When O'Neill had laid out his options, Sheppard hadn't been convinced. The kid was an asshole. Well, not completely an asshole, more just . . . a spoiled brat. Army brat, for sure. And O'Neill didn't like that. He'd had a hard life, everyone he knew had, and sometimes it was easy to forget that there were people out there who didn't live with the sword of whatever (Daniel'd told him a while ago, but he was only half-listening) of the Goa'uld hanging over their heads. He'd even forgotten that it might surprise some.

But Jack O'Neill did not shy away from hardship. And he did not respect those that didn't take the call to arms seriously. He'd come back even when he'd lost his son . . . when death held more authority that his superiors did.

And he definitely did not take 'no' for an answer.

And the contents of this file would ensure that. Military prisons were harsh, and blackmail gave O'Neill a sour taste in his mouth, but if this Holden Caulfield wannabe (He did read, upon occasion) couldn't be bothered with discretion, then he deserved what he got. His own flight instructor! O'Neill rolled his eyes.