PARALLEL LIVES BY rhymer23 [LFWS #1 ROUND 12]
Title: Parallel Lives
Author: rhymer23
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: Vegas
Prompt for the Round: Write a fic telling us some backstory for any member of the team. It must take place before season 1 of the show and can include any characters, canon or OCs.
PARALLEL LIVES by rhymer23
When John was banished to Antarctica, he still bore bruises from his desperate journey through the desert with Holland. After he had been there a week, he found sand in the seams of his dress uniform.
On his third night there, a young lieutenant sat down beside him, beer in hand. John stiffened, his hand tightening at his side, but said nothing.
"My buddy went down behind enemy lines," the lieutenant said at last, taking a long swig from the bottle. "I wasn't there. No-one went after him." Then he stood up, clapping John on the shoulder as he left.
And so companionship was offered, and up to a point, John accepted it. They hadn't taken away his wings. He flew across vast expanses of white, through skies of endless, cloudless blue.
He flew.
But something was missing. In the evenings, he sat quietly, smiling in a crowd. By day, he flew across a wilderness so perfect that he couldn't have dreamed it.
He had no idea what he was missing; only knew that it was gone.
***
When John was dishonourably discharged from the Air Force, he still bore injuries from the crash that had killed so many. His ribs would be sore for weeks, and it would be months before he could stand straight without pain clenching in his chest.
On his third day back home, he visited his father. The doorstep was as far as he went. His father reeked of whisky and his face was red with fury. The words that he hissed were entirely deserved.
John settled in Vegas only because that was where he ran out of gas. At night, he wandered through the casinos and looked at the ranks of the lost and the desperate, feeding slots with their dying dreams.
Days passed without him speaking a word. Women approached him sometimes, not all of them wanting to be paid for what they offered, but he shook his head in a silent no. The last woman he might have loved had died behind enemy lines, and he shouldn't have tried to save her.
His savings dwindled, and then he started gambling, and they dwindled even faster, like water from a leaking tap. He borrowed money from people who were willing to lend it. When the final deadline came for repayment, John sat unmoving in a bar for hours, staring down at a half-empty glass until they threw him out. Money rattled in his pocket. He wondered what was going to happen, but only idly, as if he was watching a movie about someone else.
They jumped him in a dark parking lot, dragged him to somewhere even darker, and beat him savagely. He watched the dark shapes of their feet driving into his body, and felt his weakened ribs crack for a second time. He didn't fight. Then something harder than a foot struck him in the side of the head, and then--
Afterwards, he lay in his own blood and watched the lights of a plane move across the sky, brighter and more beautiful than the stars. Perhaps he cried a little, because nobody was watching him, the tears drying cold on his cheeks.
They found him eventually; loaded him into an ambulance. Things faded for a while, lost in the flashing lights. He woke up to find himself on a trolley in a place where lots of people were shouting. Reports came in of assaults and murders. The woman in the next bed died and was wheeled away.
Pain kept him awake that night. Even when the pain faded into the soft haze of drugs, he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. Victims of violence came and went. A woman sobbed. Newspapers strewn in the waiting room told of unsolved murders and shattered dreams.
Three days later, when they discharged him, he applied to join the Las Vegas Police Department.
The night after they accepted him, he drove out into the desert and stood there for hours looking up at the stars. The pain in his chest eased at last, just a little, and for the first time in months, his future stretched beyond the slow ending of each day.
***
One morning, the John Sheppard who still flew above the snows of Antarctica was asked to take General Jack O'Neill to a classified base.
As another John Sheppard returned slowly from the desert outside Las Vegas, this John realised what the other had already begun to realise: that there were worse things to lose than flying. And then he was given a chance that the other John Sheppard would not be given for five long years: he was given the chance to change a world.
And in this universe, as in all other universes, John Sheppard said yes.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.
Author: rhymer23
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate belongs to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc., no infringements of any rights is intended.
Spoilers: Vegas
Prompt for the Round: Write a fic telling us some backstory for any member of the team. It must take place before season 1 of the show and can include any characters, canon or OCs.
PARALLEL LIVES by rhymer23
When John was banished to Antarctica, he still bore bruises from his desperate journey through the desert with Holland. After he had been there a week, he found sand in the seams of his dress uniform.
On his third night there, a young lieutenant sat down beside him, beer in hand. John stiffened, his hand tightening at his side, but said nothing.
"My buddy went down behind enemy lines," the lieutenant said at last, taking a long swig from the bottle. "I wasn't there. No-one went after him." Then he stood up, clapping John on the shoulder as he left.
And so companionship was offered, and up to a point, John accepted it. They hadn't taken away his wings. He flew across vast expanses of white, through skies of endless, cloudless blue.
He flew.
But something was missing. In the evenings, he sat quietly, smiling in a crowd. By day, he flew across a wilderness so perfect that he couldn't have dreamed it.
He had no idea what he was missing; only knew that it was gone.
***
When John was dishonourably discharged from the Air Force, he still bore injuries from the crash that had killed so many. His ribs would be sore for weeks, and it would be months before he could stand straight without pain clenching in his chest.
On his third day back home, he visited his father. The doorstep was as far as he went. His father reeked of whisky and his face was red with fury. The words that he hissed were entirely deserved.
John settled in Vegas only because that was where he ran out of gas. At night, he wandered through the casinos and looked at the ranks of the lost and the desperate, feeding slots with their dying dreams.
Days passed without him speaking a word. Women approached him sometimes, not all of them wanting to be paid for what they offered, but he shook his head in a silent no. The last woman he might have loved had died behind enemy lines, and he shouldn't have tried to save her.
His savings dwindled, and then he started gambling, and they dwindled even faster, like water from a leaking tap. He borrowed money from people who were willing to lend it. When the final deadline came for repayment, John sat unmoving in a bar for hours, staring down at a half-empty glass until they threw him out. Money rattled in his pocket. He wondered what was going to happen, but only idly, as if he was watching a movie about someone else.
They jumped him in a dark parking lot, dragged him to somewhere even darker, and beat him savagely. He watched the dark shapes of their feet driving into his body, and felt his weakened ribs crack for a second time. He didn't fight. Then something harder than a foot struck him in the side of the head, and then--
Afterwards, he lay in his own blood and watched the lights of a plane move across the sky, brighter and more beautiful than the stars. Perhaps he cried a little, because nobody was watching him, the tears drying cold on his cheeks.
They found him eventually; loaded him into an ambulance. Things faded for a while, lost in the flashing lights. He woke up to find himself on a trolley in a place where lots of people were shouting. Reports came in of assaults and murders. The woman in the next bed died and was wheeled away.
Pain kept him awake that night. Even when the pain faded into the soft haze of drugs, he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling. Victims of violence came and went. A woman sobbed. Newspapers strewn in the waiting room told of unsolved murders and shattered dreams.
Three days later, when they discharged him, he applied to join the Las Vegas Police Department.
The night after they accepted him, he drove out into the desert and stood there for hours looking up at the stars. The pain in his chest eased at last, just a little, and for the first time in months, his future stretched beyond the slow ending of each day.
***
One morning, the John Sheppard who still flew above the snows of Antarctica was asked to take General Jack O'Neill to a classified base.
As another John Sheppard returned slowly from the desert outside Las Vegas, this John realised what the other had already begun to realise: that there were worse things to lose than flying. And then he was given a chance that the other John Sheppard would not be given for five long years: he was given the chance to change a world.
And in this universe, as in all other universes, John Sheppard said yes.
Don’t forget to leave ONLY FEEDBACK in the comments and NOT VOTES. All comments will be screened until the voting closes.