Supporting Character, Week 3: Marathon of Moments (2/2)

[sholio]

Title: Marathon of Moments
Author: cybersyd
Prompt: Endings and Beginnings
Word Count: 13,000
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Set during the first few episodes of Season Four. No specific spoilers, other than cast changes.
Summary: An unintended exploration of his own life leaves Radek Zelenka less certain of who he is.



Continued from Part One

*

Radek wakes to the sensation of a pigeon, nibbling his ear.

Groaning, he rolls over and swats the bird away half-heartedly. Feathers stir in the brief breeze, and float in the air above him, making him sneeze.

Light streams in from the window behind him. He can hear the ocean outside his window, the familiar lap of a wave against the city walls.

He has often wondered how a place so reliant on technology, so artificial, can also seem so organic.

He can hear the pigeons, cooing softly to each other. They are hungry, wanting breakfast. Reliable in their needs but never predictable in their behaviour.

His grandfather kept pigeons. He can still remember the story his grandfather told of the day he came home to find his wife had killed one of his favourite birds, and served up the roasted meat for evening meal. But that was a different country, one of hunger and suffering, and what once might have been a tale of historical pain, a generation licking its collective wounds, now becomes a humorous anecdote.

His grandmother never found the story so amusing.

Atlantean architecture is beautiful, Radek thinks, but they also knew comfort. The mattress yields to the pressure of his body, providing a very comfortable bed that is difficult to leave. He turns his head against the pillow and reaches out for his glasses, folded neatly on the bedside cabinet.

A pigeon, sat next to the lamp, pecks his hand without real violence.

He puts his glasses on so he can fully appreciate the extent of the damage to his room.

There are feathers everywhere. Feathers and droppings. A dozen pigeons watch him from their various perches - one atop the wardrobe, another two above the window, several scratching the floor, and his friend on the bedside cabinet.

The maintenance crew will not thank him for this.

"Radek!"

His mother calls him for breakfast, just as she did every day until the day he left for university.

"Radek, come down!"

Better than any alarm clock. Radek forces himself to sit up, pushing back feather-strewn bed covers. He has the sense to put on shoes before touching the floor, although the military boots look ridiculous when matched with his pyjamas. He picks up his radio from the cabinet, fitting it to his ear, fingers operating on autopilot.

He can smell coffee, and almost taste the rye bread bought that morning from the bakery down the street. Atlantis breakfasts are not unpleasant, having improved greatly from the first few months in the city, but they are quite different from the ones of his childhood.

Radek walks to the balcony, disturbing yet more feathers into the air. He touches the lock, and the door slides open obediently.

Outside is a desert, and three tents in military beige. There are stone ruins, half buried in the sand dune, the rock carved with words in the Ancient language.

Sheppard has set up a campfire, and hands a bag of marshmallows around to his team members, sitting on the sand.

"How is it that sand gets everywhere?" McKay grumbles, examining the contents of an MRE with a grimace. "This thing is supposed to be vacuum sealed! And as for my equipment - you realise my laptop will probably never work again, don't you, Colonel?"

Radek brushes a stray pigeon feather from his uniform, and walks across to seat himself between McKay and Teyla. "If you are going to continue to complain, Rodney, I will have to reconsider my agreement to join you on this mission."

"Look, I thought you'd appreciate the time off-world. I thought it was a nice thing to do." McKay glares at him.

"More like you wanted someone to do all the work," Ronon rumbles, experimenting by holding a marshmallow above the fire with his fingers.

Sheppard winces. "You're supposed to use a stick. Stops you getting burnt. Here," he demonstrates with a fork, stolen from the Atlantis mess hall, and hands the result to Ronon. "One I prepared earlier."

Ronon accepts the offering with a grin, licking his fingers free of the remains of the first marshmallow.

Teyla is eating her own delicately. "And this is a speciality of your culture?" she enquires.

"Of their culture," Radek says, "Not mine."

"Unless you have a fondness for beetroot then Radek's cultural specialities are best avoided," McKay says, putting three marshmallows onto his fork.

"Ah, cultural stereotypes, McKay. Inaccurate cultural stereotypes. And here I thought Canadian humour only extended to Leslie Nielson and jokes about hockey."

"Now now," Sheppard interrupts, lifting his hands. "I'm not here to listen to scientists squabbling." He grins, a look of mischief on his face. "Beside, I'm sure there are better ways of spending our time."

McKay groans, but Ronon looks interested.

"What?"

"Did Sateda have a game called 'Truth or Dare'?"

McKay's second groan is louder, and Radek empathises.

"How do you play?" Ronon asks.

"It's easy. We take it in turns to ask each other a question - and you have to answer truthfully."

The Satedan frowns. "Doesn't sound like much of a game."

"What happens if you do not wish to answer?" Teyla asks.

"Then you have to do a dare. You know - recite the alphabet backwards while standing on one leg, that sort of thing."

"I don't remember any game of truth or dare being that innocent," McKay mutters, loud enough for Radek to hear.

Sheppard throws a pebble at him. "Buck up, McKay. It'll pass the time. Besides, it's your fault. You insisted we come to a planet with a eighteen hour night."

"Only because I thought there was something worth investigating." McKay scowls. "I'm not sure it was worth this."

"Look, if it makes you feel any better, you can ask me a question," Sheppard offers.

The physicist blinks, momentarily thrown. "Oh. Well, in that case--" He pauses, clearly trying to think. "Did you really take the Mensa test?"

"Yes. Too easy, McKay."

Teyla leans over to Radek and whispers, "What is a 'Mensa'?"

"My turn." Sheppard rubs his hands together eagerly. "Ah, Teyla."

Teyla lifts her head to face him, expression serene. "Yes, Colonel."

Sheppard points a finger at her. "Is there someone aboard Atlantis that you like?"

Radek has to admire the Athosian when she does not even blink.

"Like, Colonel? There are many people I like."

"You know what I mean."

McKay is leaning forward, a little too eagerly. "Ah, yes. Nice question."

"There is someone, yes," Teyla admits, calmly.

Ronon stifles what might have been a snort with a marshmallow.

"Who is it?" Sheppard demands.

"No, Colonel. I understand that you can only ask me one question."

Sheppard pulls a face. "Yes, but--"

"Those are the rules of the game," Radek interjects. He can still smell coffee.

"My turn, I believe." A slight smile graces Teyla's lips. "Colonel, please tell us about the first time you fell in love."

"That's not a question!" Sheppard objects.

"It requires the truth," Ronon points out.

"Play by the rules," McKay warns him. "Otherwise it's a dare."

"Maybe I'd prefer a dare."

"Hah! Like Sheppard wants to resist telling us of his first conquest." McKay folds his arms. "What were you, eight?"

"What were you, McKay, thirty five?"

Teyla coughs delicately. "Colonel. I believe you should now answer?"

Sheppard heaves a sigh, as though in protest, but the action is too exaggerated to be believed. "I was nineteen. She was--" He hesitates, considering. "She was older."

"How much older?" Ronon wants to know.

Sheppard ignores him. "I was at university, and she was a local music teacher. We met in a bar, got to talking - we had the same interests. Travel, music. She was fascinating. Spoke three languages. One thing led to another and, well," he shrugs.

Radek trembles. A chill runs down his spine, and he can feel pain behind his eyes.

"Your first kiss is outside the jazz club," he says, softly.

No one appears to hear him.

"What happened?" Ronon asks.

Teyla glances at him. "The Colonel does not have to answer."

"No," Sheppard admits, "but it doesn't matter. Our relationship - if you can call it that - didn't last very long. A few weeks. Always at my apartment, never at hers."

"I should have realised something was wrong," Radek says. His lips are numb.

"Anyway, it was a couple of days since I'd seen her - she hadn't replied to any of my messages, I'd not seen her in the usual bars. Then I spotted her in a restaurant, with another man. Older than me. Later, when I went to confront her, she told me the truth." Sheppard shrugs, casually.

"I'm married."

Her eyes were dark, her words unfeeling.

"I'm married."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"She told me to leave, so I did."

"I became angry." Radek picks up the story. Sheppard continues to speak, but his words are muted, and it is hesitant Czech that fills the air. "I went back to confront her."

He remembers looking up at her apartment window, and seeing them, the pair of them. They were arguing, and he remembers wondering if he were the cause.

Had she told her husband the truth? Had she admitted her indiscretion?

The distance was too great for Radek to hear the crack of a hand against a cheek, but he remembers the sight. He has replayed it in his head a thousand times.

It is odd, the way a dream can change so quickly. She was first the object of hatred, a schemer, a temptress - then she became the victim, the princess, and Radek was to be her rescuer, her knight. He would save her from a loveless, abusive marriage.

"I asked her to come away with me. Said that I could keep her safe." Sheppard shrugs. "I was an idiot."

"Come with me. We could leave - go to Paris, to Frankfurt, anywhere you like--"

"With you?"

"I love you."

She had laughed. Radek remembers the sound as cruel and ugly.

"You're a child. What could you possibly offer me?"

Then, despite dark glasses and heavy make-up, he had seen her for the first time.

A woman in her forties, with grey in her hair and lines around her eyes, using faded youth and false regency to lure in youth. She did not love him. He, Radek Zelenka, was a nineteen year old student and only the latest in a long line of distractions from an empty marriage.

She was cruel and desperate, and he was finally wise enough to see that.

"She was the first woman I loved," Radek says, to the desert air.

McKay stares at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Colonel Sheppard's story. It isn't his."

"Well whose is it?" McKay snaps.

"Mine."

Sheppard laughs, but the sound is nervous. "Funny, Radek."

"No." Radek feels his anger grow, his frustration. "I must have told you that story."

"When?" Ronon challenges him.

"I--" He pauses, trying to think. "I don't know. But--"

"Come on, Radek," McKay interrupts. "Teyla asked Sheppard the question. Maybe you experienced something similar--"

"No!" he shouts, standing up. "This is my memory, Colonel! You have no right--"

"Hey!" Sheppard retorts, getting up from the sand. "I know what I remember. If it happened to you - tell me, where were you?"

Radek falters, staring at Sheppard. "What?"

"Where did it happen?"

"University."

"Where did you go to university?"

He opens his mouth, but no words come. "I-- I do not remember."

"What was her name, Radek?"

"I know--"

"If you know it then tell us!"

"Colonel," Teyla interrupts, her tone soothing. "Perhaps Doctor Zelenka is feeling unwell--"

"No!" He feels himself grow flustered. "I remember, I just--"

"You can't remember her name," Ronon challenges.

"I--"

Sheppard grabs him by the wrist. "You don't remember," he says, tone harsh, "Because it never happened. Not to you."

"I remember," Radek repeats, but the words sound pitiful. He attempts to pull back from Sheppard's grip, but the Colonel's hold on him is fierce. "Please--"

Sheppard grabs his other wrist.

"Try and hold on. I'll fix this."

Radek gasps. Sheppard presses in on him, forcing him down into the sand.

"Why can't you remember it, Radek? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"No." His words are weak, and his legs fold, his knees hitting the desert floor. "Don't."

Sheppard moves closer, so all Radek can see is the man's legs, the dark uniform. "When did it happen, Radek?"

"I--"

He sees folds of black, then nothing.

*

"It appears similar to the programming of the Ancient library."

"Yes, yes, that is what I thought."

"But there are differences--"

"The output and input remits."

Radek opens his eyes. He is aboard Atlantis, in one of the science labs. He is laid prostrate on a workbench, while next to him a Japanese woman and another Radek Zelenka consult each other over a strange machine.

"Input relates to the user interface, but there appears to be no obvious output relay," the second Radek says, frowning. "There are notes on the device in the computer?"

The Japanese woman nods, her head bobbing. "Yes, but we are still translating them."

They both appear to be oblivious to Radek's appearance in the lab. He sits upright, staring at the scene unfolding before him.

"Try narrowing the selection down to words relating to memory translation and imaging."

I look tired, he thinks, watching himself with the woman. Tired, and unkempt. Hair in disarray.

I was working on the device. Inside it, taking it apart--

He can't remember.

"You have a theory?" the woman asks. Her face flickers, features blurring.

"A hunch," second Radek says. "I have been working on a project related to the Ancients' search for Ascension methods."

The device.

He looks down at himself. There are pigeon feathers and sand on the cuffs of his trouser legs.

"What is happening?" he wonders aloud.

Neither the Japanese woman nor his double answer.

Somewhere, somewhere in the city below him, something explodes. He can feel the vibrations, running up through the floor and into the bench. Acting automatically, Radek starts to move, getting down from the bench, touching his radio.

"Don't go down there," his double warns him, suddenly.

Radek stares at himself for a moment, then turns away. He could not obey his doppelganger even if he had wanted to. His feet act of their own accord, carrying him down corridors, past frightened faces and whispers.

His radio is silent. There should be a crackle of voices, someone screaming at him down his earpiece, screaming for someone--

Radek mouths the name as he runs, but he cannot remember how to speak.

There is the smell of smoke and something else, something unpleasant. The scent of a nightmare. Soldiers block Radek's path, but he can see sparks, hear the sounds of a fire being extinguished. The metal of the corridor is torn and blackened.

Someone is crying. A woman.

A man with fair hair stops him, forces him back.

L--

He tastes the name, trying to remember.

"You don't want to go down there."

"The second explosion." He attempts to move forward, but the blonde's fist in his shirt is firm. "Please, if I can help--"

"You can't." The man shakes his head. "It's too late. It's over."

There is a pain in Radek's stomach, a grief he cannot yet place. He stops fighting the other man's grip, and in response the soldier steps away, allows him a glimpse of the scene beyond.

What happened here?

Radek rubs a hand across his eyes, as though he can clear the cobwebs from his mind. His fingers come away wet.

Tears.

A nurse is standing to one side, shoulders wrapped in a blanket. She is speaking to someone, struggling between sobs.

Beyond her are two other figures. Zelenka struggles, and puts a name to them. Sheppard - black hair and dark eyes, his hand on the shoulders of another. The shoulders are bowed, the figure broken.

He does not recognise the other man.

Zelenka rubs his eyes again. "What happened?" he asks, of the corridor.

No one replies.

He turns, wild, frightened. He should remember. He should--

But I couldn't remember her name. I can't remember--

He was a pall-bearer. The second time he has borne a friend upon his shoulders.

"Tell me his name," he begs, but the blonde soldier walks past him, as though Radek were not even there.

"Tell me what happened!" he screams, grabbing the arm of a passing medic, but the man shrugs him off, his touch insubstantial.

Radek turns, the damaged walls of the corridor closing in. He starts to run, wanting to escape the fragment of memory, wanting to know the whole.

Someone knocks into him.

"Doctor Zelenka!"

He pants, breathless. A figure is stood before him, the body flickering. The face is a blank canvas, with two black holes for eyes.

It stares at him, its hands outstretched as though in supplication.

"Who--" he swallows, his mouth dry. "Who are you?"

"Doctor--"

Static.

"Where are you going?" the figure asks.

"What?"

It takes a step forward, a very small, hesitant step. "You need to get back into bed."

Radek stares at it, then around at the walls. The blackened look has gone. He is in the infirmary, dressed in hospital scrubs, and Doctor Keller is looking at him as though afraid he will break.

He is acutely aware of a draft on the back of his legs.

"What happened?"

"You don't remember?" she asks, carefully.

"No." He presses a hand to his eyes, as though he can hide from the world. "I don't."

He is aware of Keller approaching him, of laying a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright. Let's just get you back into bed, okay?"

He nods, blindly. The hand encourages him forward.

The world flickers.

*

"Back to bed, Radek. You're not well." A pause, then, "How is it that you obey me, when your sister remains so stubborn?"

He drops his hand, looking up at his mother. "I'm sick?"

"Just a bad cold," his mother assures him. She guides him towards the stairs, away from the warmth of the kitchen and the smells which first lured Radek from his bed.

"What about my pigeons?"

"Those birds, always with those birds!" She shakes her head. "Don't worry, your uncle is taking good care of them. Now to bed. I'll bring you up some soup in a little while."

"And K--?" He struggles with the name, cannot remember.

"Your sister," his mother sighs, heavily, "has been out of bed six times already. I'm ready to lock her in her room. But that's not for you to worry about." She pushes the bedroom door open, and follows Radek inside.

The room is a white space, with a bed in one corner. The bed has a patchwork quilt, and is covered with papers, pencils, books, copper wire, the remains of an experiment. The shadow that is Radek's mother tuts, and sweeps the entire collection onto the floor with one arm.

Nails roll past Radek's feet.

"To bed," the shadow instructs, pulling back the sheets, "and try to sleep. You're running a slight fever, but we don't want that to get worse."

He nods and gets into bed, wriggling his toes between the bedclothes. "Is my sister as sick as I am?"

"About the same," his mother says, gently taking one of Radek's wrists and holding it against the bedrail. "I imagine you both caught it from that boy, M..."

Static. The absence of a name makes Radek's headache pulse.

The shadow that was once his mother uses a leather cuff to strap Radek's wrist to the rail, then leans across him and repeats the procedure with his other arm.

Radek watches her dreamily. "Chicken soup," he says, voice slurring slightly. "Not vegetable."

"Vegetables are good for you."

"Not those vegetables."

"Hmm." The thing leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, before moving away. "When you're well, I will want you to clean this room. You're as bad as your father for mess."

Radek nods. His eyes are heavy, his limbs like lead. He watches the figure walk towards the door, then stop and speak to the man stood in the corner. The words are whispered, too quiet for him to hear, but the man nods.

He is, Radek thinks, feeling removed from his body, a most unusual looking man. Long white hair, and grey skin, and a leather coat.

He shivers, and realises the sensation is fear.

"Not to worry," the white haired man says, in a Scottish accent. He approaches the bed, stethoscope around his neck, smiling widely. His teeth are pointed and sharp. "We'll soon have you mended, eh Radek?"

Then the Wraith leans over Radek, and slams a hand into his chest.

Radek howls.

*

"Doctor Zelenka? Doctor Zelenka, can you hear me?"

The man who may or may not be Radek Zelenka fights against the straps on his wrists and legs, he fights against the needle in his skin, he fights against the hands which try to grab him and hold him down, he fights against the unfamiliar faces who hover above his own.

"He's pulled out the IV."

"BP is rising."

"Switch the machine off!"

"I'm trying, believe me--."

"Rodney, now!"

The man in the bed hears somebody scream. Then his eyes roll up into the back of his head, and he collapses.

*

There is silence.

The space in which he lives is dark. Shadows move over him, say sounds, but he cannot connect the words to any meaningful experience.

"Total amnesia. But I believe that it is only temporary."

"And the seizures?"

"We're testing his responses. When he's more conscious we'll be able to tell more."

Sometimes Radek opens his eyes, but the alien nature of his environment frightens him, and he does not stay awake very long.

*

Later, when he should be sleeping but is only pretending, visitors talk over his bed.

"Did it work?"

"Not quite as we expected, Colonel."

"Better than his brain dribbling out of his ears--"

"Rodney--"

"What? Going to tell me we did the right thing?"

There is a pause. Footsteps, moving away.

"Sorry. Doctor McKay is just... frustrated."

"Hmm."

"Colonel Carter?"

"He blames himself."

"Oh. Well-- yes. I suppose you're right."

"But the effects of the machine aren't permanent?"

"At this stage, I can't be sure. But given his progress I'm confident that Radek can regain all of his memories - it just may require a little assistance."

"I won't sanction another use of the machine."

"No, no. I'm thinking more of the old fashioned method."

"What's that?"

"Psychology. And time."

He remembers--

Radek Zelenka.

*

Radek is sat on his bed, back against the wall, staring at the scene in front of him. He holds a piece of paper in his hands and keeps turning it over and over, folding and unfolding the edges compulsively.

The door chimes. Then a voice calls out, hesitantly: "Radek? You in there?"

He sighs heavily. "Yes, Rodney. The door is unlocked."

"Oh." A second later and Rodney is standing in the doorway to Radek's quarters, holding a plate in one hand and a laptop tucked under his other arm. "I didn't see you at dinner, so I saved you a muffin." He holds out the plate like a peace offering. "It's chocolate."

In the strange world of Doctor Rodney McKay this counts as a great sacrifice, which Radek accepts in the manner in which it is intended.

"Thank you, Rodney. It is appreciated."

"Okay. Great." Rodney turns to put the plate down onto the desk, then sees what Radek is staring at, and gasps. "Holy crap."

There are four walls to Radek's quarters, and three of them are covered in paper. Scraps of notepaper blu-tacked together, post-stiks of different colours, envelopes sellotaped to the plaster. Every piece bears a tight scribble, written in blue, black, red ink - whatever pen was nearest. There are arrows, and pieces of string, and several larger sheets of paper bear complicated diagrams. At the top of the wall, set at roughly even intervals, are several rectangular pieces of paper bearing only four digits each.

1967.

1972.

1977.

A piece of paper for every fifth year between Radek's birth and the current date. Below them, the events of his life. Birth. School, college, university. Moving out from home. First kiss, first girlfriend. Graduation. Jobs. Joining the Atlantis expedition. The Wraith siege.

"You've, ah, you've been busy," Rodney says.

Radek rubs a hand across his eyes. "I have been trying to put the pieces back together," he says, his voice rough.

He screamed when Rodney first switched the machine on. He remembers that.

"It looks like you're planning to catch a serial killer," Rodney jokes, "or you are one."

Radek doesn't laugh. He stares down at the piece of paper in his hands.

"Did you work out what the device was supposed to do?"

"Oh. Yes." Rodney steps forward over the threshold, and the door shuts behind him. "It was supposed to just record memories. Like a download, almost, into the computer, so Atlantis could incorporate the information into its central library. Pretty clever really - no need to write your autobiography, just have the information copied right out of your head--" McKay stops and gives a small cough. "Sorry. Anyway, the problem with it is that it was only designed for users with the Ancient gene and, well-- it's ten thousand years old. When you and Miko accidentally switched it on it picked the closest user - you - but when it tried to copy your memories it damaged the originals."

Radek laughs, short and humourless. "That is an interesting way of describing it."

"Sorry." McKay pulls a face. "But you're better now, right? You remember things."

"Mostly." He offers the piece of paper in his hand to McKay.

After a moment's pause Rodney takes it, reading the contents. His jaw tightens. "Oh."

"I can't remember it. I remember him but I cannot remember--" Radek gestures, frustrated.

The Canadian fingers the piece of paper gently, then turns and places it on the third wall, close to the end of the paperwork.

In small print is the name 'Carson.'

"So," McKay says, his voice tight and strange, "what else have you got?"

Radek indicates the piles of papers scattered around his legs.

McKay picks up another piece of paper. "Ice skating with Alena," he reads aloud.

Radek shrugs. "I remember I was not very good at it, but as for when--" He shakes his head.

"It'll come to you," McKay says, clearly trying to sound reassuring.

"I know," he admits.

"Keller told you not to rush things."

"But I cannot just wait," he snaps, grabbing a handful of papers and crumpling them into a ball. He tosses it across the bed, where it bounces, and falls to the floor.

After a moment McKay bends down and picks the ball up, unfolding the paper. He walks across to the second wall and, after a second of hesitation, sticks one of the pages firmly under '1992.'

The paper reads: 'First article published.'

"I read it," McKay says, casually. "I was bored one day."

"Thank you."

"It's just something I remembered."

"Not just for the assistance." Radek picks up another piece of paper and starts to smooth it across his palm. "If not for your work on the device, I would still be--"

"A human vegetable?" McKay finishes, tactlessly.

Radek grimaces, but persists. "You took a risk, you and Doctor Keller both. You didn't know if using the machine a second time would work."

"I didn't know for certain," McKay corrects, sounding disgruntled, "but I had reason--"

"Thank you," Radek interrupts. "I would rather you took the risk, than allow me to--" he pauses, struggling for the right word, "to linger."

"With more time I could have perfected the technique, avoided the confusion--"

"It is temporary," he says, repeating Doctor Keller's diagnosis and, for the first time, believing it. The amount of paper on his bed is decreasing, the walls becoming fuller. He no longer has to struggle for names, though the continuity of his life's events are still muddled.

"Right. So I thought, since you'll be back at work soon--" McKay holds out the laptop. "I always find it a good distraction."

Radek frowns. "I do not want to be distracted, Rodney. Not until everything is as it should be."

"Yes, well, I might agree with you, except," Rodney nods at the wall behind him, "that isn't a great demonstration of mental stability."

He considers the three walls, the papers stuck to their surface, and tries to remember the last time he saw the mess hall, or played chess.

"Perhaps you have a point," he concedes, accepting the laptop.

"Good. Great. There are some files on there I want you to have a look at, reports from the last mission to P3-52A." McKay folds his arms across his chest, looking awkward. "So I guess I'll leave you to it." He starts to edge towards the door, then pauses.

"Rodney?"

"I'm going to one of the break rooms. Sheppard's holding another movie night. He's trying to indoctrinate Ronon into American culture." McKay pulls a face. "If you wanted to come, well, it's another distraction. And there are marshmallows."

"Ah." Radek smiles slightly. "Marshmallows."

"And popcorn."

He considers the walls again, and the remaining notes on the bed. "Perhaps later."

"Right." McKay moves towards the door, which opens obediently at his approach. "I'll see you later."

The door closes, leaving Radek alone with his memories.

He traces a finger across the ink, then puts the paper back onto the paper. Getting up from the bed, he disrupts the scraps of paper, some rising to the air, fluttering.

Like pigeon feathers.

He considers the nearest wall and his most recent experiences, then picks up a marker pen from the desk, and one of the larger pieces of notepaper.

He writes slowly and carefully on the paper, the ink leaving smudges on his fingers.

I am Radek Zelenka.

He uses sellotape to fix the paper to the central wall, up high, as high as he can stretch. Then he steps back to observe his work.

After a moment's consideration, Radek makes a decision, abandoning the papers and his quarters, ducking out through the door.

Perhaps, he decides, McKay is right. He needs a distraction. Some new memory to add to the wall.

Marshmallows. Popcorn. A movie.

It is not much, but it will do.