Smith's eyes opened finding himself in the recovery room with his dull, aging prison outfit set beside him with the pocket watch set on the top. He saw something set behind it on the lamp. His stomach was sore. Very sore. He felt very rested regarding the circumstance. A part of him wondered what happened to the young West. Chances were, he was probably sent to a super max. A officer came into his recovery room with a nurse beside him. His hands were uncuffed then the officer exited the room. Smith had heavy eyes looking off toward the window watching he streaks of golden light poking through the blinds. The bedding was peeled away and he was moved on to the side of the bed. The nurse helped him get dressed into the prison outfit and take off the hospital gown. She stepped aside then went toward the door ever so slowly. Smith came over to the counter collecting his possession.

The door to his recovery room opened complete with the dreaded chains. The mere thought of putting them back on made him recoil. The belly chain, the wrist cuffs, and the ankle shackles. He allowed himself to be cuffed then wheeled out of the room. He was pushed down the unfamiliar halls. People sitting by the beds of their loved ones and elderly people dying without anyone to care about them (A fate that he would share, some day) in the room that was filed with noises consisting of the beeping of the equipment. The prison transport waited for him like a beast that had been prowling waiting for their captive to grind in its teeth and degrade in various ways that felt like it would never end. It was hell in a nutshell for Smith. A special kind of hell that he had deserved. He stood up from the wheelchair then boarded the prison transport. He sat down into the seat then buckled himself using the straps alongside him. The door was closed in front of him bringing into the familiar dark gray interior.

Smith looked back at his fantasy. Don would have promised him that he would get to the president, one way or another, and ask him to pardon him. He wouldn't want to impose on the Robinsons so he would have declined the offer telling him it was best that he go back where he belonged. The look on Don's face from hearing those words would have been heartbreaking at seeing someone once insistent on getting out of prison have lost that spirit like they had been broken and only looking at him as someone new. A stranger. Smith would have tried to push Will away, knowing, just knowing, if it happened again then there would not be a Robot to come to his aid or a Don West to fire on the aliens before they could kill him. Knowing that he might be lucky the next time something like this happened. The next time, he didn't want Will getting captured with him and his life hanging on the line because of Smith. It would have been on his own terms ending his friendship with the young man but it was a choice that he wouldn't regret. The look of hurt on the younger man's face would have hurt Smith, too, but it had to be done.

Professor Robinson deserved that much and so did Mrs Robinson. Including Will's significant other. After all those times bringing the young boy into danger and this one wasn't any different. Requesting that the next time he was taken, not to set up a rescue with the Robinsons alone and let the United States Space Corps or Stargate Command handle that problem. Burning bridges was something that Smith turned out to be good at. Making enemies out of friends. Saying hurtful words that wounded others and made them reassess their perception on him then step back as his friend. As a spy, these qualities were useful once and useful then at that moment. Scared that one day that Will and the Robot would die rescuing him. It was a unacceptable fact that he could never let happen. He would never tell Will outright but he would say in hints why he was doing it. Implications were always the kind that gave treasure.

The van came to a stop back at the prison. He unbuckled himself then moved in the direction of the door that opened to the sunlight revealing the dark gray familiar compound. He walked down the small stairs then walked around the vehicle so slowly. His chest heavy with guilt and regret. All the things that he could and should have done to push Waltercoth away. It would have saved her life. He would have been grabbed by the shoulder upon his return to prison and more than likely have been taken to the holding cell after being made a example by Amy if she decided not to kill him immediately. They would have came back, alive, only to face a heavily concerned woman. He could hear her voice echoing from beside him trying to cheer him up with a unque joke.

"Why did the cow jump over General Hospital?" Waltercoth asked.

"Because it was over it," Smith replied.

"No, because it was in the way to Dollar General," Waltercoth said, with a loud laugh that echoed through the hall.

"Very funny," Smith said, rolling his eyes.

"You're not smiling," Waltercoth said.

"Smiling isn't everything when it comes to happiness, madame," his words haunting him. "It's all in how it is said."

"So you're amused," Waltercoth said.

"I am," Smith said, then waved his cuffed hands together. "But it's a very bad joke."

"You old man," Waltercoth said, growing a big smile on her face with her attention on him.

He wore a frown that remained unchanged. Walking down the familiar corridor to face the silent inmates. He glanced off toward Eyepatch then lowered his head turning it away from him. The door to his cell was opened. Smith walked into the cell then seated down on to the bed slipping out a small box of stolen tape from his pocket. He set out down to work with his gaze fixated on the pocket watch in a hunched position humming to himself singing. The door closed on him to bring the screen into darkness and the door opened a moment afterwards to reveal a sulking elderly man sitting on the edge of the metal bed holding on to a pocket watch. He turned his head in the direction of the officer to reveal that he was Smith. His bangs had grown shorter, his hair line had gone back considerably, and his once youthful aesthetic was gone replaced by features belonging to a elderly man with miserable eyes. His cheeks had sagged, there was a set of lines alongside both sides of his mouth, his neck and chin line had grown fatter. In his hand was the silver open pocket watch as his fingers trailed along the photograph. He wore a very well aged stare that tore through the officer's soul as though voicelessly saying, 'you are interrupting me and I do not like it'.

"Mr Smith, that Watson kid has lobbied so hard you're going to bring his team to the resting place of the Robinsons," Able said. "I heard they might shorten your sentence afterwards for helping them."

Smith turned his head away with a annoyed sigh clicking the pocket watch close and closed his eyes very disturbed feeling the old ache in his heart be unearthed.

"Oh, the pain," Smith said, sorrowfully. "The pain."