Team, Week 2: In That Sleep of Death (3/4)

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PART 3

John stared at the stargate, alone in the empty gate room. There were moments when the immensity of the device struck him, and he looked up in awe at the size of the ring and the power it held, propelling him and others across the galaxy on a daily basis. It was incredible, but it was also easy to forget amongst the heyday of daily survival in Pegasus.

Other people streamed into the room, lining up behind him. Marines. They were armed to the teeth, their faces set in the grim expression of the battle hardened and battle weary. He glanced down at his own uniform and saw that he was wearing only his BDU pants and a t-shirt. No vest, no weapons. No shoes even. He spun around, wondering where his gear had gone.

"What’s happened?" he heard someone ask.

Where the hell was his gear? Why would he be lined up to go offworld without any gear? His heart began to pound. Guns. Knife. Vest. Shoes. He needed his stuff.

"Doctor Castillo and her team missed their check in. With the recent attacks, I didn’t want to take any chances. I sent Lieutenant Yeboah’s team."

Yeboah. And Castillo. He remembered this. They’d lost contact with Castillo, then sent Yeboah’s team, then gotten a frantic call about a firefight before losing contact with them.

"They were attacked the second they came through the gate. We haven’t been able to get a hold of them since," someone else said.

"Damn," came a muttered reply from somewhere else.

John found his running shoes at the bottom of the steps and he sat down, thrusting his foot in as fast as he could. More people filled the gateroom. They were going on a mission-he was supposed to lead this mission.

"Is it the mercenaries?"

It was, but they didn’t know that yet. This was their first encounter, the first attack. John got his shoes laced up and then spotted his vest. He grabbed it, feeling the heavy weight of his P90 swing from the clip on the front. He pushed his way to the front as he slid into his vest, then struggled to get the zipper up. Sweat dampened his armpits, beads of it dripped down his back. Around him, he heard the others checking and double-checking their weapons, preparing for a rescue mission.

But it wouldn’t be a rescue. He jerked his head up at the sound of the first chevron locking into place, and his heart rate tripled. He knew how this ended. This had already happened.



"No," he choked out, but he was breathing too fast now. Another chevron locked into place, and the gate wavered in front of him. He brought a hand up to his face, the palm and arm thick with bandages.

That wasn’t right. The attack had come before he’d sliced his palm. He hadn’t been injured on this mission. He pushed back the roaring sound filling his ears and focused on slowing his breathing, but his chest was heaving now, and black spots were floating across his vision. He blinked at the sweat stinging his eyes.

The last chevron lit, and the wormhole exploded outward. John flinched at the wave of raw power coming at him, then the bodies rushing past him, toward the blue wall. He shook his head, trying to scream at everyone to stop but not finding enough air to do so.

Yeboah was dead. They’d find his body tied to a tree fifty feet from the gate. Castillo and her team, as well as the rest of the lieutenant’s team would be alive, but badly injured-enough so that most of them would be sent home to Earth to recover. All three of the Marines would be discharged, any chance of returning to Atlantis gone.

John crashed to the floor, his knees banging against the hard surface. He managed to keep himself from falling completely over, but he could feel his body swaying, threatening to topple. The room around him emptied of people, but impossibly, he heard the firefight on the other side of the wormhole. He blinked, trying to bring the gray fuzzy world into focus and suddenly found Carson in front of him, holding his arms and shaking him.

"John?"

"Can’t…c-can’t…" He was still trying to breathe way too fast. He groaned and leaned forward.

"Try to slow your breathing down," Carson said, his voice steady.

"Can’t…" Can’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His chest jerked in desperation as panic welled up.

"Sheppard, snap out of it!"

John jerked awake and flew up to a sitting position, almost banging his head against Rodney’s. Immediately, he began to list sideways, and he felt hands grab his arms, their fingers digging into his flesh.

"Wha…" he breathed out. He was breathing hard, and his face and hair soaked with sweat.

"You were having a nightmare," Rodney said. He loosened his grip a little, pausing to make sure John didn’t fall over, then let him go completely.

John rubbed at his face, wishing he could scrub the image of the dead lieutenant from his mind. He had been the one to find him, and even after all he’d seen, it had almost sent him puking into the bushes. Rodney shoved a canteen of water into his hands and John drank slowly, hardly noticing how badly his hands were shaking.

Gradually, his breathing slowed down and his hands steadied. Rodney was staring at him-giving him that wide-eyed freaked-out look John had seen too many times in their years together in Pegasus. He handed back the canteen.

Rodney blinked, then capped the canteen and set it aside. "Um…do you want…"

"It was just a nightmare," John said quietly. His voice was hoarse, and his throat felt raw. Had he screamed? That might explain the look Rodney was giving him.

Rodney didn’t push. He nodded and slid back to his work. John stood up, stretching out tight muscles. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours and he still felt wiped out, but there was no way he would be going to sleep again anytime soon.

"Ronon and Teyla?"

Rodney glanced up. "Still looking around."

"Okay."

He slipped into his vest, zipping it up easily. It had been difficult in the dream, but this wasn’t a dream-this wasn’t a nightmare. They were exploring a long-abandoned outpost full of dead and broken equipment until the rain stopped. He glanced at his watch. It was still relatively early in the night. He’d needed to be up and about, to walk around and shake off the remnants of the nightmare.

"I’m going to go check on the storm," he said. He strode toward the door, not waiting for a reply.

The light of the hallways hummed steadily, and it wasn’t until John passed through the round room and walked the short length to the entrance of the outpost that he realized it was pitch black outside. He glanced at his watch, wondering how Atlantis time and this world’s time matched up. It had been close, he thought-within a few hours of each other. They’d measured it during the first mission here but now he couldn’t remember.

He stood at the door and peered into the darkness. Rain was still pattering the trees and bushes at a steady pace, but it didn’t seem to be the outright deluge of earlier. Maybe the storm was slowing down and they’d be able to head home soon. He shivered despite the heat, suddenly wanting very much to be back home in Atlantis.

A snapping twig out in the darkness had his heart rate ramping up, and he brought his P90 up instinctively. His ears strained to pick out any sounds beyond the white noise of the drumming rain.

Snap.

There. Again. Something was out there. He licked his lips, trying to work some moisture back into his mouth. He reached over carefully to flip the flashlight on his P90 on, and he jerked it quickly toward the source of the sound. The beam lit up the base of a tree, and a large leaf fluttered up and down against the rain and wind.

He caught a flash of movement on the edge of the beam, and he jerked the light toward it, but again, there was nothing. Just the jungle and the storm. Another snapping branch sounded far off on the right-hand side. John flicked the safety off on his weapon and brought the gun around.

The heat was oppressive, and he was breathing far too heavily to shoot with any kind of pinpoint accuracy, but a spray of bullets from a P90 was damned effective. Sweat dripped down his forehead, into his eyes, and he fought the urge to wipe it away. He should radio Teyla and Ronon. They were good at spotting things in the trees and in the darkness-better than him. He heard a rustle of leaves to his left and he swung his light toward it.

The rational part of his brain told him he was hearing nothing more than the sounds of the storm blowing through the jungle’s vegetation, and yet… If he was planning an attack, he would use the cover of the storm to sneak up on his adversary. In this darkness, with this level of noise, he’d be at the door of the facility before the enemy even knew someone was coming.

Was that how the mercenaries worked? On all of the planets they had attacked, there’d been no warning, no signal of impending danger. This planet might be uninhabited, but the mercenaries somehow managed to sneak up on everyone, including highly trained Marines.

The image of Yeboah’s body flashed back through his mind and he shook his head. His heart was ramming against his ribs now, and he felt his stomach tighten in sudden nausea. Another snap and rustle sounded just past the beam of his flashlight. He could feel their eyes on him now, watching his movements, biding their time. With a sudden flush of panic, he flipped the flashlight off, but all that did was stop him from seeing the enemy outside. He was still framed in the lighted doorway of the outpost.

John was raising a hand to his radio earbug to call for backup when he heard a scraping sound directly above him. He jerked his head up, knowing instinctively something was there. That had definitely not been the sound of rain. He was raising his P90 when he saw a blur of movement coming toward him, a rotting stench filling his nostrils.

He heard an animal hiss in his ear a split second before the dark shape slammed into his face and neck. He yelled, tightening his finger on the trigger and letting a stream of bullets into the dark jungle. The sound was deafening, echoing up and down the hallway. He was on the ground without realizing he’d fallen, the echoes of gunfire still pummeling his eardrums. He dropped his P90 and used his arms to grab at the thing digging into neck and head.

"Sheppard!"

Ronon’s voice sounded close, and John connected it with the radio piece still in his ear at the same time as he got a hold of thick fur and pulled. Flames raked the side of his face and neck where the animal’s claws had dug in, and he screamed at the sudden, burning agony. The animal was hissing madly, squirming to get out of John’s grasp and digging its claws into his shoulder and chest, piercing flesh unprotected by his vest. Blood, hot and oozing, welled up from the scrapes and dripped across his skin.

He lifted his head in time to see the animal shake free of his grasp, then arch its back, ready to pounce. It was the size of a house cat, with short thick legs, long nails, and a face that looked like it had been smashed by a board. The thing bared its teeth and leapt toward John’s face-

Then disappeared out into the darkness of the jungle. John caught a glimpse of Ronon’s foot as he booted the creature away, and then he dropped his head back to the ground. The pain in his neck and face was growing, and he rolled to the side, closing his eyes. It felt like someone was holding a blow torch to his face, and he started to gag at the agony.

"Sheppard, buddy," Ronon was muttering, one hand on his arm as John threw up the remains of his dinner.

He heard another pair of feet running toward them, and he tensed. Mercenaries? He would choose to attack now, when one man was down and the others were distracted. A second later, he heard Teyla’s high-pitched voice, asking what had happened, and then another set of hands on his head, asking him if he was alright.

He let them help him up, and by the time he was firmly on his feet, some of the pain had dampened down a little. Teyla wanted to take care of the cuts right there, but he refused. The gaping darkness of the jungle-and all of the dangers it held unseen-was scraping his nerves raw. They needed to get out of sight, regroup.

Hide.

"Blue Room," he choked out, stumbling away from the entrance. They could hide in the Blue Room, maybe even seal the door shut. If anyone was out there-and John was sure they were-there was little he and his team could do to fight them off. They were outmanned.

Yes, outmanned. And outgunned. The mercenaries were ruthless and clearly had the ability to take out entire villages without leaving a trace of themselves behind. He walked faster, feeling Teyla’s arm on his. Was she steadying him? Or slowing him down? He wasn’t sure. But they were following him. He walked faster. He would get them to the Blue Room, where Rodney was, and then they’d be okay. Rodney could seal the doors, stop any of the mercenaries from getting to them.

He could feel his neck stiffening up in pain, but he didn’t dare slow down. Safety first, then he’d let Teyla treat his wounds.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What the hell happened out there?"

"It’s nothing."

"Nothing? Nothing. How can…it’s not…"

"Calm down, McKay."

Teyla watched Rodney shoot Ronon a glare, but the behest to calm down was hardly necessary. Rodney was upset but not flying off the handle. Teyla guided John over to his sleeping bag-where he sank down to the floor without any prompting-but she kept an eye on Rodney the entire time.

The scientist glanced between all of them, then finally stumbled backward and buried himself in his laptop. Ronon leaned against the wall, glancing out into the hallway, and Teyla noted the fatigue in the slump of his shoulders and the lines in his face. She glanced back at Rodney, and the soft glow from his screen made the dark circles under his eyes stand out. John leaned forward, resting the uninjured side of his head on his hand and sighed. He made no move to staunch the flow of blood from the claw marks in his face and neck, but his eyes were squeezed shut and his jaw clenched against the pain.

A shot of fear pierced through her at the sight of her teammates, and she shook off the lethargy that seemed to swamp over her every movement. There was definitely something wrong with her teammates. Maybe even herself, although she felt fine. She reached over for her bag and dragged it to her side, then dug through it to pull out the first aid kit.

The blood was still oozing out of John’s cuts and soaking into his shirt, and the sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She looked away, swallowing quickly. With her eyes closed, the iron stench of blood tripled and she suddenly imagined blood pumping out of John’s body with every heart beat, covering her and anything nearby as he bled out. The claws of the animal would have been long and sharp to cut so deeply. Razor sharp. The image in her mind warped as the blood cleared, revealing mangled flesh and white bone.

"Teyla?" John’s tired voice broke through her thoughts, splintering the image.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, and the cuts on his face and neck did not look nearly as horrific as the image she’d built in her mind.

"This will hurt," she whispered.

John had lifted his head a little to look up at her, but now he nodded and settled it back into his palm. She used a bottle of water and clean cloth to wipe away most of the blood, careful to not rub the cuts directly. There were two of them on his face, running from his hairline to the edge of his jaw. Three more gouges ran along side his neck all the way to his collar bone. The claw marks on his neck were not as deep as she’d initially assumed, but already they looked red and enflamed.

John sat still through her ministrations, but he couldn’t completely mask the moans of pain as she worked. His knuckles were white and his jaw was clenched so tight, she worried he might break a tooth. She felt a lump build in her throat, and she had to turn away when he hissed at the bandages she pressed against the cuts.

"I am sorry," she whispered, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. John said nothing, and the silence cut into her chest. She wished she didn’t have to inflict more pain on him, and maybe she should have just left it alone.

She shook her head. No, that wasn’t right. She knew field medicine-knew what she was supposed to do in this kind of situation. Why did she suddenly doubt herself? She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but John had his eyes closed, Rodney was focused on his computer screen, and Ronon was leaning out into the hallway again.

She reached into her bag to grab tape, using the movement to wipe away the tear with her other hand. She took a couple of deep breaths, fighting to regain control of her emotions, and when she leaned back to tape the bandages down, she was able to ignore the slight shaking of her hands, to write it off as the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush.

"There," she said.

John didn’t move or respond. She found a couple of packets of Ibuprofen and had him swallow the medicine, then pushed him onto his side to rest. He looked exhausted-even more so than before. John relented without a fight, and Teyla breathed her own sigh of relief when he fell sleep almost immediately.

"He okay?" Ronon asked. He was standing by the door now, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

"For now, yes. The cuts were not as deep as I feared."

"Good. Gonna walk the halls, make sure there are no more animals around." He left, not waiting for a response.

Rodney sat up, looking at the empty doorway where Ronon had disappeared to where she was kneeling next to Sheppard. "Animal?"

"Small animal," she said, but she wasn’t sure. She’d barely caught a glimpse of it before Ronon had kicked it out into the dark jungle.

"The storm?"

"Still raining."

Rodney nodded, looked around the room with a sigh, then hunched back over his laptop.

Teyla waited for him to say something else. The short, terse comments were disquieting, but she had no idea how to draw him into conversation. Getting Rodney to talk had never been a problem before. She watched him rub at his eyes and noted again how tired he looked.

"Would you like some water?"

Rodney glanced up and gave her a small smile. "Sure."

Relieved at finding a way to interact with him, she grabbed her canteen and stood. She handed the water to him as she peered at his laptop, trying to decipher what he was working on. Distracted, she let go of the canteen before he had a hold of it and it crashed to the floor.

"I am so sorry!" she yelped as Rodney jumped in surprised, toppling his laptop.

He jerked his computer up off the floor and into the air, out of the way of the growing puddle. He scooted backward, using his feet to slide away from her.

"No, it’s okay," he breathed out. He set the laptop to the side then cast around for something to wipe the water up with.

Teyla felt the lump of emotion build again in her throat, and she swallowed desperately against it. She did not want to cry-not in front of Rodney. "I don’t know how that happened. I thought…"

"No, no, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking."

Her heart beat faster. She’d seen Rodney explode at the smallest things, particularly around Ancient technology. She glanced at the door. She wanted to run down the hall, to get away from Rodney’s anger and violent temper, of the rant she knew normally followed such an incidence of clumsiness around him.

And yet he wasn’t speaking. Or angry. He had found a napkin from somewhere and was trying to mop up the puddle of water around him. John shifted in his sleep then settled down again.

"It’s okay," Rodney said again, his attention focused on scrubbing the floor. "It’s okay."

She backed up, putting some distance between Rodney and his non-anger, and John and his bleeding gouges. She leaned against the doorframe and peered out into the hallway. Ronon was nowhere to be seen.

"Have you…" she started, then cleared her throat when the words caught in her chest and came out garbled. "Have you found out what the Ancients were doing here?"

Rodney nodded. He gave up on mopping and moved his laptop closer to John’s sleeping form, away from the water. He settled back down and tapped a few keys. "Weapons research."

"That is good," she said, but she wasn’t sure if it was. Did they really need more powerful weapons? Already they were surrounded by death in this galaxy. Why add more to that potential for murder and destruction?

She heard a whimpering cry echo down the hall, so faint it was almost inaudible. She froze, straining her ears. Had that been Ronon? Or another animal like the one that had attacked John? A few moments passed in silence, and she was ready to write off the sound as a figment of her imagination when it came again.

It sounded like someone crying-a soft, high-pitched moan. It couldn’t have been Ronon. An animal then. She stepped into the hall, straining. Rodney didn’t seem to notice her departure so she padded quietly down the hall. When the sound echoed toward her, she felt her heart seize in her chest.

What if the animal that had attacked John had been a baby? What if its mother was now looking for whoever had inflicted harm on her young? What if it came looking for them? If she was smart, she would go back to the Blue Room, seal the door, prepare a defense. What was she doing walking toward it?

She thought of the blood on John’s face and neck, and it occurred to her that if the creature was seeking revenge, or even if it was just hungry, it could probably smell the blood. It would follow the scent like a sea creature pouncing on injured prey. The safest place, then, was not in the Blue Room but in another room, as far away from John as possible. She took another few steps down the hallway.

Perhaps that was where Ronon had gone to. He had reached the same conclusion and was hiding in one of the many rooms along either hallway. She should follow him-he was a strong fighter and she’d be safer behind him if anything attacked. She walked a little faster. If Ronon was trying to get away, he was probably in the other corridor, in the farthest room in that direction.

That was where she would go. The cry sounded a little louder and she clamped her own jaw shut to stop herself from echoing it. She needed to be quiet, to hide. Her survival depended on it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After his second time through the entire outpost, Ronon could no longer bring himself to venture down the hallway toward the entrance. He crept into the round room, glancing around to make sure no animals had come in. There was dirt and leaves strewn across the floor, tiny footprints evidence that more than one creature had taken refuge from the rain in here.

He pictured the animal that had attacked Sheppard, its claws extended and teeth gnashing and it dove toward the soft flesh of his friend’s face. He’d been lucky, kicking at it. He’d only gotten a glimpse of Sheppard before he’d lunged forward, but he’d seen the bright red gleam of blood. How much would his clothing have protected him from those fangs and claws if he hadn’t managed to kick the beast into the darkness.

Thunder clapped above him, echoing down the hall and he tensed. He stared down the entrance tunnel, straining for the sound of danger. When lightning flashed, it burned into his wide-open eyes, and he blinked at the afterimage of the entrance at the far end of the hall. He stumbled back the way he’d come, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

It took a moment before his mind caught up to what he’d seen in the brief second of light. It was still raining, but there’d been no sign of animals running toward him. He took a deep breath and began walking to the far end of the hall, away from the round room. Sheppard had dubbed this one Hallway 2, while the Green and Blue Rooms where’d they camped out had been named Hallway 1.

Hallway 2 was longer. It would take him farther away from the entrance. He quickened his pace, wincing at a bruise on his foot that ached with every step. He’d kicked that beast hard, sent it flying into the jungle. He could still remember the feel of it against his foot and ankle, thick rough fur against his pants and boots, soft ribs and belly caving in to the force of his kick.

He stumbled to a halt, overcome with sudden nausea. Had he killed it? He pressed a hand to his stomach and leaned forward. When he glanced down at his foot, he saw a couple of dark smudges.

"Blood," he whispered.

The closest room looked like it had once been someone’s living quarters. A bed, desk, and drawers were built into the walls themselves. He flung himself to the corner of the room, gagging as he moved, and dropped to his knees just as he began throwing up. Several minutes passed before his gut settled down again. He pushed away from the wall, but his arms and legs were shaking too much for him to walk very far. He eased down on the bed and pressed his hands to his face.

He had killed it. He must have. He flashed again to the creature-yellow eyes like a Wraith, slits in its face where its nose would be. He’d seen tiny needle teeth in its open mouth, and two longer fangs on each side, curling forward like the blade of one of his knives. He reached for that knife, unsheathing it from his boot. The metal glinted in the bluish light of the facility.

It was the exact shape as the fangs on the creature that had attacked Sheppard. He was torn between disgust at the violence required to get it away from them and fear at what it might have done had his kick not been aimed perfectly. His stomach clenched again and he wished he had some water with him. Slowly, he extended his arm and swished the knife blade back and forth. It was designed to eviscerate, cut through skin and muscle, inflict torturous pain before his victim-turned inside out-bled to death.

He groaned, tossing the knife across the room. He could still feel its weight in his hand though, still remember how easy it was to handle. Perfect balance. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d picked it up. Perfect, deadly balance. He’d killed a lot of Wraith with that blade…

The image of a Wraith rose up in his mind. Ronon’s fist tightened until his knuckles bleached and his fingers began to tingle with numbness. The creature in his mind flung itself forward, and Ronon screamed.

The sound was so loud, so startling, that he jumped up. The knife lay on the floor a few feet away, taunting him. The memory of the Wraith died down, but his heart was double timing it, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

He was alone. There were no Wraith, no creatures, no enemies. Just him and his team. He pulled out the rest of his knives and threw them into the corner of the room, close to where the curved blade had landed, then swallowed at the sight of all of those sharp edges glowing with menace. He heard a scream, but this time it was not his own. A memory of a Wraith screaming as Ronon had impaled him.

He shook his head, letting the sound die out. It wasn’t real. His heart started to beat frantically as his stomach twisted in on itself, gory images of dead Wraith bayoneting themselves on his knives flashing through his mind. Their ghostly images flung themselves forward, and he sliced through their intestines, their necks, their chests. Ronon gasped, smelling the hot iron stench of blood.

He’d fallen back to the bed, but he jumped up again and crossed the room in three steps. He yanked open one of the drawers built into the wall and threw the curved knife into it. As he slammed it shut, the screaming Wraith faded from his mind. He stood there, breathing, and glanced down at himself, making sure none of their blood was on him.

"Not real," he whispered.

There was no blood. No sign of the Wraith other than the necklace he wore around his neck. His stomach churned at the sight, and he ripped it off, opening the drawer for a half second to throw the grotesque jewelry collar in with the knife. He continued to pant heavily for a moment, willing his body to relax.

It wasn’t working. Groaning, his gaze settled on the other knives spread out across the floor. He was going to throw up again. The nausea was already burning its way back up his throat. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. It took several long breaths before he finally fought the urge to be sick back down, and then he straightened up, one hand pressing against his rebellious gut.

With shaking hands, he gathered up the rest of his knives and tossed them into the drawer, out of sight.

He should go back to the others, make sure they were safe. The nausea was hovering in the back of his throat. He needed water, needed to lie down. Sheppard was injured, and now he was getting sick. The storm was ripping the world to pieces outside. He stumbled out into the hallway just as thunder roared and shuddered over the building. Fear lashed out at him, wrapping icy tendrils across his body. In order to go back to the others, he’d have to walk through the round room, past the tunnel that led to the entrance just a few dozen steps farther. Another blast of thunder echoed around him, the sound sharp and ringing in his ears.

He assumed it was thunder. What if they were under attack? What if that had been an explosion from a Wraith ship? He pushed away from the wall, scanning the hallway. He had to run, he had to get out of here. This hallway led nowhere, and to stay here would mean certain death. His heart pounded at the thought, feeling like it was crawling up the back of his throat.

He found another room, full of equipment. Thick dust overlay everything. He weaved through the debris, heading toward the back and looking for a place to hide.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Teyla crawled into an alcove in the farthest room of the longest hallway. She had not found Ronon, but she’d stumbled into the wall when she’d entered this room, and inadvertently plunged the small area into darkness. She’d screamed, terrified at first of what she could not see, of what could creep up on her without her knowing. She’d fumbled at the wall, searching for the light switch and found nothing.

She’d found the door again, though, and when she stepped in front of it, it had slid open, letting in enough light into the room for her to see there was no danger. She’d spied the alcove a second later and darted toward it, reaching it just as the door slid shut and cast the room back into pitch black.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, curling into the smallest ball possible. With three walls pressing up against her, she felt safe, and she shuddered in relief. There was only one way that someone or something could attack her now. There was no safer place than this, protected on all but one side.

All but one.

The thought nagged. An attacker only needed one way to reach her to kill her. Her breathing hitched and she peeled her eyes open, searching the darkness. She saw nothing, not even the hand in front of her face. She cowered back, wishing the alcove had a door.

Her mind flashed to some of the debris in the room. There was a small table somewhere close. She slipped out of the alcove before she could talk herself out of it, crawling close enough to the door to trigger it to open. Light spilled in, and she flinched, prepared for something horrendous to screech through the door and devour her alive…

"There is nothing," she whispered, but she heard the doubt in her own voice. She did not know that there was nothing. Where were the others? Had they already been taken?

She saw the table just a few feet from her and she took in the space between it and her and the alcove, calculating the path she would have to take to reach safety. With a whimper, she rushed forward, grabbing the table and dragging it back to her safe place. The door slid closed, cutting off the light before she reached it, but she fumbled through the darkness and found the alcove a few seconds later. She climbed into it again, then flipped the table up so that its surface formed a fourth wall in front of her, blocking off the last side of vulnerability.

She let go a deep shuddering breath as she realized she was safe, cocooned in darkness and metal. She dropped her head in exhaustion as tension unwound from her back and neck.

"Safe," she whispered.

In the darkness, she heard the rumble of the storm outside and then a whimpering cry. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Had that been her? She didn’t think so. She felt her body begin to shake again. The sound had come from somewhere in this room, but that was not possible. She had seen nothing in the room. She was sealed in.

Ancestors above! What if she had sealed something in with her? A squeaking cry pierced the refuge she’d built around herself, lashing into her like a whip. Teyla scrunched deeper into the alcove, curling into an even tighter ball and wrapping her arms over her head.



It was no use. Whatever was making the noise had started to wail, its cries reaching her through her barriers, unstoppable. She moved her hands and dug her fingers into her ears to block the sound. She was reminded suddenly of the baby on Atlantis, how it had cried unceasingly into the night. The thing in the room with her was not a baby-not human. The sound it was making was too high-pitched, too grating. Teyla bit her lip against the urge to cry out with it.

It was in pain. Teyla could feel it, carried to her in waves. Should she help it? Her heart beat at the thought, every instinct within her telling her to stay where she was, to run, to hide. Her only chance of survival was to stay hidden from all danger. She dug her fingers deeper into her ears.

A cry broke through her clenched jaw as jagged pieces of her heart shifted deeply inside her. When the creature’s cries suddenly cut off mid-stream, tears streamed down her face, and she lurched forward. For a brief second, concern for the tortured creature had almost driven her out of the alcove, but there was nothing she could do for it. She stayed where she was, crying harder when the creature began its agonized wailing again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

John woke up to a fiery burn digging into his face and neck, and it only took a few seconds for him to remember the animal that had leapt out of the darkness to attack him. He’d been lucky it hadn’t done more damage. Lucky Ronon had arrived so quickly to kick it away. Lucky it hadn’t been mercenaries staging an assault.

He pushed himself up, groaning when that pulled painfully against enflamed skin and taut muscles. He wanted to curl up in a ball, give himself a shot of morphine and escape the pain. He slid out of his vest and fumbled at the front pockets. No morphine. Where was the morphine? He found a packet of Ibuprofen but little else. It was better than nothing. His canteen, and possibly Ronon’s as well, had been left nearby, and he grabbed one, downing the pills with a quick swallow.

Rodney was the only other person in the room, and he sat with his laptop in front of him and his eyes fixed on the far wall, lost in thought. When John stood up, he tilted his head toward him.

"Oh, hey. You’re awake."

John grunted in reply. He was awake and tired and in pain. He wanted to be asleep. He wanted to go back to that place of dark, painless silence. He rubbed at his forehead, grateful that he had at least stopped sweating in this damn jungle outpost, but he still felt too hot.

"Where are the others?" he asked Rodney, because he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep with the way his face and neck were hurting, so he might as well distract himself by talking to Rodney.

Rodney shrugged. "Out, walking around. I don’t know."

John nodded. Rodney had moved to the wall farthest from the door, his arms wrapped around his knees as he looked down at the open laptop at his feet. John pushed himself back to lean against the wall next to Rodney.

"What time is it?"

"Late," came Rodney’s muffled reply.

They sat against the wall in silence. John could hardly turn his head, but he forced himself to lean forward and gesture toward the laptop. "Find anything?"

"Yeah," Rodney said. He continued to sit with his arms around his legs, his chin resting on his knees.

Maybe Rodney had morphine in his vest? He probably did. Rodney hated pain. If anyone carried morphine in their vest, it would be Rodney. He opened his mouth to ask then clamped it shut. Should he ask? It suddenly didn’t seem right to ask, but he really needed it. He brought a hand up to the bandages and felt heat through the gauze. His skin was on fire, the cuts smoldering embers slowly eating away at his flesh.

His breath stuttered in his chest and he closed his eyes. He couldn’t think of that.

"What’s on your laptop?" he asked instead.

"The research the Ancients were doing here."

"You find their weapon?"

"Yeah. Think it did something to us, though."

John nodded. A weapon was good. They needed a weapon. He swallowed, remembering they weren’t supposed to carry morphine in their vests, that it was a controlled substance, that Carson had only allowed enough of them out to fill the first aid kits the teams carried with them. They were supposed to report in to him anytime they used the morphine, so he could replace it. So he could track the drug and track them using the drug.

He brought his hand up to his neck and winced at the growing, stabbing pain. Morphine was for injuries, and he was injured. He needed the morphine. He needed the first aid kit, but Rodney wouldn’t have that.

Who would? Who would? He didn’t have it. The answer came slowly, trudging through the slop of pain hampering his thoughts. Teyla. Teyla was in charge of that stuff. Rodney hated blood.

"Where’s Teyla?" He thought he’d asked that already, but he couldn’t remember what the answer had been.

Rodney shrugged next to him. "Don’t know. She left." He reached out with his foot and pushed the laptop a little farther away from him, then drew his leg back into his body, tightening his arms around them.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet, using the wall to steady himself. His neck screamed at the movement, but he managed to bite back the wail of agony pushing against his teeth. He breathed deeply through the pain, contemplating just sliding back to the ground, but he needed that first aid kit. He needed Teyla.

"Gonna find Teyla," he mumbled.

Rodney shrugged again then lowered his head down and buried his face into his knees. John walked toward the door, stepping over their strewn equipment. The hallway was slightly cooler, and he turned right, heading toward the round room. He used a hand to guide him forward and keep his balance, all of his attention focused on fighting down the throbbing agony in his cuts.

The outpost was silent. Where the hell was Teyla? He crept forward, past the round room and into the second hallway, flinching every time he passed a door and it slid open. He stopped to glance in, then moved on when he found it empty. At the fifth door, he stared at the floor, blinking in confusion. There was no one in the room, but tracks were clearly visible through the dust on the floor. They led into the room but not out.

"Hello?"

The room was big, but it swallowed up the sound of his voice. He took another step farther in and cringed when the door slid shut behind him. They had checked all of these rooms at least once, but he couldn’t remember them now. They all blurred together into dirty rooms furnished with nothing more than the remains of ten thousand year old broken Ancient stuff. He stared down at the footsteps again. Someone had been through here. Recently. No more than an hour or two at the most. Could it have been Teyla? He dug his fingers into his eyes. His skin was on fire. It had to be Teyla. He needed it to be Teyla.

He followed the tracks through the room, around a handful of debris scattered on the floor. They footprints led to a black panel against the far wall. He should tell Rodney about this panel. He shook his head, then yelped, gritting his teeth in pain. Rodney was…something was wrong with Rodney.

He stopped, spinning around in the room. Something was wrong with Rodney. Teyla and Ronon were missing. He fumbled for the radio in his ear and tapped it.

"Ronon, Teyla? Respond."

He waited. He glanced back at his own trail of footprints in the dust, noticing that the ones he’d been following were slightly larger. Ronon’s. Must be. But he wanted it to be Teyla.

"Not true," he whispered. "You want Teyla’s morphine."

And he did. More than ever. The walking had ignited agony until it spread all down his shoulder, back, and chest, and he let his right arm hang at his side.

"Teyla?" he called out again. Something was wrong with Rodney. Teyla wasn’t answering her radio. "Ronon?"

He heard Rodney’s voice in his head, something he had said right before John had wandered off to find Teyla and her morphine and quiet oblivion. A weapon-Rodney had found the weapon, and he thought something had happened to them.

Was that why Rodney was acting so bizarre?

"Guys, come on," John said. "Answer me."

When no answer came, he continued toward the black panel and the larger-than-his footprints. He would find Ronon at least. He could follow his trail, and then they could find Teyla, and she could give John a shot-

"No," he whispered. "No morphine. No drugs."

He had to find his team, get them to safety. He was the team leader; he was responsible. The pain in his face and neck pulsed at the thought, threatening to undo his resolve but he clamped his jaw shut, refusing to yield. He’d beaten pain before. He would do so again, to save his team. If he gave in to it, if he escaped with the morphine, and left his team behind…

"Not gonna happen."

He staggered to the wall, pressing his hands against the black panel, then cried out at the flash of light that enveloped him. When the blind spots faded from his eyes, he spun around, forgetting the aching pain in his head and neck for a moment.

"What the hell?" he called out. He was in another room-much dirtier but also much cooler. The air was stale and musty, but it felt good against his overheated skin. Only a handful of the lights in the room worked, but he could just make out Ronon’s footprints leading away from him.

He was somewhere else. Not in the big room with the black panel. He turned back, moaning when that pulled against the open cuts and taped bandages. There was a black panel here too, but everything looked worse. Wetter, more humid, more mud and mold and vegetation.

Transporter? Had to be. He felt like he was deeper underground. He sucked in a shaky breath. This facility was bigger-there were more unknowns here than they realized, dangers to stumble into and no one would know where to find him. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead and he dug his fingers into his eyes. His head was pounding at the realization that their situation was much worse than they’d known.

The mercenaries, a voice taunted in the back of his head. They could have infiltrated the base from below and you’d have no idea.

He backed up a step, toward the black panel. He should go back and tell Rodney at least, warn him of the danger. He bit his lip, frowning. Except that something was wrong with Rodney and he had to get Ronon and Teyla, and they had to go home and get fixed. He stared down at the footprints again. Ronon was definitely here, at least.

He forced himself forward, out of the room and into the unknown.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Rodney squirmed. He had pushed his laptop with the toe of his shoe as far away from himself as possible, but that was only a few feet. Only the length of his leg. If he wanted to push it farther, he’d have to get up. He scrunched down, huddling against the wall and grimacing at the stiffness in his butt and back. He didn’t want to get up.

The laptop was open and facing him, still on. It was taunting him. He turned his head away, looking at a distant wall or covering his eyes with this hands or pressing his forehead to his knees, but then that left him blind, unable to see the door leading out into the hallway. He had to watch the door, to know when someone came through it. They were on alien world, after all, and anything could walk through that door.

"We live in a galaxy where life-sucking vampires are as common as… as… as cats and dogs…" he muttered to the room. "Anything could walk into this room."

He glanced around, his eyes raking over John’s sleeping bag, the open first aid kit, their bag of MRE trash. His teammates backpacks were stack against one wall; his was leaning against a piece of Ancient equipment he’d wanted to study.

His eyes trailed the wires leading from the odd box he’d found in the Green Room to his laptop. It was inescapable. No matter where he turned, he always came back to the laptop, the screen stuck on the information he’d pulled up about this outpost.

He shuddered, remembering what he’d found. The outpost had been a research one, its inhabitants pursuing a weapon to combat the Wraith. There was a ‘great weapon’ after all, and he’d found it. He dropped his head to his knees, remembering Doranda. He’d found a weapon there too. He’d also killed a man.

He had also killed his team. They didn’t know it yet, but he had killed them. He had read so when he’d downloaded the information into his laptop. The process had started weeks ago, the first time they’d come here. Was it too late for them? Probably. It was probably too late.

"Too late," he whispered. "Too late."

He jerked his head up again, suddenly remembering the door. He had to watch the door. He had tried to tell John about the weapon, about what he’d done to them, but John-his face half mauled by a wild animal-had stumbled off, looking sick and tired and hurt.

And Teyla and Ronon? They’d disappeared hours ago. Where was everyone going? They’d kept coming and going while he’d worked, leaving him alone with enough equipment to potentially blow up all of Atlantis. What were they thinking?

He shook his head. They weren’t thinking. Because of him. Because he’d messed with stuff he didn’t understand, and activated something in the Green Room, and…

Green Room.

Green light.

He sat up a little straighter. Was that when it had happened? That exact moment? He’d touched the box his laptop was now attached to-accidently when John had fallen and startled him, of course-and then there’d been that green light.

He unfurled his body from the tight ball and reached for his laptop. He could keep reading the information, without turning anything on. Without blowing anything up. He wouldn’t repeat Doranda. He wouldn’t kill another man. Maybe he could even save his teammates before it was too late. He eyed the box a moment, then pulled his computer on to his lap and started typing.

Onwards to Part 4