He swallows hard, shuts his eyes, and slows his brisk pace for a minute.

"I don't want to have to ask this. Bottom line, no one should be asked to do this, no one short of, I dunno, military personnel who have already signed up for this." The iron tautness in his chest constricts, again. And again. The moral judgment, self-directed and entrenched in guilt as he considers the tactics that are so firmly polarized to what he is.

"And if anyone should do it? It should be me. This, the war, everything, it was - it is - my fault. I should be the one this comes down on, not -"

Not the entire planet. Not the innocent civilian who's been unnaturally, unfairly launched into this. Not the thousands or millions who will die because of failed diplomacy and his own stupidity and humanity's inherent, self-destructive damned curiosity.

Daniel pauses to retrieve two grenades and holds them in his free hand, simply displaying them. He will not offer them. This is not absolute. This is not fixed. There is a choice, and he has to make this abundantly clear.

He has that obligation.

"If we can draw them off," he explains evenly. "And divert them through explosive force, we would have enough time to get back through the gate."