SGA Fanfic: Untitled "Vegas" Tag
Dry as a desert outside, no place to go….
Let me show you your destiny, John Sheppard….
John Sheppard stared up and the sky and decided this was the perfect end to one fucked up, worthless life. His soul had died years ago in the sands of Afghanistan, and now his body was finally catching up to it in the sands of Nevada. He would have laughed at the whole ironic turn of it all, but he was just too damn … tired. Tired of failure, tired of disappointment, tired of actually beating the odds and drawing an inside straight only to have the dealer reveal a royal flush….
Yeah, he had had enough.
And now, apparently, even aliens had it out for him in the pathetic crap shoot that had become his life. He did manage one short, wheezing laugh before pain lanced through his chest, and from the sharp pull on his side he could tell he’d been hit just above the right hip as well. Huh, didn’t feel that one. Adrenaline, amazing thing.
So was shock.
He was starting to shiver even though he was lying on sand that was still radiating the day’s heat. And surrounded by flaming wreckage. But he was still getting cold. Yeah, not too long now.
The wind shifted and brought a wave of heat and grit his way, and for a second he thought the pounding of his pulse in his blown ears sounded like the dull whap of rotors. The wind picked up even more, and when sand really pelted his face he turned his head away.
Here he was, dying alone in the desert, and he was hallucinating a chopper coming to rescue him. Right. Even his mind was screwing him over in the end. But it was fitting, in its own macabre way - the end began with a downed chopper in the desert.
John rolled his head and faced the wind. He did manage to crack open his eyes enough to see. And decided his mind was really pulling a number on him in his final few moments.
Because seriously, medics didn't wear Armani....
Let me show you your destiny, John Sheppard….
John Sheppard stared up and the sky and decided this was the perfect end to one fucked up, worthless life. His soul had died years ago in the sands of Afghanistan, and now his body was finally catching up to it in the sands of Nevada. He would have laughed at the whole ironic turn of it all, but he was just too damn … tired. Tired of failure, tired of disappointment, tired of actually beating the odds and drawing an inside straight only to have the dealer reveal a royal flush….
Yeah, he had had enough.
And now, apparently, even aliens had it out for him in the pathetic crap shoot that had become his life. He did manage one short, wheezing laugh before pain lanced through his chest, and from the sharp pull on his side he could tell he’d been hit just above the right hip as well. Huh, didn’t feel that one. Adrenaline, amazing thing.
So was shock.
He was starting to shiver even though he was lying on sand that was still radiating the day’s heat. And surrounded by flaming wreckage. But he was still getting cold. Yeah, not too long now.
The wind shifted and brought a wave of heat and grit his way, and for a second he thought the pounding of his pulse in his blown ears sounded like the dull whap of rotors. The wind picked up even more, and when sand really pelted his face he turned his head away.
Here he was, dying alone in the desert, and he was hallucinating a chopper coming to rescue him. Right. Even his mind was screwing him over in the end. But it was fitting, in its own macabre way - the end began with a downed chopper in the desert.
John rolled his head and faced the wind. He did manage to crack open his eyes enough to see. And decided his mind was really pulling a number on him in his final few moments.
Because seriously, medics didn't wear Armani....