Title: Tarantella
Author's LJ/DWJ: gooligan
Categories:  team, suspense, era: season 3-5, character: original
Warnings: language, creepiness, violence
Author's Webpage/Fic list: fanfiction.net
Link to story: fanfiction.net
Why this should be read:

During a scientific mission gone wrong, SG-1 plus Daniel find out that the uninhabited planet they're studying isn't quite as empty as they first thought. Now, chased by something through the ruins of a jungle city, Daniel and the sole surviving member of SG-10 must make it back to the gate alive. Meanwhile, rescue is having problems of its own and radio contact is sketchy at best.

Everyone's characterization here is just perfect, including the original characters. Daniel is true to form, trying to unravel the mystery and understand their pursuers even when he's just as terrified as everyone else. The rest of SG-1 shine as well, as they balance concern for their teammate with the duties of a rescue team. The emotions are very well written; you can feel the desperation as they try to keep calm and try to stay alive in a situation that is way over their heads. And the pace doesn't let up until the story is over, keeping you on the edge of your seat until the very last chapter. A note, though: if you find the premise of the series Alien too freaky to watch, you might want to tread carefully.

Thsi may or may not fall under the stranded off-world category. There's nothing actually wrong with the Stargate and the SGC even sends help, but the characters are several days away and there's a horde of creatures between them and it.



He'd been heading towards the corner. It was anyone's guess what he could have done but he'd been heading there when the young airman had barreled around it and into him. The soldier had almost knocked him down, then dragged him down the hall. He should be used to it by now, being dragged places. Should be used to the smell of terror for what it was worth, but he wasn't. The airman - Roscoe? Rostov? Rossitert . . .Rossiter. That was it. Airman Rossiter smelled like terror. His hand had been cold and slick with sweat, squeezing Daniel's painfully as he'd dragged him behind the little, ornamental screen and into the closet.

He remembered what he'd thought then. That this wasn't supposed to happen. That P4x-232 was safe, no Goa'uld, no hostiles. Not supposed to happen.

Fear tasted as bitter as it smelled. Daniel had tried to pry the hand away from his mouth a time or two. He had bruises on his jaw, and when he'd seen the white gleam of Rossiter's eyes in the gloom he'd stopped trying, had just wrapped his fingers lightly around Rossiter's wrist and held still. The airman's pulse raced under the clammy skin. A shadow had darkened the patterned screen of the closet once and he'd thought he'd felt Rossiter's pulse skip under his fingers. The bruises on his jaw ached, and that taste in his mouth . . .

The screaming had stopped a long time ago. There had been strange sounds in the hall for a lot longer, though. None of which were supposed to be there, to be happening at all. Daniel Jackson had listened and known it was something terrible, known it by the silence in the halls and the stink of Frank Rossiter in this gloomy, cramped little closet. And it wasn't supposed to be happening. Grafitto were images on rock, not metal . . . this wasn't supposed to happen. But the images were there, nonetheless and the shadows were there too. God, or gods, but he hated the smell of fear.