, the sky clear, there was something about the desert at night, that had a mystery to it. There was one thing that Marisa had always loved was the diamond pin points of light that twinkled above. Slung over her shoulder was her firearm, her helmet was upon her head. She drew in breath glad that the wind had died down, glad to not be feeling the hot desert air. She took a few steps away from the tent, scanning, ever watchful.
She glanced back towards the tent, perplexed as to why Mila looked familiar.
Mila slipped out of the tent with a single, uncomplicated objective: A smokey treat. The flap fell shut behind her, muting the low voices and fire-crackle inside, and she welcomed the night like an old accomplice. Cool air brushed her face, the desert finally exhaling after a long, brutal day. She reached into her jacket out of habit, already fishing for the cigarette before she even stopped walking.
She struck the lighter as she came to a halt—and then forgot to bring the flame up. Because the stars were wrong. Cold, precise diamonds punched into infinity in clusters and configurations that were nothing like Earth's night sky. Mila tilted her head back despite herself, lit the cigarette and drew in, the burn sharp and grounding as she took in the view. Smoke filled her lungs, tasting of familiarity. She exhaled slowly, watching it drift upward and dissolve among new constellations she had no names for standing on an alien desert under an alien sky, guarding people she barely knew against threats she understood all too well.
Somewhere to the side of her, someone moved in the sand. Mila instantly registered it, instinct humming along beneath reflection. It was the Harlan woman...Chief Harlan, yes. She had gone out a few minutes before.
"Cigarette?" Mila asked by way of greetings.
Shaking her head, with a smile Marisa replied "None for me." looking towards Mila. "What brand of cigarette are you smoking? It has a familiar scent."
It was a true statement, she had smelled it before. Scents can trigger memories almost like being a key to open a forgotten door to part of her past.
Another scrutinizing look at Mila, the starlight and sliver of the moonlight made Mila's profile stand out more. Once again there was the niggling thought that she may have met the woman who was smoking, before.
Mila lowered the cigarette slightly, turning it between her fingers as if reassessing it under the starlight. The thin paper caught the moon just enough for the small cyrillic 'Prima' script lettering to be visible. It was almost impossible to find outside of Russia. She watched the ember glow, then dim, then glow again as she drew in.
“Prima,” she said simply on the exhale, answering the earlier question at last. “Russian.”
A faint crease formed between her brows as she studied Marisa’s expression, curiosity sharpening. “You said the scent was familiar.” She angled the cigarette a fraction, the smoke curling upward in a pale ribbon. “Where would you have smelled Russian cigarettes?”
The question wasn’t accusatory — it was analytical, the way someone tests a variable. In this world, Russian tobacco didn’t drift casually through airports or tourist districts. It had context. Borders. Uniforms. Cold nights under floodlights and long lines of men stamping their boots against the snow.
The desert wind shifted, carrying the smoke sideways. Mila’s gaze flicked briefly to the perimeter, then back again. “They’re not common outside home,” she added, quieter. “Especially not these.”
Mila let out a slow breath, tone easing just enough to keep it from sounding like interrogation. “Usually means you were somewhere interesting, or you know someone else who has terrible taste in cigarettes.”
Another scrutinizing gaze from Marisa, as she dredged up memories from awhile ago. "Prima-I knew someone who worked on a project in Dubai, that smoked those. It was a joint construction project. This was back in--2015 or 2016. I was working on an airstrip, repairing and expanding it, and working on the trucks there. We had to fend off some would be thieves who wanted to take the trucks, in fact one of them had gotten taken and myself and one of the Russians a female--joined in the hunt--"
Another sniff of the smoke coming from Mila's cigarettea as a memory surfaced.
Both she and the woman had hopped onto a motorcycle, both giving chase, both very angry that someone dared to take one of the trucks. An image of a determined Russian woman getting off the back of the motorcycle and onto the truck. Marisa leaping off the motorcycle and they got the truck to stop.
"No way--it couldn't be you." Marisa's eyes widened.
The cigarette burned quietly between Mila's fingers as Marisa spoke — the airstrip, the trucks, the chase — each detail settling into place like pieces of a calculation finally resolving. Her expression barely changed, but something behind her eyes shifted, focus narrowing inward. Yes. She remembered.
Not just the event — the heat radiating off concrete, the vibration of the motorcycle beneath them, the way the engine screamed when Marisa pushed it harder than it should have gone. The sharp, reckless certainty of someone who refused to let a problem remain unsolved. Mila took one slow drag, then lowered the cigarette.
“You shouted at the thief in three languages, if I recall...” Mila began quietly. “And when the truck finally stopped…” her mouth twitched faintly, “…you hopped off the bike looking like...” She halted and began gesticulating as if hand gestures would somehow carry where loss of words could not. "Like wet cat?"
Her gaze lifted to Marisa fully now — and for a heartbeat, something rare slipped through.
The 'real' smile that followed was small, almost restrained, but unmistakably genuine. Warm. Human. The kind that reached her eyes and softened the hard precision usually locked there. It was the smile of someone remembering not a mission, but a moment — unexpected camaraderie, shared adrenaline, the absurdity of two strangers acting as if they had trained together for years.
It lasted only a second. If Marisa was paying attention she would see it clearly...and then she would also see it vanish.
The warmth folded away with practiced efficiency, like a door closing silently. Mila’s posture straightened a fraction; her shoulders settled back into that composed, disciplined stillness. The professional mask returned — calm, observant, controlled. Not cold, exactly… just contained.
Only the faintest softness lingered around her eyes, an echo of what had slipped through. “Yes,” Mila said, voice even again. “I remember now. I did not expect to ever see you again,” she added. “Statistically improbable.”
Marisa saw it all, the subtle transformation in Mila, recognition; the memory of that day. A small smile danced upon her lips a feeling of camaraderie clicking together.
"Of all the places in the universes, we stepped into the same area. More often than not, this would be improbable." Another look at Mila then back out to the sand beyond Marisa quietly added. "And yet, us traveling through a stargate that in itself, before its discovery, could have been considered improbable as well."
A glance behind the two of them, Marisa commented, "We probably should go back inside, and see what else had come up."
She watched the smoke drift for a moment longer, thoughtful, then glanced toward the tent as Marisa suggested going back in. Voices still murmured faintly through the canvas, the firelight casting warm shapes against the fabric.
Mila took one final drag, holding it briefly before exhaling. Then she crouched slightly and pressed the cigarette into the sand, twisting it until the ember died with a soft hiss. True to habit, she did not leave the butt behind. She picked it up, brushed off the sand with two fingers, and slid the remains into the small front pocket of her tactical vest.
Her eyes lifted again to Marisa.
"Probably wise. If we stay out here much longer, someone will assume we are planning something.” The faintest ghost of that earlier smile touched the corner of her mouth again.
A quiet warm laugh from Marisa. "Raynor would probably be worried as to what we are up to. Or not. " She turned to proceed inside. "I am glad we have come across each other once more."
Chief Petty Officer Marisa Harlan
SG-1 Member, SGC
&
Major Lyudmila 'Mila' Sorokova
SG-1 Member, SGC
