The gate room at the SGC smelled of metal and nervous sweat and gun oil, and it sounded like the crowd at a ballpark just before the National Anthem: hushed and respectful, but with the underlying drone of a hundred quiet conversations. It looked like the Wizard of Oz's waiting room, if the Wizard lived on Mars and had invited a company of Marines for a visit.

John Sheppard licked his lips, tasting the last traces of chocolate and peanut butter - one last Reese's for the road. On last gut-check. He felt ready. He felt free and easy and stupid, trusting in the fact that he was cluelessly leaping into the void, based on a light-up chair and the excitement of a handful of scientists and the toss of a coin.

He looked back, scanning the room and caught the eye of one of the labcoats - the one who'd looked so dismayed when the chair had responded to him - and the guy tilted his head and half-smiled at him, jerking his head slightly toward the gate. John got it.

See you on the other side.