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

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PART 4

John wandered the halls aimlessly, a hand trailing along the wall. The lights in this other part of the outpost worked sporadically, either out completely or flickering in their last throes of death. The glare had amped up his headache enough that its pain melded with the throbbing of his animal cuts. His legs were starting to shake in exhaustion, and the cold air that had felt so good before had disappeared. It was hot again.

Too hot. He stumbled to a halt outside of a pair of open doors on either side of the hallway. Ronon was not answering his radio or John’s shouts, and John was too tired now to keep yelling. He just wanted to lie down. He didn’t even care about the morphine anymore. His legs started to fold, but he braced himself against wall and forced his knees to lock.

The farther he went, the less lights that worked. He glanced in both dark rooms with their open doors but saw nothing. No movement, although there was plenty of furniture and equipment for mercenaries to hide behind. He shivered at that thought, waiting for something to jump out at him. It occurred to him a minute later that he should hold his gun, just in case.

He fumbled at the P90 attached to his vest and held it up. He flipped the flashlight on to scan the rooms, blinking to keep everything in focus. Nothing. Empty. The weapon was heavy to hold up, and he had just enough strength to flip the light off before he let it drop and swing from his vest.

He kept going, moving farther and farther down the hallway. This part of the facility was much larger. He scanned the rooms when he noticed them, but he wasn’t sure he’d caught all of them. As he rounded the corner, the hallway suddenly dimmed.

"No lights," he whispered. "No power? No power, no lights."

He shivered at the long shadows around him, and the quiet. He’d wanted quiet before, but now, in the near darkness, it was freaking him out. He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping a sheen of sweat off his face. Ronon had to be close. How far could he have gone? He just needed to hurry and find him and find Teyla and get back to Rodney. A light forty or so feet flickered on, leaving a tunnel of darkness between him and the rest of the facility.

He just had to push forward. He swallowed, then plunged into the darkness.

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Ronon wandered the halls, ducking down corridors and into empty rooms whenever he thought he heard or saw anyone approaching. He’d ended up somewhere else in the outpost, but he didn’t quite remember how that had happened. A room, he thought, with a raised step and a black panel. He kept moving though, unwilling to slow his pace. If he was lost then anyone looking for him would be lost, too.

He blinked. Was that right? It made sense. If he couldn’t find his way out, then no one else could find their way in. The Wraith would not be able to track him. The hallways were filthy, covered in mud. Some of the walls had broken, revealing rock and earth behind them. Eventually, the hallways would end, but he tried not to think about that. He focused only on weaving through the hallways and rooms, using the skills he’d gained as a runner to evade the Wraith. He turned right and left, circled back, retraced his routes, and set false prints down half a dozen trails.

By the time he reached a long stretch of dark hallway, he couldn’t remember if he’d been here before or not. His mental map of the facility had long since evaporated, leaving him helpless. He studied the dark hallway for a moment. At its very center, it was pitch black and it occurred to him that the shadows and darkness would work to his advantage. They were protective, keeping him hidden and safe from any lurking dangers. He slid along the wall until he found a small room, its door hanging open. This would work. The room was tiny, more of a closet really, and there was just enough space for him to squeeze into comfortably.

Where he was, the sound of the storms had long since gone away. Either it had ended, or he was too far away to hear it. Maybe too deep? He thought of the earth and rock behind some of the broken walls, the lack of windows. That made sense. He was underground. Like a cave. Caves were good places to hide, until someone found you and you had to run.

"Not safe," he whispered, hunkering down. Was he trapped? If he stopped he was dead, just like when he was a runner. He stared out in to the dark hallway, wondering what he should do. He could leave the darkness, but then where did he go? How long would he expose himself before he found another safe place?

He had survived by running, by always pushing forward back to the next place. Staying one step ahead of pursuing Wraith. He tightened his hands into fist and stood. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving-

A shadow fell across the far side of the hallway. Ronon could just make out a head and shoulders, arms hanging down on either side. He felt his heart stumble in his chest and he pressed a hand against his ribs. The figure was moving forward, toward this hallway. Toward him.

He sank back into the darkness, letting it wrap around him like a blanket, the shadows a refuge from the dangers prowling around him. As quietly as he could, he let his body sink back to the floor, jamming himself into the closet. When he closed his eyes, the footsteps of the approaching enemy echoed loudly in his head. He could not see the creature, though, and he took comfort in this. If he could not see it, then it could not see him.

His legs were going numb, but he didn’t think he’d be able to run anyway. There was no sound in the hallway, but the danger was still there. He sensed its presence and huddled deeper into the darkness. He had no sense of the passage of time, but soon enough, he heard the footsteps coming down the hallway again. Moving toward him.

Should he jump up, confront his attacker? He took a careful sniff of the air, his stomach roiling at the stench around him. Anything that bad had to be a Wraith. In fact, the smell had been everywhere in this section. The Wraith were all over. For all he knew, this wasn’t even an Ancient facility. It could be a Wraith facility, and if that was the case, he was one man against them all. He had been a runner, but he was equally good at running away from a fight as he was at running toward one. He felt his stomach flip at the thought. No fights-he wouldn’t fight. Couldn’t fight. It was better to run from an overwhelming force. One man against an army stood no chance. They would catch him and slice him up into bloody strings…

He groaned at the image that thought conjured, and nearby footsteps suddenly halted. Ronon’s heart seized in his chest. They could not see him, but he knew they’d be able to hear him. He had been so quiet until now. He wrapped shaking arms tighter around his knees, willing his breathing to slow, but the gasps seemed to echo in the room.

The footsteps moved closer, and Ronon ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut. If he couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see him. Couldn’t-

He heard the enemy breathing just a few feet away from him now. He flailed, pushing himself deeper into the small alcove built into the wall, but his back was already pressed up against the wall. There was nowhere he could go. Trapped. The air grew thin, and he gasped at the pain in his chest. The footsteps picked up again, the rapid exhales and inhales of the Wraith signaling it was ready for a fight.

Ronon’s stomach clenched again in rebellion. He could just make out the outline of the creature moving through the darkness toward him, but then his sight of the figure dimmed, and he choked on a sob at the realization that after years of running, he had finally been caught.

It was over.



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By the time John emerged back into the light, he was breathing too fast, his chest heaving as he tried to drag in thick, humid air. He had heard things in the darkness, creaking and pounding and breathing, all muffled under the sound of his own heaving gasps. He stumbled to the floor, barely controlling his descent by sliding along the wall. His head and neck pulsed with competing agony.

Give up. Lie down, John. Go to sleep.

He wanted to. Oh, God, how he wanted to.

"Team," he whispered.

Darkness, quiet, peace. Hide, John.

"No!" he yelled. He flinched at the volume level but the accompanying adrenaline burst was enough to get him back to his feet. He stumbled forward, forcing himself to looking into every room and call out for Ronon and Teyla. By the time he reached the end of the twisting corridor, sweat coated his face, and he felt beads of it dripping down his skin under his clothes.

No one is here, he thought. He was alone on this level. He’d made a mistake somehow, or missed Ronon in the search. Or there were even more levels. The possibilities were endless. Overwhelmingly endless. He stopped, leaning against the wall, and tried to figure out what to do. He could search the hallway again, but what if Ronon was in trouble? What if time was essential?

He should go back to the room with the transporter, make sure there were no other levels first. With a nod, he staggered forward. He was making good progress when he reached the patch of lightless tunnel. It seemed longer now, stretching all the way to the far intersection at least a hundred feet away. More lights had gone out in his absence.

His hands started to shake. He would never make it that far, but if he quit now, it would be like he was leaving his team behind, and he didn’t leave anyone behind.

"No," he whispered, shaking his head. He stepped forward, toeing the darkness.

A scraping sound from somewhere deep in the shadows pinned him in place. John held his breath, but he heard nothing over the pounding of his heart. He shook his head, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.

"Get a grip, John," he said, cringing when his voice broke. He forced himself to take another step forward, and the darkness grew, morphing and reaching out toward him. He blinked at the sweat dripping into his eyes. The hallway was suddenly freezing and he wrapped his arms around his heaving chest. Was that a sign of something? Did the cold mean something was there? All of his instincts were screaming at him to run, to hide. The hair on his arms and neck stood on end as he searched the dark hallway for lurking danger.

The creaking sound echoed again, and it was not just the normal shifting, settling sound of a building. John was sure of it. It was something else. Mercenaries. They were here. They were after his team. He heard harsh breathing coming from out of the darkness, revealing the ambush. He needed to warn somebody-everybody-but when he tried to step back his legs were stuck to the floor, welded in place by some unseen force.

John looked down in a panic, then snapped his head up at the dark. Stuck-he was stuck. He was completely defenseless. He heard harsh breathing all around him, and he wondered if it was his own or someone else’s. It was too loud to just be his own. Whatever power holding him in place had crept up his legs and was now wrapping around his chest like a tight band, forcing air out of his lungs.

He groaned, shaking uncontrollably. He thought of his nightmare, the one where he’d freaked out in the gate room. It had felt just like this. With a burst of effort, he managed to lift one foot up and pull it backward, but the corridor tilted wildly at the same time, and the pressure on his chest clamped down. He stumbled backward, falling just as the shadows finally made their move, leaping toward him.

The last thing he remembered was a lance of fire through his head and neck as he landed, and then the shadows converged across his vision.

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The crying screech would not stop, no matter how hard Teyla pushed her fingers into her ears. She felt the warm tears track down her face and tasted the saltiness of them on her lips and tongue. The thing in the room seemed to cry along with her.

Cocooned in the darkness, she relaxed the hands on her ears. The crying sound was pitiful but Teyla found herself beginning to sympathize with it. Was it possible that it was just as scared as her? She pictured the child, Ennaeya-the young Athosian baby. Teyla had no children of her own, but her heart went out to the suffering thing making the whimpering sounds.

Cautiously, she pushed the table away from her alcove and slipped out. The furniture scraped along the floor, and the whimpering cries suddenly ceased. It was what she would have done, she decided. If she was terrified and crying, and suddenly heard a strange noise, she would freeze-hold her breath and wait for the danger to pass. She stood up, wiping the tears from her face. The door slid open, and with the light of the hallway, she managed to find the light switch in the room again.

Teyla bit her lip when the room was suddenly illuminated. She wrapped her arms around herself, scanning every corner for the creature. It sounded small and frail and scared, but it may not be, and scared animals were often the most dangerous. She took a tentative step forward, glancing longingly at her alcove but forcing herself to move past it.

The sound had come from the far corner. She weaved her way forward, pausing every few seconds to listen for possible danger. Her heart was clobbering her insides, making her feel sick to her stomach. She kept her arms wrapped tightly around her body in a helpless attempt to stop them from shaking.

At the next step, she heard a whimper coming from behind an overturned metal box. She gave it a wide berth, stepping around it so she could see what might be coming at her as soon as possible with as much space as possible.

And then her heart melted. A tiny creature, no bigger than both of her hands put together sat up, eyeing her with frozen terror. It was covered in soft tan fur with eyes too big for its head. It squirmed in the small collection of sticks and mud around it-a nest of some kind. Behind it, Teyla saw another tan creature-much larger but looking almost identical to the young one. It was stretched out against the wall, clearly dead. Behind it, she saw a hole burrowed into a broken section of the wall just wide enough for the creatures to squeeze through.

She bit her lip. The mother. The bigger creature must be the mother, but it had died, leaving its youngling behind. She felt more tears prick at her eyes and she crept forward. The tiny creature squawked at her approach, but it was too weak to move. She scooped it up in her hands and held it to her chest, feeling the tiny body shake uncontrollably.

"It is alright, little one," she whispered. She understood its fear. She thought of the food in her backpack and wondered how long it had been since the creature had eaten.

Keeping it close to her body, she walked carefully back to the Blue Room, her thoughts consumed by the needs of the life she now held literally in her hands. Rodney jerked his head up at her in surprise as she entered the room, widening at the sight of the animal.

"Is that…did it attack Sheppard?"

She shook her head. "No, but it is hungry." She knelt by her bag and dug through her supplies for a power bar. "Where is John?" she asked, noticing his absence. He had been asleep the last time she’d been here.

Rodney was still working on his laptop. He shrugged. "Left. Don’t know. I…"

His voice trailed off and Teyla looked up when he didn’t finish. "What is it Rodney?" Her heart thudded in sudden trepidation. Was he holding something back? Did he know something about John? Her mouth dried out, and she licked her lips. "Rodney?"

"I know what happened to us," he blurted out.

"What?"

He pointed to his laptop. "The weapon. I found the weapon."

She cringed, focusing her attention to the creature. She set it on her lap, letting it burrow down against her leg, then peeled open the wrapper of the power bar. The small creature poked its head up at the sound, sticking its nose into the air.

"It did something to us."

She turned her attention back to Rodney with a start.

He was staring down at his laptop. "It’s wrong, though. I don’t understand."

"What is wrong? What did it do?"

"It should have killed us by now. It’s been weeks. It worked much faster in their test subjects."

She glanced around the room again. It had been hours since she’d seen Ronon. "Where is Ronon?"

"Don’t know," Rodney shrugged. He pushed himself to his knees, letting his laptop slide off of him, and he crawled over to her. "Is it safe?" he asks, gesturing to the small animal.

"Just hungry and scared." The animal was nibbling at the powerbar now, the opportunity for food overcoming its instinct to hide.

Rodney grabbed his canteen then poured a bit of water into the cap. He set the cap next to the powerbar and smiled when the critter lapped at the liquid. "Thirsty, too."

"What is wrong with us?"

Rodney glanced up at Teyla, looking terrified. "I don’t want to hurt anyone," he whispered. "Like on Doranda. I killed a man."

Teyla said nothing, the fear at what might have happened expanding in her chest.

Rodney watched the small creature in her lap gnaw at the powerbar. "They were trying to destroy the Wraith part of the Wraith," he finally whispered.

Teyla picked the animal up, holding it to her chest and petting it until it snuggled into her hands and went back to sleep. Rodney turned back to the door, lost in thought, but her fear was back, paralyzing her. She rocked slowly, hoping the tiny creature in her hands would be spared whatever was happening to the rest of them.

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Ronon blinked in the darkness, hearing the Wraith move past him, its footsteps echoing down the hall until they died out. A thrill of shock quivered through his gut. Maybe it wasn’t over. Maybe he could still escape. He relaxed his grip on his legs, letting himself unfurl a little. He was alive. The darkness had worked in masking him from his attacker.

He waited, counting slowly to one hundred, then starting over again a second time. Finally, he leaned forward, peering out the door and checking the hallway. It was empty in either direction. No Wraith. No danger.

But it will come back. They always come back.

He needed to move while he had the chance. There was no guarantee that the Wraith would not sense him when it returned. Ronon had explored this hallway and knew the creature was heading toward a dead end.

Run, run, run!

He was a runner. A memory rose up in his mind of running through a forest at night, searching for the caves that would protect him from a violent sun. He’d killed a Wraith, and he’d run into a man who’d spent too much time in the radiation of that damaged world. Unbelievably, more people came despite the danger.

Teyla and Sheppard, then Beckett, then McKay and Lorne. He felt his chest tighten. How long had it been since he’d first met them? Teyla had looked him in the eye when she’d talked to him, compassionate but not pitying. Sheppard and his people were different from the others he’d met on the run-defiant against the very things he ran from. Accepting of him, who’d been barely able to talk or sleep or walk without always looking over his shoulder. Half animal.

He pushed himself up to his feet, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. He’d been sitting in that tight space for too long. It would hamper his ability to run later. He knew better. Knew he shouldn’t stay still for so long. That was when they caught up to him. He survived by running. He peered out into the hallway again and saw nothing, though he thought he heard an echoing voice floating back to him.

"Gotta move," he mumbled. "Gotta run."

Yet he was loath to leave the darkness. It had protected him once. Who was to say that it wouldn’t do the same again? His legs shook as blood rushed back through them, the circulation no longer cut off.

Go! Run!

Ronon sucked in a ragged breath. He was a runner. He ran. He lived because he ran. He saw Teyla and Sheppard, tied up in his cave again. Then saw them on his homeworld, rescuing him again from the Wraith. Where were Teyla and Sheppard? And McKay? McKay was usually around, talking too much and making more noise than a school full of children. But they were a team; they did everything together.

He tensed his back, feeling a phantom pain near his spine. The tracker-the way all of the Wraith eventually found him. Beckett had taken it out, twice.

Run. You’re a runner. You run. Run or die.

"No."

His voice echoed through the shadows. That wasn’t true. He wasn’t a runner anymore. He didn’t have to run. Footsteps echoed down the hall and he snapped his head toward the sound. His hands tightened on the door frame. It was coming back-the Wraith.

Run! Hide!

"I’m not a runner," he whispered. His fingers were going numb and his legs began to shake. He wanted to slide down, back into the safety of the closet, but he was frozen. His breath wheezed loudly in his ears.

Twenty feet away, a figure appeared. It stopped, hovering on the edge of the black. Ronon could just see its movement out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t dare turn his head and look directly at it. Moving would reveal his position, and then he had no chance of surviving.

He swallowed, working desperately to calm his harsh breathing. The figure, blurry in the corner of his eyes, inched closer, stepping into the shadows. Ronon closed his eyes, begging the thing to keep moving, to pass by him again without noticing, just like it had before.

He heard a groan, then stumbling footsteps, then the thud of a body hitting the floor. When no sound followed, Ronon carefully turned his head toward the Wraith. It was lying in the middle of the hallway, unmoving. Dead? He thought so at first, but after a moment of watching, he noticed the rapid rise and fall of its chest.

He inched out of the closet. Now was the time to run, while the thing was down. Now was his opportunity to escape.

"Not a runner anymore," Ronon said, cringing at the volume of his voice. He had stepped out into the center of the corridor but he paused, waiting to see if the creature would wake up.

It didn’t move. He took another step forward, battling his racing heart. Even as a runner, when he had the upper hand, he fought. He didn’t always run. And now he was part of Atlantis. Now he had a team backing him up.

He edged closer. He saw dark clothes, a vest, a P90 dangling from a clip. He shook his head. Wraith didn’t carry P90s. The body was half turned away from him, but he saw dark hair and pale skin. He stuck his foot out and poked it in the shoulder with his toe.

No response.

With a deep breath, he flipped the body onto its back and blinked in surprise.

"Sheppard?"

Ronon dropped to his knees instantly, digging his fingers into the other man’s neck. The skin was hot to the touch. How had he not recognized Sheppard? He rubbed his face with his hands, realizing something was wrong with him. If he hadn’t hesitated, he might have killed his friend before he’d realized who it was and what he was doing.

"John, wake up," he whispered. He glanced up and down the hall, not liking the way his voice was carrying, revealing his location. Sheppard still didn’t react. In the flickering lights, his face looked drawn and battered. There was something wrong with him, too.

"Teyla and McKay. Have to get you back to them."

He dug his arms under Sheppard and lifted him up. Sheppard was a rag doll, all limp arms and legs, in his grasp and he staggered at the weight.

"Come on, buddy," he said. He turned into the darkness, stumbling toward the intersection that led to the room with the black panel. He could go back up to the other hallways, back to the Blue Room where Teyla and McKay were. They would help him. They would help Sheppard. If anyone could figure out what was wrong with them, it would be McKay, and Teyla was good with illnesses and injuries.

Sweat poured from his face as he walked, and by the time he reached the black panel, his arms were shaking in exhaustion. He had the sudden urge to slide to the floor and lie down, but he fought it. Sheppard was hurt or sick; he needed help. Ronon was the only one who could get him to help.

"Hang on, buddy."

Step by step, he covered the distance back to the Blue Room. The lights were bright on the ground level, the walls and floor cleaner. He didn’t slip as much. Sheppard still hung in his grasp, unconscious. As they passed through the round room, Ronon glanced down the entrance tunnel and saw it had stopped raining outside. He remembered the animal and wondered if the claw marks had caused Sheppard to collapse.

He pushed forward, leaning his shoulder against the wall. Every dozen feet or so, doors would slide open, but Ronon ignored them. He lurched past each opening then slammed against solid wall on the other side, using it to keep him from face planting. His gaze narrowed to the space directly in front of him and where he needed to put his foot next.

With a gasp of relief, he reached the Blue Room and fell through the door. Sheppard’s arms and legs swung as Ronon fought to stay on his feet. He glanced around, seeing McKay and Teyla staring up at him in shock.

"I’m not a runner," he announced, and then Sheppard’s weight was too much. Ronon dropped down as slowly as he could manage, cradling his burden until they were both sprawled on the ground.

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Teyla moved first, setting down the small baby animal and crawling to Ronon and John. Rodney continued to stare at them, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He’d wondered continually where the other half of his team had gone, worried that the machine had finished its job on them already. When they showed up alive…

He shook his head. Ronon was alive. John… He wasn’t sure about John. He sat up, leaning to the side to get a glimpse of their team leader. His stomach recoiled at the sight-gray skin, dark circles like bruises around his eyes. The white bandages on his face and neck were mottled with red where blood had seeped through. Teyla was bending over him, looking terrified. Ronon was lying on his side next to them, his skin slick with sweat, his cheeks flushed red but the rest of him looking pale and washed out.

"Ronon?" he called out. His voice quavered, and he clacked his teeth shut.

Ronon shifted on the ground, lifted his head for a second then dropped it down.

"Won’t run," Rodney thought he heard.

He glanced down at his laptop, at the instructions he’d worked out on how the machine operated and what they’d need to do to reverse the effects. He’d guessed at most of it, reversing the steps the machine had run through the first time. A simulation was running for the fifth time, but he didn’t want to draw any conclusions yet. The first four simulations showed that it would probably work, but it was still a risk. Still an unknown. He’d added additional factors in for the fifth simulations and the results were far less promising.

"He is burning up," Teyla said, pressing a hand against John’s face.

"He’s alive?"

"For now," she answered. She held one of his hands and pressed his hair back away from his face in a gentle, continuous petting motion. Like John was another baby animal she had found. "He needs help."

Rodney nodded. Ronon closed his eyes.

Teyla glanced around the room, her eyes landing on her backpack. "Rodney, in my backpack, I have my jacket."

He swallowed. The simulation was flashing angrily at him now and he pushed it away from him. This wouldn’t work-his attempts at reversing the machine’s effects would kill them. It wasn’t enough to just turn it off like they had with the Wraith-Genii machine. It was more complicated than that.

He crawled over to Teyla’s bag and dug through it, grateful for the distraction of looking for a jacket. He should tell them he had failed them, that after all that research and all of the tests he’d run, he would not be able to save them from certain death this time. He found her coat and a water bottle, and he grabbed both before scooting toward his team.

Teyla cradled John’s head while she balled up the jacket and slipped it beneath him. Her hands shook as she did so, but Rodney’s hands were shaking, too. Must be an effect of the machine. He uncapped the water bottle and grabbed Ronon’s shoulder. Ronon’s eyes fluttered open, but before Rodney could say anything about the water, the larger man was reaching for it. He drank desperately, spilling more of it on the floor than he swallowed.

"What the hell?" a voice suddenly shouted, and a figure appeared in the doorway.

Teyla screamed, throwing herself on top of Sheppard, while Ronon curled into a ball next to him. Rodney jerked back, skittering across the floor until he slammed into the wall, the water bottle flying across the room in the process.

"This is Lorne. I found them."

Lorne? Major Lorne? Rodney blinked in confusion. Lorne wasn’t supposed to be here. His back throbbed from the impact against the wall, but when the man in the doorway stepped into the room, Rodney choked back a scream and pushed himself harder against the solid surface.

The figure in front of him froze and held up his hands. Rodney blinked, bringing the man’s face into focus. It was Lorne. What was he doing here? There were footsteps behind him as more people piled into the doorway.

"Bloody hell!"

Carson stepped into the room, his voice unmistakable, and he looked around in alarm. He seemed to think the three people sprawled on the ground were in more need of his help, because he moved there first, ignoring Rodney for the moment.

"Teyla?" he called out. She whimpered, but when he tried to lift her away from John, she stiffened and held tight.

"What’s going on here? We’ve been trying to contact you guys for hours? McKay?"

Rodney jerked. He’d been focused on Teyla and Carson and hadn’t realized that Lorne was talking to him. Someone else slipped into the room, fuzzy hair and glasses easily identifiable.

"Radek?" he whispered.

"Yes, Rodney. What is wrong here? Are you ill?"

Rodney shook his head, but his laptop chose that moment to beep. The simulation was over. He glanced at it, seeing lines of red. "Didn’t work. Can’t fix it," he muttered.

"Colonel Sheppard’s been injured," Carson called out. "My God, his fever is high." He glanced over at Rodney, the only member of the team still sitting up. "What is going on?"

Other people moved in around Ronon, rolling him over and jabbing him with an IV needle. He didn’t react, as limp now as John. Carson had lifted Teyla away from John, and she was crawling toward the small baby animal she’d found. Lorne and Radek stood in the middle of them all, looking around in alarm.

Rodney’s laptop beeped again and he flinched.

"May I look at this?" Radek asked. He squatted down, reaching out for the computer but not moving any closer to Rodney. He hesitated until Rodney nodded, then pulled it toward him. Within seconds, he was flipping through the simulations and research Rodney had come up with on the outpost.

There were other people in the room now. They’d entered while Rodney had been distracted. Marines and medical staff. Someone scooped up Teyla’s small animal and disappeared out the door. Carson stepped back from the group surrounding John and moved toward him.

Rodney stiffened in alarm, but Carson stopped short, kneeling to the ground a few feet from him. A safe distance.

"How…how is he?" Rodney asked. "Sheppard?" His throat was dry, and his voice came out with a squeaky, pre-pubescent break.

Carson shook his head, the concern clear on his face. "Very sick. I need to know what happened to him so that I can treat him. And you and the others."

Rodney nodded numbly. There was something he needed to tell them. Something about this place and the box and what it had done to them. But he couldn’t reverse it. They would ask and he would have to say no, and then his team would die. He would die. Carson inched toward him, and he felt fear swamp him.

"No," he whispered. The door was blocked, people were everywhere. He lifted his hands and stared at his shaking fingers.

"Rodney, let me help," Carson said.

"No, no, sorry, I have to…"

"You have to what?"

"Go…I have to go…I can’t stay."

Carson lifted his hand toward Rodney, but the movement was too fast, swinging toward him. Before he even realized what he was doing, he skittered away from the threat, sliding along the wall until he slammed his back into the corner of the room.

"Rodney?"

"Don’t…don’t hit…I have…p-please…"

Carson frowned, dropping his hand. "I wasn’t going to hit you, Rodney."

"No! I know, I know, I know. I just…" He glanced around the room, looking for a way to get past the doctor. No way out. No way out. Carson inched forward, and the shaking in Rodney’s hands spread to full shudders wrenching through his body.

"Rodney, please, talk to me. Help me understand what’s going on."

Rodney shook his head. "No, it’s okay. Sorry. I have to go."

"Where do you have to go?"

"No!"

"Rodney," Carson soothed, his voice low. He crept forward a little closer, close enough to reach out and grab Rodney’s arm. His hand closed around his wrist, his fingers pressing into the pulse point.

"Don’t," Rodney whispered, but now he was frozen, pressed up against the wall.

"How are you feeling? Your pulse is a little fast."

"Sorry." His voice was barely audible, the muscles in his throat tightening around his vocal cords.

"I know what is happening!" Radek called out, lifting his head from Rodney’s laptop.

Rodney shook his head. The simulations had failed. If they tried to follow his instructions, they would all die. Just like Doranda. He closed his eyes. It was easier that way, if he couldn’t see anyone. He could believe he wasn’t there at all, that he was safe. The hand on his wrist tightened, and he squeezed his eyes tighter until spots of yellow pinged off his eyelids.



"The machine is a variation to the one on… to the Wraith device that the Genii experimented with."

"The one that caused everyone to hallucinate," Carson said darkly.

"Yes, exactly. The effects are slightly different, though. Perhaps it is still causing hallucinations, but it looks like it was designed to target the fight-or-flight reflex of the brain."

"Why would it do that?" Lorne asked.

"It is Rodney’s ‘Great weapon’-the one he found in the database on Atlantis. The Ancients were attempting to pinpoint the area of the brain that controlled the more aggressive impulses of the Wraith, but it did not work."

"Didn’t work," Rodney murmured.

"No, it did not," Radek picked up. "The device was intended to suppress all aggression in the Wraith, like putting someone in a state of stress where the fight-or-flight response kicks in, and then taking away their ability to fight."

"All they have left is flight," Carson finished. He shook his head. "The strain of that would put extreme stress on the body, push it to its limits until-"

"Until the subject eventually gave up, lay down, and died."

"But you said it didn’t work," Lorne piped up.

"Not on the Wraith," Radek answered. "It is all here in Rodney’s notes. The machine worked on humans, suppressing human aggression, but it did not seem to work on the bug side of the Wraith. That side became dominant, taking over and making them even more aggressive than before, if that is possible."

"Can we reverse it?" Carson asked.

"There are notes here…" Radek clicked his tongue as he scrolled through the data. Rodney closed his eyes, not wanting to see the look of horror on the other scientist’s face when he realized he had failed. That they were all dead.

"Yes, it is quite simple actually."

No, it wasn’t. The notes looked simple, but the simulations proved otherwise. They needed to go somewhere safe. Safe, safe, safe. He would go somewhere safe. He wasn’t here. Where was safe? Safe was…he was on Earth. Yes. Earth. Siberia. Siberia was…No, it wasn’t safe. He’d almost died of radiation exposure in Siberia. And hypothermia. Not Siberia. Not Earth. Where? Where was safe? He sucked in a deep breath, then coughed, choking on too little air.

"Rodney-" Carson was still holding onto his wrist and his grip tightened.

Rodney shook his head. "Won’t work," he wheezed. "Won’t work. Can’t do it."

"You already have, Rodney," Radek said.

No, no, no, no. The fear was back, wrapping cold tendrils around his heart and sucking the life out of him. His body shook, the tremors coursing down his arms. Carson reached over, grabbing his other wrist.

"We need to do something quickly," Carson said.

Rodney moaned, drawing his knees up as close to his chest as he could manage. Too late. He’d had his chance to escape, to stop this, but now the opportunity was lost.

Doranda, he thought. Death.

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

John woke up to a weight pressing against his head and chest, a rhythmic pounding pulsing through his body. He squirmed against a hard floor, hearing the beep of machines and the whispered brush of people around him.

"Colonel, just relax. We’re taking care of you." A woman’s voice, one he didn’t recognize. His heart rate ratcheted up at the unfamiliarity.

A cool hand pressed against his forehead for a second, then disappeared and he turned toward it. His eyes were glued shut, and no amount of effort on his part was able to reverse that. He moaned. Hot-he was so hot.

"Doctor, he’s awake," the woman said.

More rustling clothes, this time with footsteps, then more hands on his arms, chest, and head. He wanted the cool hands again, but he didn’t know which way they’d gone. He felt his breath come out in whoosh and a deep ache settle into all of his joints. A throbbing burn in his face and neck picked up and he whimpered against the onslaught.

"Easy, John, you’re very sick."

He knew that voice. That accent.

"Carson?"

"Aye, lad. It’s me. You’re running a fever."

Hot. Skin burning. He writhed, feeling a fireball consuming his neck and face, the flames creeping down his body. A cool cloth pressed against his forehead, then was dragged down the side of his face and across his chest, wiping back the inferno.

He coughed, feeling a tug around his mouth. The right side of his face was agony. He lifted his hand toward it, feeling gauze and tape on one side, then a hard plastic mask over his mouth and nose. The cool cloth was lifted from his body, but when it returned, the icy relief startled him into finally snapping his eyes open.

"There you are," Carson said, a blur of tan and yellow and blue moving above John.

"What?" he croaked.

"Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?"

John blinked, his memory a swirl of hazy shapes and sounds. The outpost. The animal. His team-he’d been looking for his team. Something was wrong and he needed to get them together, figure out what was going on and get them home. He thought suddenly of the dirty hallway with the broken lights. Too late. Too dark. He gasped at sight of the dark corridor in his minds, the shadows bleeding toward him.

"Dang’r’ss," he hissed, trying to sit up. "Team."

Hands grabbed a hold of him, keeping him in place way too easily.

"You’re safe, John. We’re in the outpost you and your team were exploring. You’ve all been exposed to something but we’re working on reversing the effects." Carson paused, biting his lip and looking uncertain, and John felt a rush of adrenaline through his overheated body at the expression.

"Attack?" he whispered.

Not safe. Mercenaries. Not safe, darkness, danger, attack, run run run RUN!

"Heart rate is increasing," a woman said, but there were too many people around John now. He couldn’t see who had spoken. Hands were moving around him, too fast to track.

"John, you need to try and slow your breathing down," Carson said, eyes wide with concern now. "You need to fight this."

Something was wrong. He could see it in Carson’s face. See it in the frantic movements of the nurses around him. Feel it in his own body. He shook his head, feeling spit spray out of his mouth with each harsh, rapid exhale. The people around him were talking again, their voices garbled and growing faint. Another sensation ran up his arm from the IV, a tingling sensation creeping up his veins, and sounds began to fade. Drugs. His eyes grew heavy but didn’t close completely.

"That’s it," Carson cooed. "Just relax."

He was lying on a floor, he realized. The hard ground dug into his shoulder blades through a thin pad. He looked around, recognizing the Blue Room through the blur of people. Beside him, he saw Ronon lying on another pad, seemingly asleep.

"The others?" he rasped out. "My team?"

"They’re here. Teyla’s next to you and Rodney is over near the wall."

"Something…wrong…" It was getting harder and harder to string words together. He blinked and almost couldn’t force his eyes open again.

Carson patted him on the shoulder. "Aye, we know. Rodney figured out what it was and Radek and his team are adjusting the machine as we speak. We’ll get you sorted in no time. You just need to hang on until then, alright?"

"’Kay," he whispered. He shivered, his body temperature shifting instantly from hot to cold.

"John?"

"C-cold…" he muttered. He felt a light sheet being pulled up over his chest. His shirt was gone, and a portable heart monitor dinged next to him in a fast but steady rhythm.

"Chills," Carson answered. "Your fever’s still high."

John nodded. With so many people moving around him-medical staff, scientists, military personnel-he could let himself relax a little. Or maybe it was the drugs. His eyes drifted closed.

"The base is clear-no one else here," a man said, his voice rough and slightly accented.

"Good. Let’s keep guards up just in case-at least from any animals that might wander in," Lorne answered.

The overheard conversation triggered a deep instinct in John and he lurched up, barely able to open his eyes. He managed to sit up all the way before shouts and hands grabbed at him, holding him in place. Something sticky pulled at his chest, and the heart monitor beeped frantically.

"John?"

"No," he whispered. His strength was already deserting him and he sagged into the arms holding him up. "Mercenaries. Attack. Not safe."

"You’re safe, John. We all are." Carson was kneeling next to him, whispering directly into his ear. "I know it doesn’t feel like that, but you’ve got to trust us."

"Not safe," he repeated.

"Radek, how much longer?" Carson asked.

The last of John’s strength gave out, and he was lowered carefully back to the floor. Air from the mask hissed louder, tickling his lip and drying out his mouth. He wanted water but lacked the energy to ask for some. He drew in a deep breath, and his shaking chills subsided, his body temperature crossing back over into too-hot territory. He moaned, pushing the thin sheet off his chest.

"We have the machine hooked up and all tests show that it is working properly."

"Not a minute too soon," Carson responded. "John’s the worst off. Let’s move him in first, then Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney. Get a stretcher over here."

John heard the anxious conversation around him, felt the hands manipulating and lifting him, felt the outpost move around him as he traveled from one room to another. He opened his eyes to slits when he felt himself being settled back on the ground, and saw Carson kneeling next to him, a stethoscope pressed against John’s ribs. Behind the doctor, on the ceiling, he saw round glass bulging slightly from the ceiling.

He’d seen it before, weeks ago, from this same position. People suddenly moved out of the way and someone shouted, and then John’s world was swathed in green light.

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

"I don’t want oatmeal. I want waffles."

The stringent voice cut through the haze John was floating in, forcing him to blink open heavy eyelids. He sucked in a deep breath, tasting the stale air of bottled oxygen and the tug of a cannula along his lip.

"John?"

Teyla. He smiled at the sound of her voice and rolled his head toward her.

"Hey," he rasped. Atlantis came into focus, the soft hum and click of a dozen machines around them, the whispered voices of nurses and doctors and patients spread out over the infirmary bay. "We’re home."

She looked tired and worried, but her face lit up at his croak. "Yes, we are." When he licked dry lips, she immediately reached for a pitcher of water behind her. She poured the clear liquid into a glass, and John lifted a shaky hand toward it. She let him hold it-kind of. She didn’t quite let go of the cup, but John couldn’t grump too much about that. He scowled at the weakness in his arms, knowing that without Teyla’s help, he would have spilled it all over himself.

"I don’t want apple juice. I also don’t want oatmeal. I hate oatmeal. I want waffles and coffee and syrup."

John managed a few sips before the glass was taken away. He glanced around, spotting Ronon and Rodney in beds across from him. Teyla was wearing scrubs and she settled down into a chair beside him.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice cracked and hoarse.

"We almost killed ourselves on McKay’s weapon," Ronon answered.

"It is not my weapon," he huffed. "How many times do I have to tell you-"

"Rodney," Teyla cut off. "It is not your fault. Ronon is only saying that to irritate you."

"It is irritating me," he answered. He shot a glare at Ronon, which darkened when the man smiled in response. "You are irritating."

Teyla sighed, but she was saved from intervening by the arrival of Carson.

"Rodney! Will you keep your voice-Oh! Colonel!"

"He has just awoken," Teyla supplied.

Carson came over, grabbing John’s wrist and feeling out the pulse despite the myriad machines John was just realizing he was attached to. "You had us worried. How are you feeling?"

John sucked in another deep breath, cataloguing his body. He was tired and achy, and felt weaker than a baby. Muted pain pulsed along his face and neck. He shrugged.

"Tired, I imagine," Carson filled in. He pulled out a stethoscope and pressed it against John’s chest.

"How can he be tired? He slept for days." Rodney turned to John, a full spoon of oatmeal waving dangerously in his hand. "Days, Sheppard. What the hell? Who sleeps for days?"

Carson sighed and shifted the bell of the stethoscope to the other side. "Someone who is extremely sick, that’s who."

He’d been sick. He vaguely recalled that. A fever or something. He lifted his hand, fingering the thick bandages on his neck. The animal attack in that old outpost. No, wait. Mercenaries. The mercenaries?

"I was sick too," Rodney retorted. "I didn’t sleep for days."

"Maybe you should try that," Ronon muttered.

"Safe?" he rasped, his heart ramping up at the thought of the mercenaries.

Carson squeezed his shoulder, reassuring him. "We’re safe."

Behind the doctor, John saw Rodney spin toward Ronon, still holding his spoonful of oatmeal. "You never quit, do you?"

"Do you?"

"Enough!" Teyla snapped, and even Carson jumped at the tone of her voice. John smiled at the look on both Rodney and Ronon’s faces as she stood up and approached them. "We were all sick and we are all still tired and still recovering, but your continuous bickering is not helping. No more. Is that understood?"

They nodded, sinking into their beds and refusing to meet her gaze. Teyla studied them for a moment then climbed into her own bed, right next to John’s. She pulled out an iPod and stuffed the earbuds in. A moment later, she’d settled back into the pillows and closed her eyes.

"She’s just mad one of the Marines let her little pet back into the jungle," Rodney muttered. Or John thought that was what he’d muttered. It made no sense. He shook his head, filing away the question for later.

"Remind me not to get on her bad side," Carson whispered with a chuckle.

"No kidding," John agreed. Ronon leaned back, staring at the ceiling and tapping his fingers against his chest, while Rodney hunkered over his oatmeal again. "What about…uh…were there mercenaries?"

"On the outpost? No, it was just you and your team," Carson replied. "Unfortunately, they’re still out there somewhere. Any pain?" He fingered the bandages along John’s neck.

John breathed deeply, testing his body. "Aches a little, but not too bad," he finally answered.

"You’re still running a slight fever, but we’ve got it on the run now. A few more days and you’ll be back to your old self." Carson smiled, his eyes sweeping the room. "All of you will."

"How’d we get back here?"

Carson smoothed out the bandage he had peeled back and straightened up. "On a stretcher, carried by a couple of hearty Marines. Once Radek reversed the effects the machine was having on you, we carried you and your team back to Atlantis. The stress on your bodies of the last few weeks made you all particularly susceptible to infection and illness, but I can say with absolute certainty that you’re all mending. In a few days, you’ll be back to your old selves."

"What machine? At the outpost? The weapon?"

"Aye. We’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better."

John nodded, squirming a little in the bed until he found a more comfortable position. "Glad we got that figured out."

Rodney sat up. "Not we, Sheppard. I. I figured it out."

"Thought Radek did that," Ronon said, causing Rodney to sputter in indignation. Teyla picked up her iPod, pointedly turning the volume louder.

"I’m the one who figured out-"

"Alright," Carson said, interrupting. "You can debate who did what later. John, get some rest. Rodney, eat your breakfast-"

"I don’t want this! I want waffles."

"I want that," Ronon said, sitting up and leaning toward Rodney’s bed.

"Stop trying to eat my breakfast!"

"Ronon, lad, if you want more, all you have to do is-"

"I want more."

"I want more too," Rodney added. "But not this. I want something good. I want-"

Carson threw his hands up in the air. "Waffles. We know. I’ll see what we can scrounge up for you, but no promises." He backed out of the infirmary, trying to look stern but John caught the small smile on the doctor’s face as he headed back to his office.

"Yeah, quit griping, McKay," Ronon said, standing up and heading for his own bed. "I’m not picky, Doc," he called out, even though Carson was gone. "I’ll take more of whatever. Even oatmeal."

"Fine," Rodney huffed. "You want oatmeal so bad, eat mine."

"Yours is cold."

"Irritating. Just irritating." Rodney set his tray on the table next to his bed and leaned back, folding his arms. "You know what I really want right now, more than waffles? Cake."

"I could do cake."

"Cake for breakfast. Who made up the rule that cake was not a breakfast food anyway?"

"Mothers."

"Seriously. Hey, you," Rodney called out, snapping his fingers at someone John couldn’t see. He pointed to himself then Ronon. "We want cake."

Teyla sighed, pulling a pillow over her head. John laughed, knowing exactly what Teyla was doing. If his teammates were bickering this much, especially Rodney and Ronon, then everyone was fine-or soon would be. He let his eyes drift closed, mimicking Teyla’s strategy. Sometimes, it’s good to stay and fight, but other times-like now-there was nothing wrong with a strategic retreat. He twisted a little, getting comfortable, then let himself sink back into a quiet, peaceful sleep.

END