LFWS - My entries!
Thought I'd finally get around to posting my entries in the second SGA - Last Fiction Writer Standing. This was a tough challenge (particularly the early rounds, which were very limited on word count - some of those just begged me to be much longer stories), but I had fun. It made me hyper aware of just how much you can pack into a few words. Congrats to wildcat88 for winning!! That is a huge accomplishment. And a huge thanks to all the mods over at sga_lfws for all of their work on putting together a great contest!
Round 1-REFLECTED GHOSTS
Rastus Kolya stared at the reflection in the mirror, the freckles on his cheeks sharp against pale skin. He could almost see the ghost of his father glaring back at him. His eyes were not as dark, he decided. His were brown like the polished wood of his dresser, whereas his father’s had been almost black.
Had the four strangers told the truth? The one with the short dark hair had stumbled through an apology, saying words without sorrow or guilt. His green eyes had flashed between Rastus and the picture of Rastus’s father on the mantle, and Rastus had watched him silently from the landing, sitting on the top step with his elbows on his knees.
Rastus ran his hand through his hair-long and slicked back, the way his father had combed his own. The bruises from his father’s last visit home had since faded from his back and arms.
His father was dead.
The iciness in his chest melted all at once, leaving behind a rush of warmth and burning pain. He grabbed the small blade sitting on the dresser and sliced at his hair until it stood up in short, messy spikes all over his head.
Round 2-REMEMBER, REMEMBER
The gravestone was set in the middle of a long row of granite markers, tufts of bright green grass thick around its base. The spring morning was cool, and a soft layer of dew shimmered in the early morning sun. Teyla knelt down on the ground and ran her fingers over the engraved letters.
Elizabeth Weir.
She knew enough of the English alphabet to recognize the name. The stone was a pale, marbled gray but the letters had been stained black, clean-cut lines against a smooth surface. An image of Atlantis’s first leader rose up in her mind, dark curls bouncing and green eyes flashing as she and Teyla giggled late into the night over something Teyla no longer recalled. The artifacts of Earth’s cultures swirled around them, encircling the moment in a veil of shared seclusion.
She set the bouquet of flowers John had insisted they buy at the base of the stone. The sharp edges of her discrete, individual memories were blurring and bleeding into one another, and Teyla felt a twisting pang of sorrow that the immediacy of Elizabeth’s life was already fading.
At the soft rustle of clothing, she glanced up at John standing a few feet behind her and glimpsed a flash of grief and loss in his eyes before he caught her look and smiled, draping a facade of easygoing nonchalance over his expression. He blinked, and the tension creasing the corners of his eyes eased.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said.
“Of course, Teyla.”
She stood and squeezed his arm in gratitude-a brief, warm grip. The heavy silence of the cemetery lifted at the sudden whistling melody of a nearby bird. As the sun rose, the pain of Elizabeth’s loss ebbed, leaving at last the tranquility Teyla had come here seeking.
Round 3-RODNEY WAKES UP IN YET ANOTHER TINY PRISON CELL
Mold grew out of the shadows along the edges of the wall, creeping up the sides, and Rodney McKay groaned. His head throbbed. Clearly, another mission had gone to hell. No surprises there.
Planet with bizarre social norms-check. Thrown into a germ-infested prison for breaking said norms-check. Hands tied painfully above his head-check. Grievous head injury-check. Ronon sitting across from him with his feet in the air and his butt pointing directly at Rodney’s head-
“What the hell?”
Ronon squirmed in response, his arms stretched out and bound above his head as he tried to grab his ankles. A second later, he dropped his feet into Rodney’s lap. Rodney jerked in surprise and stared down at the bacteria-ridden mud caked to the soles of Ronon’s shoes.
“Hello, personal space. Ever heard of it?”
Ronon just grinned.
“Where’s Sheppard? And Teyla?” Rodney demanded.
“Pretty sure they got away when the mob swarmed.”
Only half the team imprisoned this time-that was a pleasant surprise.
Ronon’s legs suddenly flew up toward Rodney’s face. Rodney yelped and flinched, waiting for the man’s feet to smack him in the head. Infection would be a long, painful death-full of fevers and sweating, maybe even puking.
“McKay?”
Ronon’s pained grunt pulled Rodney out of his morbid reverie, and he reared back as much as he could. Ronon had managed to plant his feet on the wall above Rodney’s head and his body hung suspended above the ground.
“Got a knife…near my ankle…”
Oh, right-knife. Rodney fumbled with numb fingers, pulling at Ronon’s pant legs. Ronon’s butt was starting to sag back to the ground, and gravity was dragging his ankles away. Rodney managed to wrap his hand around the hilt of the small knife just as Ronon’s legs dropped back into his lap.
“Son of a-”
“Sorry.”
Totally unrepentant.
Rodney sawed through the bindings with the little blade, the words permanent damage floating through his mind as he hacked away. He was probably cutting through his own skin. Severing arteries, chiseling through bone, shredding muscles, dying-
With one final snap, Rodney’s arms dropped into his lap, whole and unharmed. Not even a scratch. He stared at them in shock for a moment, then glanced up at Ronon and caught the same look of surprise in the other man’s eyes.
“Didn’t think that would actually work,” Ronon muttered, and he sounded almost impressed.
Typical.
Round 4- DOGFIGHT
Wraith darts spilled from the dead Hive like rats fleeing a sinking ship, falling out of the cracks in the hull. John watched them race away from the silence of his F-302 cockpit. A globe of pearly green hung in the black pinpricked void behind the Wraith, oblivious to the imminent dogfight.
“Let’s go, people,” he ordered, and the F-302s fanned out toward the darts streaming toward them. A dozen Wraith had regrouped above the Hive, and they shot toward John’s group in tight formation, splitting at the last second in all different directions. John yelled commands into his radio and pushed his weight toward the left, sending his ship rolling almost out of control.
But it wasn’t out of control. John was a damn good pilot, and he knew it. He fired a stream of missiles as he moved, and gasps of flame in the void of space signaled sporadic kill-shots. John zoomed above the plane of attack and caught sight of a dart looping up toward him.
“On your six!” Major Lorne yelled, his own ship lost amidst the melee below.
John leveled out then dove hard, twisting away from the weapons bursts of his pursuer. They spun down toward the hive, and if they’d been on Earth, the exhaust from their tails would have looked like twirling ribbons. The Hive below them sank farther into the atmosphere, the hull glowing red from the pressure.
John licked his lips, paused, then pulled hard. The nose of the F-302 flipped up, the tail dragging and cutting his speed drastically. On Earth, the g-forces would have knocked him out, but in space, the inertial dampners worked miracles.
The Wraith overshot him, winding out of sight long enough for John to accelerate again and bring his ship around until his missile lock beeped.
“Your ass is grass,” he muttered, firing and banking right. The dart exploded, its bubble of oxygen popping in a flash of oranges and yellows. John nodded in satisfaction and climbed back into the choreographed dance of weaving, fighting ships.
“We’ve got them on the run, sir,” Lorne said, and his voice crackled with excitement and relief.
“Roger that, Major,” John answered, then flinched at the F-302 lining up in front of him. “Wait! Don’t shoot!”
But the missile launched, seeming to move in slow motion through space. John tracked it all the way to the nose of his ship, and then his windshield flared a blinding white. He threw his hands up instinctively around his head.
“Dammit, Lorne.”
“Sorry, sir. I told you I’m not a combat pilot.”
John dropped his hands and leaned back, glaring at the words flashing across the windshield.
Game Over.
“That’s the fifth time today.”
“I just need a little more practice.”
“You need a lot more than that,” he snapped, although a smile tugged at his lips. He rolled his shoulders and sat up, then reset the F-302 simulator game. The swirling green and white planet reappeared behind the dying hive.
“Alright. Let’s go, people.”
Round 6- IN PURSUIT OF TRUTH
John sprinted across the gravel of the abandoned industrial yard, Ronon padding along behind him. Up ahead, he caught a flash of movement, and a blur of long white hair disappeared through a warehouse door.
Ronon sped forward, reaching the door within seconds and diving through it. The Daedalus had beamed them into the yard as soon as they’d figured out where the Wraith was, but the Marines-traveling the old-fashioned way-were still minutes away. The question of how the Wraith had even managed to reach Earth rose again in John’s mind, but he pushed it back as he darted after Ronon. Now was not the time to get distracted.
He ducked into the building and blinked at the sudden change in light, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. The warehouse was little more than one large room filled with rows of crates. Without a word, the two of them moved down the first row, guns raised.
A thud and the sound of breaking wood reverberated around them. John glanced at Ronon. Had that been the Wraith? There was a faint yelp, then the sound of a body being thrown against a hard surface.
They ran toward the noise. John’s steps echoed loudly beneath him and he felt a flash of irritation at the utter silence coming from Ronon. He pulled up abruptly a second later and peered out across a small, open space in the warehouse. The Wraith stood thirty feet away, poised over a stranger in a dark suit, its feeding hand raised. John and Ronon opened fire, the report from their weapons ringing painfully in John’s ears. The bullets flung the alien away from the man on the ground, but it staggered away and disappeared down another row before they could shoot it again.
John saw Ronon scowling at the rifle in his hand as he moved toward the injured man. The Satedan had put up a fight at Stargate Command when they’d refused to allow him to carry his blaster. No laser guns on Earth, buddy, John had finally ordered. With a brief nod, Ronon continued on after the Wraith while John knelt next to the stranger. Lines of blood trailed down the side of his head from a gash above his ear.
“Wha…?” The man blinked open glassy eyes at John’s touch and frowned in confusion.
“Take it easy,” John soothed. He keyed his radio and called in for an ambulance, watching dust dance in beams of light streaming from the ceiling.
The stranger began to struggle feebly as John then patted his pockets, looking for some ID. He pulled out a wallet, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of a badge-FBI.
“FBI? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Scully?” the man mumbled.
“Agent…uh…Mulder?” John asked, reading the name off the badge. Mulder looked over at him, and John winced at the headache he knew must be pulsing behind his bright, unfocused eyes. “An ambulance is on the way,” he said.
“Who was that?” Mulder asked, looking around.
“Um…just a bad guy. Don’t worry-everything’s under control.”
“Did you see a man smoking? Smoking Man?”
“No, sorry,” John answered absently, listening to a distant shout and rifle blast.
“Followed him…surveillance…supposed to be a…meeting or something…That guy looked different…”
“Uh…yeah, he’s just really pale, like an albino.”
Mulder groaned as John pressed a bandage to the side of his head, and his eyes slid shut. Moments later, Ronon jogged back toward them.
“How is he?”
“Concussed and unconscious. I doubt he’ll remember any of this. Where’s the Wraith?”
“Got away-sped off in a boat. Daedalus is still tracking him.”
John sighed in frustration and looked down at Mulder. “Ambulance should be here soon.”
“Can’t the Daedalus just beam him up?”
“He doesn’t have the clearance for it, and help will be here soon,” he answered. “We can’t just go around beaming people up into space.”
Ronon grinned and knelt down, studying the FBI agent. “Guess we can’t tell him an alien knocked him out, either.”
John smirked, shaking his head. He could hear the ambulance siren now, and the pounding feet of two dozen Marines.
“Like he’d actually believe us.”
Round 7- MISSING SCENE FOR THE STORM/THE EYE
The sound of the tsunami wave striking the shield caused a deafening roar to vibrate through the control room. John flinched at the sound, half expecting the tower to explode in a shower of sparks before crumbling against the force of the water. Across from him, the Genii woman stepped back in alarm, staring up at the ceiling as if expecting the same thing.
John’s hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of his P90, but the woman - girl, really - didn’t run away or attack. She wrapped her arms around her body, only the vaguest hint of Kolya’s dark hatred left in her eyes.
“Nice work, Rodney,” Weir said, relieved.
McKay sagged against his console. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Yes, several times.”
Their banter was forced, their attempts at lightheartedness falling flat. After a few minutes, they gave it up completely. John bounced on his toes, fidgeting endlessly as he walked around the control room. Adrenaline-induced energy was flooding through him, and it was all he could do not to run screaming down the hall.
Atlantis continued to creak and groan against the storm until the rain and wind finally let up and the lightning ceased.
“It’s over,” McKay announced, and John’s heart thudded. It was over. He knew it would be, and yet he hadn’t quite believed they’d ever reach this point.
“We need to get the grounding stations and that last generator back online.”
McKay was staring at him, and it was a moment before John realized they were all waiting for him to respond.
“Right,” he said, shaking his head. “Ford-stations two and four. Elizabeth-station one. I’ll get station three and the generator. Teyla, keep on eye on things here,” he ordered, his eyes flitting from the Genii to McKay and a groggy-looking Beckett.
He left without waiting for an acknowledgment and was in the hall and halfway to the grounding station before he realized he was sprinting. He stumbled to a halt, gasping, and breathed in the faint scent of burning ozone.
How long had it been since this whole thing had started? A few hours? It felt like an eternity, like time had warped and stretched until all he’d known his entire life was this empty city, the storm, and the Genii threatening to destroy everything important to him.
His legs began to shake as the adrenaline of the last hours washed out of him in an instant. It was over-the city was safe. He had done what he had needed to do. He flashed back to the two Genii sneaking up on him at the grounding station, then the three others searching for him through the haze of his smoke grenade. He’d barely caught a glimpse of the first two, but the ones he’d shot from above…
John grimaced at the memory and leaned his back against the wall, bracing himself. Their deaths had been messy, and he’d had to climb back down from the scaffolding and step carefully around their bodies. And then there’d been the soldiers in the gateroom and the sound of fifty-plus bodies thudding against the gate shield…
John’s heart was beginning to pound again, and he slid to the floor. He was a soldier. He was trained for this-he had protected his home and his people-but the sound of the Genii hitting the shield continued to slap against his memory.
He was a pilot. That was all. He was a pilot thrust into a desperate situation. He’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and guerilla tactics, but he’d never had to use those skills to this extent. Killing a man a hundred miles away from the safety of a helicopter cockpit was not the same as hearing the impact of a bullet against flesh and bone. How many had died today?
“Pull yourself together, John,” he mumbled, raising a trembling hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, forcing his lungs to expand and pull in great gulps of air.
“Sheppard, are you there yet? I’m going to have to talk you through reconnecting number three, since the Genii shot it all to hell.”
John released the breath he was holding, the sound of McKay’s voice grounding him unexpectedly. He grabbed his radio and was relieved to see his hand had stopped shaking.
“Almost, McKay.”
“Well, hurry up already. The day isn’t over yet!”
“Right,” he answered. He pushed back to his feet and began walking, breaking into a jog a few seconds later. First the grounding station, then the generator. Then they had to collect the dead, then get the rest of the expedition and the Athosians back to the city, then…
Yeah, the day was far from over.
END
Round 1-REFLECTED GHOSTS
Rastus Kolya stared at the reflection in the mirror, the freckles on his cheeks sharp against pale skin. He could almost see the ghost of his father glaring back at him. His eyes were not as dark, he decided. His were brown like the polished wood of his dresser, whereas his father’s had been almost black.
Had the four strangers told the truth? The one with the short dark hair had stumbled through an apology, saying words without sorrow or guilt. His green eyes had flashed between Rastus and the picture of Rastus’s father on the mantle, and Rastus had watched him silently from the landing, sitting on the top step with his elbows on his knees.
Rastus ran his hand through his hair-long and slicked back, the way his father had combed his own. The bruises from his father’s last visit home had since faded from his back and arms.
His father was dead.
The iciness in his chest melted all at once, leaving behind a rush of warmth and burning pain. He grabbed the small blade sitting on the dresser and sliced at his hair until it stood up in short, messy spikes all over his head.
Round 2-REMEMBER, REMEMBER
The gravestone was set in the middle of a long row of granite markers, tufts of bright green grass thick around its base. The spring morning was cool, and a soft layer of dew shimmered in the early morning sun. Teyla knelt down on the ground and ran her fingers over the engraved letters.
Elizabeth Weir.
She knew enough of the English alphabet to recognize the name. The stone was a pale, marbled gray but the letters had been stained black, clean-cut lines against a smooth surface. An image of Atlantis’s first leader rose up in her mind, dark curls bouncing and green eyes flashing as she and Teyla giggled late into the night over something Teyla no longer recalled. The artifacts of Earth’s cultures swirled around them, encircling the moment in a veil of shared seclusion.
She set the bouquet of flowers John had insisted they buy at the base of the stone. The sharp edges of her discrete, individual memories were blurring and bleeding into one another, and Teyla felt a twisting pang of sorrow that the immediacy of Elizabeth’s life was already fading.
At the soft rustle of clothing, she glanced up at John standing a few feet behind her and glimpsed a flash of grief and loss in his eyes before he caught her look and smiled, draping a facade of easygoing nonchalance over his expression. He blinked, and the tension creasing the corners of his eyes eased.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said.
“Of course, Teyla.”
She stood and squeezed his arm in gratitude-a brief, warm grip. The heavy silence of the cemetery lifted at the sudden whistling melody of a nearby bird. As the sun rose, the pain of Elizabeth’s loss ebbed, leaving at last the tranquility Teyla had come here seeking.
Round 3-RODNEY WAKES UP IN YET ANOTHER TINY PRISON CELL
Mold grew out of the shadows along the edges of the wall, creeping up the sides, and Rodney McKay groaned. His head throbbed. Clearly, another mission had gone to hell. No surprises there.
Planet with bizarre social norms-check. Thrown into a germ-infested prison for breaking said norms-check. Hands tied painfully above his head-check. Grievous head injury-check. Ronon sitting across from him with his feet in the air and his butt pointing directly at Rodney’s head-
“What the hell?”
Ronon squirmed in response, his arms stretched out and bound above his head as he tried to grab his ankles. A second later, he dropped his feet into Rodney’s lap. Rodney jerked in surprise and stared down at the bacteria-ridden mud caked to the soles of Ronon’s shoes.
“Hello, personal space. Ever heard of it?”
Ronon just grinned.
“Where’s Sheppard? And Teyla?” Rodney demanded.
“Pretty sure they got away when the mob swarmed.”
Only half the team imprisoned this time-that was a pleasant surprise.
Ronon’s legs suddenly flew up toward Rodney’s face. Rodney yelped and flinched, waiting for the man’s feet to smack him in the head. Infection would be a long, painful death-full of fevers and sweating, maybe even puking.
“McKay?”
Ronon’s pained grunt pulled Rodney out of his morbid reverie, and he reared back as much as he could. Ronon had managed to plant his feet on the wall above Rodney’s head and his body hung suspended above the ground.
“Got a knife…near my ankle…”
Oh, right-knife. Rodney fumbled with numb fingers, pulling at Ronon’s pant legs. Ronon’s butt was starting to sag back to the ground, and gravity was dragging his ankles away. Rodney managed to wrap his hand around the hilt of the small knife just as Ronon’s legs dropped back into his lap.
“Son of a-”
“Sorry.”
Totally unrepentant.
Rodney sawed through the bindings with the little blade, the words permanent damage floating through his mind as he hacked away. He was probably cutting through his own skin. Severing arteries, chiseling through bone, shredding muscles, dying-
With one final snap, Rodney’s arms dropped into his lap, whole and unharmed. Not even a scratch. He stared at them in shock for a moment, then glanced up at Ronon and caught the same look of surprise in the other man’s eyes.
“Didn’t think that would actually work,” Ronon muttered, and he sounded almost impressed.
Typical.
Round 4- DOGFIGHT
Wraith darts spilled from the dead Hive like rats fleeing a sinking ship, falling out of the cracks in the hull. John watched them race away from the silence of his F-302 cockpit. A globe of pearly green hung in the black pinpricked void behind the Wraith, oblivious to the imminent dogfight.
“Let’s go, people,” he ordered, and the F-302s fanned out toward the darts streaming toward them. A dozen Wraith had regrouped above the Hive, and they shot toward John’s group in tight formation, splitting at the last second in all different directions. John yelled commands into his radio and pushed his weight toward the left, sending his ship rolling almost out of control.
But it wasn’t out of control. John was a damn good pilot, and he knew it. He fired a stream of missiles as he moved, and gasps of flame in the void of space signaled sporadic kill-shots. John zoomed above the plane of attack and caught sight of a dart looping up toward him.
“On your six!” Major Lorne yelled, his own ship lost amidst the melee below.
John leveled out then dove hard, twisting away from the weapons bursts of his pursuer. They spun down toward the hive, and if they’d been on Earth, the exhaust from their tails would have looked like twirling ribbons. The Hive below them sank farther into the atmosphere, the hull glowing red from the pressure.
John licked his lips, paused, then pulled hard. The nose of the F-302 flipped up, the tail dragging and cutting his speed drastically. On Earth, the g-forces would have knocked him out, but in space, the inertial dampners worked miracles.
The Wraith overshot him, winding out of sight long enough for John to accelerate again and bring his ship around until his missile lock beeped.
“Your ass is grass,” he muttered, firing and banking right. The dart exploded, its bubble of oxygen popping in a flash of oranges and yellows. John nodded in satisfaction and climbed back into the choreographed dance of weaving, fighting ships.
“We’ve got them on the run, sir,” Lorne said, and his voice crackled with excitement and relief.
“Roger that, Major,” John answered, then flinched at the F-302 lining up in front of him. “Wait! Don’t shoot!”
But the missile launched, seeming to move in slow motion through space. John tracked it all the way to the nose of his ship, and then his windshield flared a blinding white. He threw his hands up instinctively around his head.
“Dammit, Lorne.”
“Sorry, sir. I told you I’m not a combat pilot.”
John dropped his hands and leaned back, glaring at the words flashing across the windshield.
Game Over.
“That’s the fifth time today.”
“I just need a little more practice.”
“You need a lot more than that,” he snapped, although a smile tugged at his lips. He rolled his shoulders and sat up, then reset the F-302 simulator game. The swirling green and white planet reappeared behind the dying hive.
“Alright. Let’s go, people.”
Round 6- IN PURSUIT OF TRUTH
John sprinted across the gravel of the abandoned industrial yard, Ronon padding along behind him. Up ahead, he caught a flash of movement, and a blur of long white hair disappeared through a warehouse door.
Ronon sped forward, reaching the door within seconds and diving through it. The Daedalus had beamed them into the yard as soon as they’d figured out where the Wraith was, but the Marines-traveling the old-fashioned way-were still minutes away. The question of how the Wraith had even managed to reach Earth rose again in John’s mind, but he pushed it back as he darted after Ronon. Now was not the time to get distracted.
He ducked into the building and blinked at the sudden change in light, willing his eyes to adjust quickly. The warehouse was little more than one large room filled with rows of crates. Without a word, the two of them moved down the first row, guns raised.
A thud and the sound of breaking wood reverberated around them. John glanced at Ronon. Had that been the Wraith? There was a faint yelp, then the sound of a body being thrown against a hard surface.
They ran toward the noise. John’s steps echoed loudly beneath him and he felt a flash of irritation at the utter silence coming from Ronon. He pulled up abruptly a second later and peered out across a small, open space in the warehouse. The Wraith stood thirty feet away, poised over a stranger in a dark suit, its feeding hand raised. John and Ronon opened fire, the report from their weapons ringing painfully in John’s ears. The bullets flung the alien away from the man on the ground, but it staggered away and disappeared down another row before they could shoot it again.
John saw Ronon scowling at the rifle in his hand as he moved toward the injured man. The Satedan had put up a fight at Stargate Command when they’d refused to allow him to carry his blaster. No laser guns on Earth, buddy, John had finally ordered. With a brief nod, Ronon continued on after the Wraith while John knelt next to the stranger. Lines of blood trailed down the side of his head from a gash above his ear.
“Wha…?” The man blinked open glassy eyes at John’s touch and frowned in confusion.
“Take it easy,” John soothed. He keyed his radio and called in for an ambulance, watching dust dance in beams of light streaming from the ceiling.
The stranger began to struggle feebly as John then patted his pockets, looking for some ID. He pulled out a wallet, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of a badge-FBI.
“FBI? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Scully?” the man mumbled.
“Agent…uh…Mulder?” John asked, reading the name off the badge. Mulder looked over at him, and John winced at the headache he knew must be pulsing behind his bright, unfocused eyes. “An ambulance is on the way,” he said.
“Who was that?” Mulder asked, looking around.
“Um…just a bad guy. Don’t worry-everything’s under control.”
“Did you see a man smoking? Smoking Man?”
“No, sorry,” John answered absently, listening to a distant shout and rifle blast.
“Followed him…surveillance…supposed to be a…meeting or something…That guy looked different…”
“Uh…yeah, he’s just really pale, like an albino.”
Mulder groaned as John pressed a bandage to the side of his head, and his eyes slid shut. Moments later, Ronon jogged back toward them.
“How is he?”
“Concussed and unconscious. I doubt he’ll remember any of this. Where’s the Wraith?”
“Got away-sped off in a boat. Daedalus is still tracking him.”
John sighed in frustration and looked down at Mulder. “Ambulance should be here soon.”
“Can’t the Daedalus just beam him up?”
“He doesn’t have the clearance for it, and help will be here soon,” he answered. “We can’t just go around beaming people up into space.”
Ronon grinned and knelt down, studying the FBI agent. “Guess we can’t tell him an alien knocked him out, either.”
John smirked, shaking his head. He could hear the ambulance siren now, and the pounding feet of two dozen Marines.
“Like he’d actually believe us.”
Round 7- MISSING SCENE FOR THE STORM/THE EYE
The sound of the tsunami wave striking the shield caused a deafening roar to vibrate through the control room. John flinched at the sound, half expecting the tower to explode in a shower of sparks before crumbling against the force of the water. Across from him, the Genii woman stepped back in alarm, staring up at the ceiling as if expecting the same thing.
John’s hand tightened instinctively around the hilt of his P90, but the woman - girl, really - didn’t run away or attack. She wrapped her arms around her body, only the vaguest hint of Kolya’s dark hatred left in her eyes.
“Nice work, Rodney,” Weir said, relieved.
McKay sagged against his console. “Did you ever doubt me?”
“Yes, several times.”
Their banter was forced, their attempts at lightheartedness falling flat. After a few minutes, they gave it up completely. John bounced on his toes, fidgeting endlessly as he walked around the control room. Adrenaline-induced energy was flooding through him, and it was all he could do not to run screaming down the hall.
Atlantis continued to creak and groan against the storm until the rain and wind finally let up and the lightning ceased.
“It’s over,” McKay announced, and John’s heart thudded. It was over. He knew it would be, and yet he hadn’t quite believed they’d ever reach this point.
“We need to get the grounding stations and that last generator back online.”
McKay was staring at him, and it was a moment before John realized they were all waiting for him to respond.
“Right,” he said, shaking his head. “Ford-stations two and four. Elizabeth-station one. I’ll get station three and the generator. Teyla, keep on eye on things here,” he ordered, his eyes flitting from the Genii to McKay and a groggy-looking Beckett.
He left without waiting for an acknowledgment and was in the hall and halfway to the grounding station before he realized he was sprinting. He stumbled to a halt, gasping, and breathed in the faint scent of burning ozone.
How long had it been since this whole thing had started? A few hours? It felt like an eternity, like time had warped and stretched until all he’d known his entire life was this empty city, the storm, and the Genii threatening to destroy everything important to him.
His legs began to shake as the adrenaline of the last hours washed out of him in an instant. It was over-the city was safe. He had done what he had needed to do. He flashed back to the two Genii sneaking up on him at the grounding station, then the three others searching for him through the haze of his smoke grenade. He’d barely caught a glimpse of the first two, but the ones he’d shot from above…
John grimaced at the memory and leaned his back against the wall, bracing himself. Their deaths had been messy, and he’d had to climb back down from the scaffolding and step carefully around their bodies. And then there’d been the soldiers in the gateroom and the sound of fifty-plus bodies thudding against the gate shield…
John’s heart was beginning to pound again, and he slid to the floor. He was a soldier. He was trained for this-he had protected his home and his people-but the sound of the Genii hitting the shield continued to slap against his memory.
He was a pilot. That was all. He was a pilot thrust into a desperate situation. He’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and guerilla tactics, but he’d never had to use those skills to this extent. Killing a man a hundred miles away from the safety of a helicopter cockpit was not the same as hearing the impact of a bullet against flesh and bone. How many had died today?
“Pull yourself together, John,” he mumbled, raising a trembling hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, forcing his lungs to expand and pull in great gulps of air.
“Sheppard, are you there yet? I’m going to have to talk you through reconnecting number three, since the Genii shot it all to hell.”
John released the breath he was holding, the sound of McKay’s voice grounding him unexpectedly. He grabbed his radio and was relieved to see his hand had stopped shaking.
“Almost, McKay.”
“Well, hurry up already. The day isn’t over yet!”
“Right,” he answered. He pushed back to his feet and began walking, breaking into a jog a few seconds later. First the grounding station, then the generator. Then they had to collect the dead, then get the rest of the expedition and the Athosians back to the city, then…
Yeah, the day was far from over.
END