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How Did You Find

Hmm ... I thought I had posted in this thread already. Anyway ...

I can't remember exactly when/how I found this site -- probably c. 2008 while surfing the net on things pertaining to the OOT. Regardless, I didn't join right away; I'd lurk on-and-off every now and then.

I finally joined in 2010, after I grew tired of the stifling environment of TFN. I've been here giving everyone else a headache ever since =P

Stargate Reimagined: Part I *COMPLETE*


Entering the bare concrete room, O’Neal walks over to the far end, where a guard sits at a desk before a sealed security door. Rising to his feet, the guard raises his hand in a salute. Returning the salute, O’Neal reaches over and picks the register up from the desk, signing it. Once the guard goes over O’Neal’s signature, he presses a large red button set in the top of his desk. With a low grinding noise, the security door begins to rise, revealing a smaller alcove beyond.

Stepping into the alcove, O’Neal peers in at its sole attraction; there, bolted to the wall, is the otherworldly set of fossils recovered from the Langford excavation. Stepping up to the petrified creature, O’Neal narrows his eyes at it, scrutinizing its dark eyes and sharp beak.


A framed photograph retreating into a background of bright blue sky with puffy white clouds.

The photograph is of an eight-year-old Jonathan “Jack” O’Neal with his mother, father, two younger sisters, and older brother; while they are smiling and dressed in white, he is sullen and dressed in black. As the photo grows ever-smaller, the background darkens until it turns pure black. Once the photo becomes a distant pinpoint, white cracks zigzag out from the centre of the background and the heretofore unseen pane of glass shatters into thousands of jagged shards.


The front window of a small, pink house behind a white picket fence shatters, raining shards of glass onto the beautiful red flowers planted below. Jack O’Neal, about fourteen years old, is standing outside the picket fence, bending down to pick up another stone to throw, when the front door swings open. The owner of the house – a spindly lady of late middle age done up like a 1950s housewife with bright red hair – comes storming out, waving a broom above her head.

MIDDLE-AGED HOUSEWIFE: Goddamn you to hell, you little catamite!

As the woman makes her way down her front steps, Jack takes off in a run, laughing at the destruction and strife he has caused.


Jack O’Neal, now sixteen, is riffling through an ornate box placed on the mantle in the dark, looking for valuable items worth stealing. As he finds $900, he stuffs the money in his pants and turns to leave. As he moves toward the window he entered, a large rottweiler – who until now has been lying low – springs out of the shadows, growling as it lunges at the juvenile burglar. Spinning around, the surprised teen lashes out at the dog with his flashlight. Yelping, the canine collapses to the floor, unconscious with a bloody wound on its temple.


Jack, now eighteen, is – with two other thugs – accosting a pretty young woman with short red hair, a black shirt, and red pants. While O’Neal is only interested in her purse, his two acquaintances have more than theft on their minds.

PUNK #1: Nice pants you got there, Red. Tight and red. Not the only thing on you tight and red, uh, Red?

The other punk giggles hysterically.

PUNK #1: (squeezes her rump) Plump, just the way I likes 'em. (beat) You ever let anyone in your back door, Red?

PUNK #2: (giggles) Let’s show ‘er how it’s done!

O’NEAL: (uncomfortable) C’mon, guys, cut the shit. We’ve got what we need. Let’s get outta here before somebody sees us.

PUNK #1: (sneers) Why? Red here not man enough for you, Jack?

RED: (struggles against the punks) You stupid motherfuckers!

PUNK #2: (covers Red’s mouth and bends her over) Time for a warm-up! Bend over and touch your toes!

As the first punk unzips his pants, two uniformed police officers spring out from around the corner with their revolvers drawn.

COP #1: Freeze!

Releasing their grip on Red, the punks take off like scared rabbits for the other end of the alley. O’Neal, moving too slow to follow after them, takes a bullet in the ass and goes down. With O’Neal out of commission, the first cop goes off in pursuit of the punks while his partner stays behind to read the juvenile delinquent his rights.


Jack O’Neal, still sixteen, stands in court before a stern-faced judge.

JUDGE: (cont’d) … but I’ll be lenient and let you decide, Jonathan. Which will it be: enlistment in the armed forces or a year in the Washington State Correctional System?

O’NEAL: (resigned) I’ll take enlistment, Your Honour.


O’Neal seated in a barber’s chair. Now a USAF trainee, he is receiving his first crew cut.


We watch O’Neal as he is trained in infiltration, wilderness survival, assassination, the manufacture and detonation of explosives, and the blending of chemical weapons from common household materials.


A couple of years haved passed, and an older, far more disciplined Staff Sergeant Jack O’Neal now stands before ANTHONY KAMPEN, a balding major with a large mustache plastered over his bland-looking face.

MAJ. KAMPEN: Welcome to Jump Two Company, Sergeant O’Neal.

The two airmen salute.


O’Neal and Kampen in the same office, but some months later under different circumstances.

COL. KAMPEN: (hands a folder to O’Neal) This is your target, Jack.

O’Neal opens the folder and pulls out a large photograph of a Middle Eastern man sporting a toothbrush mustache.

COL. KAMPEN: (cont’d) We don’t want him to live out the week. Do you understand?

O’NEAL: (nods once) Yes, sir.


SSgt. O’Neal carries out a series of political assassinations. Interspersed between these images of murder are images of O’Neal consuming large quantities of scotch whisky.


On O’Neal’s head back-lit with blue light, his bloodshot eyes glowing red. Countless ghostly heads spin about him in a whirlwind, grinning ghastily.

DISEMBODIED VOICE #4: (V.O.) We call him “Voodoo” 'cause he only seems to come to life when Jump Two goes into action ….

GHOSTS: Voodoo, Voodoo, Voodoo, Voodoo ….


A close up shot of Sarah Langenkamp’s – the future Sarah O’Neal’s – face, lit up with life and happiness.


As Sarah and a friend make their way down the steps from the college, 2nd Lieutenant O’Neal (his exemplary feats having earned him a commission) face downcast, attention elsewhere – walks straight into her. Colliding, the man and woman both topple to the pavement.

SARAH: (angry) Why don’t you watch where you’re going, jarhead!?

Rising to his feet, O’Neal goes to help her, a sheepish expression on his face.

O’NEAL: Sorry – I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention ….

As the lieutenant pulls Sarah to her feet, the two individuals make eye contact.

O’NEAL: (cont’d) … to my surroundings.

SARAH: (frowning and smiling) It’s … alright. Okay.

Seeing her heartwarming smile, O’Neal can’t help but smile back in return.


We watch as O’Neal and Sarah send more time with one another. Starting off as mere acquaintances, they soon become close friends and, finally, intimate lovers.


O’Neal and Sarah stand facing one another, serious expressions on their faces. As Sarah looks down at her flat belly, placing a hand on it, O’Neal flies into a sudden rage.

O’NEAL: (shouting) You did this on purpose! You did this to me on purpose! You did this to trick me into marrying you! But I’m not going to, Sarah, you hear me?! I’m not going to!

Sarah, tears welling up in her eyes, says nothing.


Sarah in their bedroom, stuffing items into a large suitcase.


Sarah, suitcase in tow, storming past O’Neal and out the apartment door, slamming it behind her.

O’Neal, seated at a small table with a morose expression on his face, pours himself a glass of whisky. As he overfills it, spilling whisky over the side, he picks it up and lifts it to his eye.

As he looks into the golden brown liquid, the morose expression on his face transforms into one of determination. Without a word, he hurls the glass away from him. As the glass hits the far wall, it shatters, splashing whisky everywhere.


As the house sits out in the open, blizzard winds and snow beating against it, O’Neal’s car pulls into the driveway, coming to a stop in front.


Sarah, pulling a curtain back, peeks out the window at the car parked outside. Turning from the cold glass, she looks at her parents, who are seated in matching armchairs.

SARAH: It’s him.


The front door of the house swings open, and Sarah – clad in a purple parka – steps out. Closing the door, she walks toward the car.


O’Neal and Sarah seated in the car behind fogged up windows, arguing fiercely.


Sarah – along with O’Neal – step inside the living room. Mr. and Mrs. Langenkamp – still seated in their armchairs – have fallen asleep. The two walk over to them.

SARAH: (shaking them) Mom, Dad – wake up. Wake up!

MR. LANGENKAMP: (awakens) Sarah?

MRS. LANGENKAMP: (yawns) What time is it?

SARAH: I have someone I’d like you to meet.

O’Neal steps forward, offering the two older people his outstretched hand. Tentatively, they both take turns shaking his hand.

O’NEAL: I’m Jonathan O’Neal. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Langenkamp.

SARAH: (nudges him with her elbow) Tell them the good news.

O’NEAL: (to her parents) Sir – ma’am – I’m pleased to say that your daughter and I are getting married. (beat) We’d like to have your blessing.

MR. LANGENKAMP: (nonplussed) S-sure.

MRS. LANGENKAMP: (smiles uncertainly) Why not?


O’Neal and Sarah walking down the aisle.


A close up shot of O’Neal’s lips up against Sarah’s ear.

O’NEAL: (whispering) I promise that I’ll love you and cherish you now until the day I die, and not a moment sooner.


Sarah O’Neal, heavily pregnant and in labour, is sitting up in her hospital bed, sweating and breathing heavily with doctors and her husband standing around her. Gritting her teeth, she groans as she pushes, and soon the groan builds into a cry of anguish. It all comes to an end soon, however, as the baby slides out into the main doctor’s arms.

DOCTOR: (turns to O’Neal) It’s a boy.

O’NEAL: (grins at the newborn) Hello, Tyler Charles O’Neal. Welcome to the big, wide world.


Tyler O’Neal, celebrating his sixth birthday, sits at the centre of the room surrounded by friends and family. O’Neal, watching the boy rip into his first present, turns to his wife with tears of happiness in his eyes. Meeting his gaze, Sarah smiles back.


O’Neal stands before Kampen’s desk, looking down at the colonel who is seated behind it.

O’NEAL: (blunt) I want out of Jump Two, Tony.

COL. KAMPEN: You can’t be serious, Jack. You’re our best, our go-to guy.

O’NEAL: (frowns) Then you’ll have to find yourselves another “go-to guy”, Colonel, because I’m getting out. (beat) I’m sick of the killings, sick of the guilt. If I have to resign from the Air Force – if I have to leave the good ol’ US of A altogether – I don’t care; I’m getting out.

COL. KAMPEN: (sighs) Alright, Jack, alright. (beat) Personnel of your calibre never really retire, though, you know. One day, sooner or later, you’ll be called on for another mission, and it doesn’t matter whether you like it or not, Uncle Sam’s gonna have his way with you.


O’Neal and a twelve-year-old Tyler playing softball out in their backyard in the sun.


The backyard on to the front yard. We are now several months into the future. O’Neal, behind the wheel of a mini-van, pulls up the driveway and comes to a complete stop. Opening the door, he steps out.

O’NEAL: You out here, Ty? Let’s not be late for the game.

Leaning into the mini-van, O’Neal gives the horn a few honks, trying to rouse his son. When he gets no result, he give it up. Closing the van door, he jogs up to the front of the house, unlocking the door and stepping inside.


O’NEAL: Son, you in here? Ty?

Finding the living room deserted, O’Neal leaves for Tyler’s bedroom.


O’Neal opens the door to his son’s bedroom and peers inside. Though Tyler’s softball jersey hands off the back of his armchair, Tyler himself is not present. A worried expression creasing his face, O’Neal closes the door.


O’Neal barges into the room, his eyes focusing on the nightstand on Sarah’s side of their bed.

The nightstand’s drawer hangs ominously open.

Frantic, O’Neal races over to the bed and, getting down on his hands and knees, feels around for something under it.

O’NEAL: The key – where’s the key!?


O’Neal runs up the corridor, panicking.


O’Neal bursts through the back porch door, breaking the screen door off its hinges. Racing down the steps, his eyes focus on something lying out on the grass before him.

O’NEAL: (shouting) Tyler? Tyler!


On Tyler O’Neal’s still figure lying down on the grass. Half-dressed for his softball game, his father’s gun sits in his right hand, a bloody hole punched through his head.

As O’Neal runs over the corpse of his dead son, a piercing siren – one borne out of O’Neal’s own fractured mind – wails through the air, muffling all other sounds. Reaching Tyler’s body, O’Neal drops down to his knees beside it, his mouth twitching involuntarily. Taking his son into his arms, tears streaming down from his eyes, O’Neal throws his head back, releasing a tortured, soul-shattering scream.


O’Neal, dressed in his black funeral clothes, stands facing the living room mantle, his hand gripped around his Smith & Wesson – the same weapon which took his son’s life.

Pulling the Model 29’s hammer back, he places the barrel of the gun under his chin as he looks upon a photo which stands atop the mantle. It is a photo of Sarah in happier times, grinning into the camera.


A close up shot of Sarah’s face, bathed in harsh red light, as she screams.


A headshot of O’Neal, his gun hand trembling.


The photo of Sarah.


To a crucifix which is hanging in place on the wall above the photo.


O’Neal, disgusted with himself, disarming the weapon and tossing it aside.


O’Neal stands in the open door of his bedroom, looking in on Sarah, who is seated on the bed. Shortly after the visit with Anderman and the other officer, O’Neal’s hair is still long. He is shaved and showered, though, and clad in his crisp officer’s uniform.

His expression sullen, he watches Sarah seated on the bed, sobbing into her hands. He wants to say something, anything, to his wife, but upon opening his mouth, he clams up.

Resigned, he turns away and silently leaves.


O’Neal back in the here-and-now.

Gen. West, having entered the room, now stands beside the colonel inside the alcove with the fossils.

GEN. WEST: (regards the fossils) Our people tell me this thing used to be alive.

O’NEAL: I thought I was doing this alone.

GEN. WEST: (turns to him) And you will. (beat) As soon as the team completes their survey, you’ll be on your own.

O’NEAL: The more people we send through, the greater the chances something’s gonna go wrong. And Jackson could be a problem. He’s smart. He won’t go along with this plan if he figures it out.

GEN. WEST: Then it’s your job to make sure he doesn’t.

O’NEAL: (turns to West) General, you’ve opened up a doorway to a world we know nothing about.

What do you HATE about the EU?

skyjedi2005 said:

I admit i kind of like Kotor II not as good as part one but i hated that it introduced that every Sith has to have a double bladed lightsaber like Maul, whom Lucas stole the idea from Veitch or Anderson cannot remember whose idea it was for Exar-Kun to have a double bladed weapon but it was not red.

Surprised the reprints and digital version did not have it recolored to red.

If there's one thing I respect about the current EU, it's the lack* of Lucas-style revisionism in regard to their older novels, short stories, and comics. I'd pull my hair out if the bits pertaining to the Clone Wars in the Thrawn Trilogy were rewritten to match the crap in AOTC & ROTS or if the Sith in the TOTJ comics were prequelized.

*For the most part. There are a few exceptions, though.

Star Wars: Episode VII to be directed by J.J. Abrams **NON SPOILER THREAD**

generalfrevious said:

I change my mind. I think Abrams is going to make the SW franchise ten times worse than it is now, just like he destroyed Star Trek. He is the film equivalent of a necrophiliac. And he is the perfect director to make corporate cash cow products because he is their ideal director: safe and profitable. He might as well be an android. In two years time, we will all end up feeling nostalgic for the prequels. It's that bad guys.

I'd make fun of this post if it weren't for the sneaking suspicion that there may be more than a little bit of truth to it.

Nothing could ever be worse than the PT, though.

Making of Return of the Jedi (the book) Thread

SilverWook said:

I've been out comic collecting circles for a long time, but I never heard Crisis regarded as crap.

The art was fantastic, but the storyline was wrong-headed and poorly executed.

Destroying the DC Multiverse and replacing it with a single DC Universe just to simplify continuity? They could have simply just stopped telling stories set on Earth-One and started focusing on a new Earth within the Multiverse.

And the Anti-Monitor has the worst motivation of any villain ever -- he's basically a fan of chocolate ice cream who hates vanilla ice cream, therefore he's going to blow up every vanilla ice cream factory in the world. Even the PT villains have better motivation than that.

And don't get me started on all the continuity issues that popped up later as a result of Crisis.

Stargate Reimagined: Part I *COMPLETE*


Daniel, Barbara, and Meyers sit on the left side of the conference table, Gen. West, O’Neal, and Lt. Anderman on the right. At the head of the room, several variations of a single recorded still image of the stargate taken by the MALP on the alien planet are being projected onto the whiteboard.

GEN. WEST: This is the last image the probe sent back to us, frozen and enhanced. You can clearly see the details of the gate on the other side.

MEYERS: (squinting his eyes at the enlarged captures of the alien stargate’s glyphs) The markings appear to match the symbols on our gate.

GEN. WEST: That’s why I wanted you to see this.

LT. ANDERMAN: The readings tell us it’s an atmospheric match. Barometric pressure, temperature, and – most importantly – oxygen.

BARBARA: Is it an M-class world, though?

LT. ANDERMAN: At precisely 0600 hours tomorrow, we’ll re-establish contact with the probe and, provided we can get it out into the open, automatically set it to make a quarter-mile perimetre sweep of the surrounding area to gather data on local terrain, microorganisms, flora, fauna, and so on. Once six months have elapsed, we’ll re-establish contact again to download the data the probe has collected.

GEN. WEST: We’re planning a short reconnaissance mission as a follow-up to the probe’s survey – nothing fancy. Provided we find no signs of dangerous bacterial or animal life, an away team will be sent through to go over the area the probe has already covered, gather as much new information it may have missed as possible, then bring it back.

LT. ANDERMAN: Once on the other side, though, we’d have to decipher the markings on the gate and, in essence, dial home in order to bring the team back.

GEN. WEST: But here’s the thing – I’m not going to send our men over there unless I’m sure I can bring them back. The question is, can any of you do it?

MEYERS: Why not try re-establishing contact from this side?

O’NEAL: Because once our team goes through, the entire facility will be evacuated and sealed. (beat) We don’t know what might come through the other side.

BARBARA: (shrugs) Based on this new information, I don’t see how we could do it. (beat) If it took decades to decode the stargate with a point of reference to work from on this end, it’ll be next to impossible to do the same on an alien world without one. We’d need –

DANIEL: (confident) I could do it.

BARBARA: (nonplussed) What!?

GEN. WEST: Are you sure?

MEYERS: General, I may be the proverbial fifth wheel on this team, but –

DANIEL: (answering West) Positive.

The general exchanges glances with O’Neal.

O’NEAL: It’s your call.

GEN. WEST: (to Daniel) You’re on the team.

BARBARA: (shakes her head) This isn’t funny. Daniel doesn’t have the background to make a call –

GEN. WEST: (cutting her off with a raised hand) I’m pleased with the results you’ve brought in, Dr. Shore, and both you and Dr. Meyers should be proud of the work you’ve done here. (beat) However, the time has come to pack your bags and leave this base, because officially as of now, you have both been discharged from this project.

MEYERS: (dumbfounded) You’re firing us?

GEN. WEST: (blunt) Yes.

BARBARA: (angry) What game are you playin’ here, Daniel?

DANIEL: I translated the text on the coverstone, I figured out that the inner band was a map –

BARBARA: (enraged) We got as far as we did workin’ as a team, and you damn well know it! (beat) You’re full of shit!

GEN. WEST: Dr. Shore, if you’re finished –

BARBARA: (bears her teeth) I’m not finished, big man, not by a long shot. (to Meyers) Let’s blow this sausage fest.

Rising from their seats, the astrophysicist and comparative linguist storm out of the room. Daniel watches them go, the haughty expression on his face changing to one of shame.