Scavengers, Part 1

[tepring]

Title: “Scavengers” Part 1

Author: tepring
Genre: H/C

Spoilers: Through "The Shrine" Season 5

Words: ~30,000 (part 1 = 9,500)

Summary: This is what happens when you let whumpers request a plot: John Sheppard is kidnapped, shot, forced to aid hostile aliens in their campaign to steal Ancient technology...and he doesn't even have to step foot off Atlantis to do it. John's really bad day.

Author’s Notes: This fic came about as the result of an evening of chatting (and drinking) with some awesome cool GW whumpers at the Chicago SG convention last month. As a frequent whump writer I was given the task of writing a story that included these prompts: Kidnapping, drippy blood, restraints, John's ATA gene in a key role, and John to 'really go off the deep end'. Despite the odd combination, I think I've squeezed everything in in some fashion or other.

John skulked down the hall, trying not to look like he was skulking. He’d managed to avoid Rodney for the whole day, so far, but the tenacious busybody had gotten the word out and the entire science department was on the lookout for him, too. John had had to threaten Zelenka with a week’s worth of jumper repairs to keep him from squealing only an hour ago.

He supposed he should be impressed that they hadn’t taken the city’s scanners to him, but John was too grumpy at losing the bet to feel particularly appreciative of the questionable courtesy. He flinched when someone entered the hallway from one of the many doors lined the corridor, then relaxed when Lt. Ziegenhorn passed on by. John refrained from turning to watch him go…just to make sure he wasn’t darting back into another lab to rat him out. So now he was getting paranoid in addition to feeling grumpy?

“Just pay up and be done with it. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you sweat it," he muttered to himself, reasonably. But it’s an original, Mark Bagley, 2000, Ultimate Spiderman #1, he continued within the privacy of his own mind, not quite ready to be reasonable. Rodney has no appreciation for it. He’ll READ it or something! Bend the pages. Drool on it, maybe…

“Sheppard!”

John didn’t even blink. He pivoted neatly on his heel and headed back the way he’d come before the echoes of Rodney’s bellow had died.

“Hey! It’s time to pay up and you know it! I beat you to the cache.” John walked faster and Rodney’s voice went even more cocky. “I found it, I can find you. You can run, but you can’t hide.”

Good idea, actually. John ran. He smirked at the sound of Rodney sputtering in disbelief.

“Oh, real mature, Sheppard,” Rodney called, but he didn’t sound quite so smug while loping down the hall in an unwilling lumber. “I…won. Fair…and square. Just… pay…up…and…”

John skidded to a halt in front of the transporter and slapped at the control bar. The doors slid slowly open - at least it seemed slow -and he leaped inside. He leaned back for one last glower at the by-now huffing and puffing McKay, then shoved his finger into the dot on the large, beautiful map of the city that would tell the transporter to take him to the control tower. Even if Rodney caught up with him there, John was sure he could find some tasks to become “involved” in. He couldn’t hide forever, but he could give it the ol’ college try and at least make Rodney work for it.

“Shep -!” was the last thing he heard before the room flashed and the furious voice on the other side of the door ceased abruptly.

From John’s perspective, the transporter usually felt like he stayed in one place and it was the city that had shifted around him. One transporter cubby was pretty much the same as another.

So when the flash faded and John found himself staring at a cluttered laboratory wall instead of a transporter map, he was rather taken aback. He staggered a step at the surge of disorientation, then whirled when he heard his name spoken in a soft gasp.

“Colonel Sheppard…?”

Two blue-shirted scientist types were standing in the center of the room, a few steps away, staring at him as if he’d sprouted a second head.

John flicked a quick look around the very messy, cluttered almost to the point of trashed, room. He was pretty sure he was in a lab, but not one he’d set foot in recently, if ever. There was a low, circular platform under his feet, and a glance at the ceiling confirmed that he was standing under a transporter ceiling panel - although the one hanging sloppily over his head was crude. Exposed wires dangled and looped through the half assembled frame. He rolled his eyes and broke into a grudging grin.

“Oh, I get it. Nicely done.” The two blue-shirts looked at each other, then looked back at him, still gaping. John hopped off the platform. “So did you come up with this all on your own or did Rodney put you up to it.” He stepped back to give the homemade transporter a onceover. “I have to admit, that’s pretty cool. If you guys get good at building these things, we could sure use a couple more over on the West pier and in the residential towers. So, how did you know it was me? You got this thing hooked into the transponder database?”

He caught yet another shocked look pass between the two men and a small bell of alarm finally went off. John was used to cold silences and/or deferential fear directed at him by members of the science team. Lt. Col. John Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis, was generally classified in one of two categories: Mindless grunt or Gun-happy vigilante.

But something other than unfair stereotyping was bugging these two, especially if they’d been expecting him, he realized. Another, more serious, survey of the scientists only deepened his unease. The two men were as disheveled as the room. Their shirts were wrinkled and stained, their hair was unwashed and unkempt. They looked vaguely familiar, but John didn’t always get a chance to meet every lab rat beyond their security dossiers.

Both were on the short side, 5’8” and 5’11” respectively. The slightly taller man was mid forties, dark skin and hair and sharp features that John categorized generally as Indian or Pakistani. The shorter was also younger, late twenties, Caucasian with long thick curly hair that was partially pulled into a short pony tail. Wild tendrils had escaped the clasp and frizzed around the young man’s face in wispy halo.

They both stared at him through eyes that were a little too wide, and a little too…surprised.

“So…what’s going on?” he said into the silence that had quickly grown awkward.

He got no answer. The two just turned their backs on him and began to hiss in frantic, whispered conversation. John cocked his head, torn between moving closer to hear and bolting for the door like a scared rabbit. They were creeping him out. Beyond the regular weird science guy thing, even. He felt his hand drift to his hip. Snippets of words drifted to him.

“Not him?”

“…strongest…”

“…too dangerous…”

“…no choice!”

John abruptly decided he’d had enough of the joke and turned towards the door that was half hidden behind a cluttered metal shelving unit. “I’ll be sure to tell Rodney you caught me,” he announced. “See you guys later.”

“Wait!” Curly raised both his hands, and took a step as if to block John.

John’s hand gripped the handle of his gun at the sudden sharpness of the command, but he didn’t draw it out…yet. He was moving past puzzled and well into annoyed.

“No you wait. Rodney doesn’t like it when people start messing around with things without telling him.” He waved at the hodge-podge transporter. “I want to know why I ended up here. You can tell me what’s going on or I’m out of here.”

“You have a strong natural occurrence of the genetic code required to initialize the indigenous technology. We require your…assistance,” the dark featured man said. He looked a little like he was going for polite and persuasive, but was fidgeting and sweating too much to pull it off.

“There’s procedure for that, guys. You ask Rodney, Rodney asks me, I say no. What’s really going on?” He allowed a snap of frustration into his voice. Somehow, hijacking someone out of the transporter didn’t seem like a normal way to ask for help. And there were lots of people who could turn ATA stuff on. Other people.

“We do not answer to Dr. McKay. You will comply.” The curly haired man made no pretense at courtesy. His tone was sharp and aggressive and John finally lumped the body language into the proper category: nervous aggression. His posture went defensive.

“I don’t think so.” He turned to walk past Curly, hoping he could just bluff his way out of the room. These guys didn’t have any weapons that he could see, but he thought they just might be wound up enough to throw a punch so he kept his chest to the room, sidling sideways to avoid turning his back. He eyed the two men as they bent their heads in whispered conversation one more time. John had almost made it to the shelf when Curly turned his back on his partner and jammed a hand in his wrinkled jacket pocket.

John jerked his gun out of the holster at the sudden movement. This was getting ridiculous. He really needed some backup here. Just so he didn’t feel like he was the only one freaking out about two crazy guys who really needed a shower.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Curly pulled it out slowly, bringing with it some kind of green crystal. John had been around the Pegasus Galaxy long enough to take nothing, not even a pretty piece of rock, for granted. “Drop it!”

John leveled his own weapon and was reaching for his radio earpiece to tap open the frequency when Curly closed his fist around the crystal and…John fell out of his body.

It was the only way he could describe the sensation. He was looking through his eyes, thinking in his own head, but his body was completely cut off from his consciousness. He could see it in his peripheral vision, but the part that was him felt like a pair of floating eyeballs.

“See! He is too dangerous to use.” Curly turned on his companion and gestured wildly at the gun-toting, immobilized John. “He cannot be simply intimidated as we planned. We must discard him and find another.”

The words floated into his mind as if he were hearing them, but he couldn’t hear, exactly. He must be connected to his body at least a little. Not enough though. He struggled to move something, anything, then got distracted as the hand holding his gun lowered, then began to turn. Curly was glaring at him as his partner gesticulated.

“But he must have the strongest natural occurrence; that was how we programmed the hijack device. If we are to synthesize the genetic code that allows access to the technology, then we need to synthesize the best possible sample.”

“Then get the sample and discard him.”

John really did not like the curly guy at all. The gun was pointing at his belly now. How the hell was it doing that?! He thought even harder but it was like screaming at a TV. The show just kept unfolding.

“There is evidence that a mind-link is also required. He has experience with the technology. If we work quickly, we can get much use out of him before his absence is noticed, despite his status.”

John could see his chest heaving around deep breaths but it was strange not to feel himself breathing. Some subconscious part of him must be processing the threat because he could see his hands shaking and his chest working. Dammit, he looked scared, even to himself. And that pissed him off. His body twitched slightly with the surge of anger.

Curly looked over at him in surprise at the motion and the gun’s muzzle snapped up to press against John’s sternum, only skin and bone away from his heart. John’s hands were backwards around the grip and his thumb was against the trigger. He was still disconnected - his hands looked like one of those first person shooter games he played on Rodney’s computers without permission - but the gun about to go off was really aimed at him. And he had no control over it.

“It’s not worth the risk. His death will distract the others for some time.” Curly’s eyes met his, panicky and calculating. The dark skinned man shrugged in frustration and looked away.

Crap!

John's body twitched again. Curly's eyes widened, then narrowed in resolve. John saw the moment when Curly gave the mental command that his body would obey.

No!

The cry, still tinged with anger, reverberated in his mind and he saw his hands jerk in instinctive self-defense. He heard the crack of the weapon as it discharged its deadly projectile into his side and saw the two scientists jump in guilty reaction. His body curled into the impact that he couldn’t feel, then crumpled to the floor. His floating point of view fell with it and he found himself looking at his arms, knees and feet twisted in a pile against bronze decking.

There was a long moment of nothing. John just stared in shock at the puddle of blood that was spreading slowly over the floor. This is really just not my day. He heard the men speaking again, but he was distracted by the sight of his motionless body.

“The weapon did not kill him!" the dark skinned man - John decided suddenly to call him Mo - was saying when he walked into view and crouched to peer into John’s face. His expression was surprised and a little bit pleased. He tugged John's radio and the gun away. Curly also crouched into view and John suddenly felt like a wounded stray dog being messed with by two mean kids. He couldn't move, he couldn't get away. The fear had sunk into his mind, even without his body's feedback to signal it.

“Dr. Strai has great respect for the Colonel," Mo said, more determined. Curly didn't look quite so haughty anymore. In fact, he looked at bit ill and was swallowing a lot at the sight of the ever-widening puddle of blood on the floor. Mo went on, "He is very clever and capable of manipulating most of the indigenous technology, despite his occupation in the warrior class."

"He is very dangerous," Curly snapped back with the hysterical air of one getting tired of repeating himself. "He will fight us."

Damn right I will, John thought

"But he is wounded and weakened. We have the Cohall device to keep him under control. He can accomplish most of our requirements in that state." Mo nodded to himself, still half crazy to John's eye, but he seemed to have convinced himself of John's usefulness. John couldn't tell if he believed what he was saying or if he was only feeling guilty about shooting him. Mo looked at Curly and pointed at John's face, "And he is the only one who has ever piloted this craft."

Curly looked at his partner with a sharp jerk. "Strai is certain about this?"

"He was onboard at the time. It was a harrowing experience and Strai is convinced only the Colonel could have accomplished the feat from among the current occupants."

John was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. He couldn't feel anything, but his vision was beginning to fade, the image getting dimmer and snowy somehow, like bad reception. He was having trouble thinking through the endless argument between the two insane scientists. They needed him to turn ATA stuff on? They were impressed he'd flown...what? What the hell did any of this have to do with why he was on the floor watching himself bleed out from a self-inflicted gunshot hole in his belly?

It was Curly's turn to look away. And then he lunged to his feet and out of John's view. His voice was barely audible over a faint ringing in John's ears that didn't seem to be coming from the real world. "Fine. Just...fine. We'll use him for as long as we can but he won't last long without treatment from his own medical class - he is losing fluids rapidly."

"I will perform temporary measures."

"His people will begin looking for him soon."

"The Cohall device can alleviate that risk as well. If we use him and our time wisely, the Colonel may work to our great advantage."

Curly's feet paced back and forth in John's view. Mo, having won the argument, became much more calm. John saw him check his pulse and then gingerly begin to tug at his shirts. Once the ragged holes were exposed - and John's hands started to quiver again as his body reacted to his fear of the very-not-good-looking sight - Mo leaned close and spit on John's side.

Oh that's just disgusting!

Mo leaned back and waved at Curly. "Help me secure him so we can release him," he said which made no sense at all to John.

His arms were grabbed and his feet were made to walk towards a sturdy lab chair in the corner of the messy room. John's vision greyed even further as he was moved; wispy sparks began to float around, leaving thin, black trails behind. He assumed he was sitting in the chair when his floating pov sank a foot and his knees appeared in his peripheral vision. Curly pulled zip ties off one of the cluttered shelves and fastened his wrists to the armrests. His view jerked as Mo yanked on the cording John watched him loop around his chest. There were thick splotches of blood leading in a trail away back to the large dark puddle of it.

Curly and Mo stood in front of him as if studying their handiwork. Mo nodded with a grim smile. "You can release him."

Before he could even try to figure out what that might mean, John’s body snapped back around him - or he snapped back into it. The brief moment of surprise was replaced by agony as the pain of the gunshot wound slammed into him all at once. It wasn't just the wound, there were things crawling around on the wound, inside the wound that felt like tiny needles or teeth eating him from the inside out. John writhed and twisted his wrists against the restraints. His t-shirt under his uniform shirt felt cold and damp from armpit to hip and it stuck to his side with sticky wetness. John squirmed more desperately in the chair; a violent, frustrated scream ripped from his throat and left him panting in exhaustion, lightheaded. And still the pain grew.

"McKay...is...really going...to be pissed...when he finds...you..." he gasped, glaring at the scientists and invoking the most frightening consequence he could think of. "I'm telling...about the...transporter..."

"We have taken every precaution!" Curly snapped, resuming his haughty, nervous tone.

Even Mo didn't seem quite so confident with John back in his body and spoke as if convincing himself again. "We are quite well hidden. No one will know we are here until it is too late to stop us."

"I'll...stop...you..." John gasped, then had to squeeze his eyes shut against a surge of pain. "McKay will find you," he whispered. McKay will find me and Ronon will blast open the door and Teyla will cut me loose...

Curly just snorted then John heard footsteps and the creak of another chair. He still had his eyes shut, but the room seemed to be spinning anyway. Mo's voice filtered to him over a whine in his ears that was becoming deafening. "Dr. McKay might penetrate our shielding eventually, but not before we have engaged the star drive and begun our journey home. You will help us."

"No..." His stomach flared in a truly astonishing protest of agony and he groaned, writhing again.

"I think you will," Mo said and John had the strangest thought that he didn't sound menacing or angry or anything like your usual villian-type, monolouging bad guy. He sounded simply...optimistic. John thought again of the stray dog.

John's head spun and he slumped forward against the ropes on his chest. His side was burning and he felt the tell-tale consequences of blood-loss. What a crappy day. Curly was slapping furiously at a computer keyboard and John heard Mo walk towards a shelving unit then returned to jab a needle into John's arm. He didn't even flinch, the small prick hardly noticeable compared to the sword in his stomach.

"I will begin preparing the genetic sample. In the meantime, initialize this device, Colonel Sheppard."

"No..." John mumbled, only cracking his eyes open a bit to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar Ancient doodad Mo was holding out. Mo simply grabbed John's fingers and bent them far enough off the armrest to shove the pearly casing under them. John tried to think "off" or "stop" or something that would keep the thing from coming on, but - like lots of Ancient tech - just a touch was enough. The thing glowed into life.

John sagged further, trying to keep the moan that longed to escape stuck in his throat. He heard his breath catch instead, and thought again, What a really crappy day.

"Now, initialize this device," Mo said, holding yet another gadget.

And it's only going to get worse...

-------------------------------------------------------

Rodney glared at the empty cubby once the flash faded and the transporter doors slid obediently back open, sensing his presence. It was empty of course.

“He got away again, eh?”

Rodney spun on his heel and stalked back down the hallway, forcing Zelenka to jog to keep up. He couldn’t stand the smug look on the Czech’s face.

“Temporarily. The Colonel is just trying to goad me into an infantile reaction and I refuse to rise to the bait.”

“And he gave you the slip. You can’t make him pay up, you know. He has guns and knives and many sorts of dangerous things. He could just refuse.”

It was Rodney’s turn to feel smug. “This is Sheppard we’re talking about. He’ll pay up. He won’t like it - which is why it’s so enjoyable - but he’ll pay. Once he realizes that I’m not going to beg, he’ll get bored and give in. Right now he’s just playing sore loser.»

“It is better than sore winner

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rodney snapped then hustled back through the doors into the lab he and Zelenka were inspecting today, hoping that Radek would drop the subject. The man was smiling way too much for Rodney’s liking. He pounced on a laptop. The idiots on this project were way behind schedule.

“Broadcasting a victory announcement to all the department heads was not good sportsmanship, Rodney.”

“That was just insurance to make sure Sheppard pays up. He started it - all that bragging and boasting about his new plan to deploy his grunts into the city at a moment’s notice. His marvelous grid.”

“You helped him design the maps.”

“Exactly! He comes to us to figure out everything, then goes on and on about his great ideas.”

»He only asked us to review his grid in the context of the most efficient sensor configurations. Colonel Sheppard designed the maps and deployment plans himself, in response to the Asgard attack on the city last month. You and Dr. Jackson were kidnapped, Rodney. His wish is only to respond more quickly to similar threats in the future!

«And I appreciate that!” Rodney heard his voice go sarcastic, but Radek was clearly missing the point, the point being, “But I still found the cache first, proving that skilled use of technology will always be better than even the most efficient of manual search parties. Sheppard made a bad bet. And when I catch up to him again - ” Rodney rubbed his hands together, unable to keep the expression of avarice off his face, “Spiderman comes to papa!

“IF you catch up to him,” Radek retorted, then muttered in Czech for a moment. He too began tapping at the next laptop over. “You could always scan for the Colonel’s transponder signature.”

Rodney jerked his head up at Radek’s sly tone. “That would be poor sportsmanship,” he quipped, feeling his face redden. “He’ll pay up. And stop yapping. I’m tired of these guys complaining about missing parts and power fluctuations. If this project doesn’t get back on track in the next week and prove that there's potential for practical application of the Cohall flight recorder, I’m scrapping it.”

“It was designated a military and defense application. Mr. Woolsey and Colonel Sheppard are to decide the fate of projects such as this.”

“Based on MY recommendations!” Rodney rolled his eyes and gave Radek a scathing look. “What is with you today? You almost sound like you're on Sheppard's side!" Rodney chortled at the impossibility. Radek kept typing, pointedly silent. "Hey! You're not on his side, are you? Because that would be treason." To his own credit, he kept the accusation lighthearted.

Radek gave him a look that was so disgusted and so...shrewd - his eyes all screwed up and his eyebrow all bristling out lopsided - that Rodney's face flushed again and he slapped at his keyboard for the next several minutes in silence.

"You're supposed to be on my side," he muttered finally, not exactly to himself, and then wondered why Radek began banging his head against the desk.

Late that night, Rodney found his eyes crossing and decided that he'd reached the point where he would be more useful to the good of the universe if he got some sleep. He shut down the Cohall lab, convinced that he'd got them far enough along to finish their preliminary reports, and shuffled down the hall towards the transporter that would zip him over to the residential tower. He swiped the bar, thinking with a grin about Sheppard running away like a girl. Well, like a normal girl, not that there were any of those on Atlantis. All of the girls that were on Atlantis would kick his butt for even thinking the phrase "run like a girl." He almost looked over his shoulder just to make sure none had turned psychic and were coming after him.

He shoved at the dot, then left the transporter for his apartment. He hadn't seen Sheppard the rest of the day. For just a second, a small doubt creeped into Rodney's mind. Could Sheppard really be mad at him? He shoved the worry away, or tried to. He and John had been 'good' for a long time. More than good. He still woke up with nightmares about losing his mind and his memories and managed to go back to sleep every time knowing that he had a friend like John to watch his back should he need it again.

Every now and then he did wonder why John was his friend - the cool and athletic career Air Force Colonel wasn't what you would call a logical candidate. On one level, their friendship seemed built on Rodney mocking him and John deflecting the defensive behavior with a well-placed smack-down. On another, their friendship was one big contest - of wills, of intellect. With sudden insight, Rodney realized that John must enjoy the competition as much as he did. The whole "who can find Lt. Feder's 'geocache' first" race had been as much John's idea as Rodney's.

Feeling a little better, Rodney hurried to his room, desperate to get some sleep. He'd needle Sheppard tomorrow at Woolsey's staff meeting. Or... Rodney caught sight of a figure slipping down the hallway and recognized the slouched gait ... or he'd get some needling in right now!

"Sheppard!" This time, Rodney waited until he was standing right behind the man before he called out. John took another two steps, then stopped with a jerk - like he'd just remembered his own name. Feeling magnanimous, Rodney decided to give his friend some time to cope with his loss. "You can keep Spiderman for a couple of more days if you want. You don't have to keep hiding out. I'll call my minions off if you just promise to bring it by sometime before my day off."

John didn't say a word. He just tilted his head, straightened, then began walking down the hall again. Rodney realized that he was heading away from his room rather than towards it, which was strange. It was nearly 2:00 in the morning. "Where are you going? Is something up?" He jogged ahead to try to get a look at John's face. Maybe he was mad?

John just looked tired and a little sweaty, like he'd been sparring with Ronon, although he was wearing his uniform instead of workout clothes. He shoved past, bumping Rodney's shoulder. "Go to bed, McKay," he growled and then kept walking. Rodney froze in surprise.

"Ok," Rodney said. He watched John turn the corner, kick angrily at the wall, then head towards the corridor that led to the city's central tower, out of sight.

Rodney backtracked the few steps to his own door and sank onto his bed, confused. So much for enjoying the competition. Sheppard was being every bit a sore loser as Rodney had imagined. By the time he'd pulled off his shoes and stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt, he'd gone from confused to annoyed. "If that's the way he's going to play it, I can out-sore him any day of the week. He's got nothing compared to the sore winner I am capable of."

He tossed and turned for a long time, though, and in the end he decided that John was probably just mad at Ronon for beating him at kung-fu or whatever nonsense they sparred at. The memory of John looking tired and sweaty and maybe just a little beat up allowed him to finally fall asleep. That had to be it.

When his intercom buzzed at 6:00 the next morning Rodney was so groggy he hardly managed to untwist his head from the covers enough to grumble a cranky, "McKay here, go ahead."

"Dr. McKay, you are needed in the chair room immediately."

"Why?" he moaned, tempted to cover his head again. He didn't recognize the voice. Must be one of the gateroom technicians.

"It's the control chair, Doctor. It's missing. And so is Colonel Sheppard."

Rodney lurched upright and flung his feet over the edge of the bed, "Excuse me?"

"The chair is gone. Colonel Sheppard isn't answering his radio and no one can find him. Mr. Woolsey wants you to go to the chair room."

"I'm on my way!"

Rodney threw on clothes, not particularly caring whether they were clean, his brain already leaping to the problem with way too little information. Missing? How could a 300 pound piece of integrated technology simply vanish? He suddenly remembered Sheppard walking towards the tower in the middle of the night. Had his friend vanished with the chair, too?

What are you up to, Sheppard? he thought, trying and failing to stay angry at being snubbed. Where are you? And then, because he couldn't help it, And who's going missing next?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He must have passed out because when Mo slapped him hesitantly on the cheek, John had to drag his chin up off his chest in order to glare at the man. He also had to blink a few times to clear the fuzzy edges around his vision. It didn't help all that much. He still felt woozy and achy all over. When he stretched his shoulders, they throbbed in a mother-of-a stiff neck and his side twinged at even the slight motion. A quick glance at his watch on the arm still tied to the chair, confirmed his suspicion and then some: It was well after midnight. He'd been out for several hours!

The surge of fear at the realization brought his heart pounding into his ears. He gasped and swallowed hard at the dizziness that accompanied the rush. Mo was watching him carefully as he woke up and the scrutiny annoyed him.

"What are you looking looking at?" he rasped, wishing he sounded more ferocious. "I'm not going to just die on command, here."

"You are not going to die," Mo confirmed, sounding distracted. "The hemorrhaging of fluids was stopped."

"Oh." He'd been pretty sure he was going to bleed to death in the chair. He squirmed a bit to look at his stomach and realized that, in fact, the fabric seemed stiff and tacky instead of warm and wet.

"We have completed our preliminary preparations. You are now needed to perform the next step."

"Not going to help," John declared, still craning to see through the holes in his uniform. He didn't feel a bandage. "How'd you plug me up?" he wondered, not entirely planning the thought to be spoken out loud.

Mo blew out an impatient sigh and yanked John's shirt tails up so John could get a look. John really wished he hadn't. The bullet had gone through at an angle, about four inches from entry to exit. The point-blank entry wound was small and nearly perfectly circular. The exit wound was much larger - perhaps the diameter of a soda can - and ragged. No wonder he'd dumped such a large puddle on the floor so fast; his shirts and waistband were saturated with drying blood. John deliberately ignored thinking about what the bullet might have torn up on its way through.

But it wasn't the torn skin that creeped him out - it was the greyish-bluish moss that was growing out of the holes that brought bile into his throat. The stuff was thickest in the middle of the holes and spread over the edges of the wounds like mold on old bread.

"What...what the hell is that?" he managed, squirming again, this time as if to get away from himself.

"The spores multiply and bond temporarily with the damaged cells. They will prevent hypovolemic shock in the short term, but unfortunately we did not have the time to adapt them to your specific genetic requirements."

"Huh?" John was still staring at the stuff, trying to convince his gag reflex that it was good for him.

"Your body is fighting the microbes as if they were a pathogen. Your basal temperature has already risen a full degree."

"Fever? I'll take a fever over hypo-whateveryoucalleditshock any day, but why don't you let me go check in with the doc to take care of the blue stuff, too?"

"Because you would alert your command to our presence."

John scowled and searched Mo's face for signs of humor and found none. “Who are you?” he asked at last. It was a question long overdue.

“Our homeworld is unknown to you.”

Aha! So they’re not just Rodney’s lab rats pushed over the edge by his egomanaical management style. “Why are you here?”

“It is our mandate to seek out technology that will benefit our kind and acquire it.”

“We have a similar mandate. Why don’t we just…go somewhere a little less Frankenstein’s Lab-ish and talk stuff over. Maybe we can help each other out. We’re really not so different. Who knows, we could even become friends.”

Mo looked horrified at the suggestion. “We are vastly different, Colonel. You are quite incapable of comprehending just how different we truly are.”

“Try me,” John growled.

“I realize from occupying this animal form that you consider yourselves sentient to some degree -.”

“Gosh, thanks for that...wait a minute -”

“- but the level of intelligence you are capable of is severely limited by your biology.”

“- you said occupying? You’re occupying my people?”

“The indigenous culture who abandoned this craft were far superior in ability and surprisingly intelligent for animals. We will learn much about the practical applications of the theories we have long understood.”

“Wait!” John interrupted the monologue. “You’re telling me that you are some kind of non-animal aliens that have hijacked the bodies of two of my expedition team for the purpose of studying Ancient technology?”

Mo beamed at him, threw a sideways look to Curly, “I told you he is quite clever.”

Like a trained dog, John thought. He was starting to figure out why this guy was annoying him, even though he had remained on the brutal side of polite. He was arrogant; he considered John and his people ignorant. Perhaps Mo was the kind that was nice to puppies and kittens, but when it came down to it, he would think nothing of knocking off a few for the sake of his own agenda. Kindof like John didn't quite feel like knocking off Wraith was the same thing as killing another...person. It was not a comforting analogy.

“Clever enough to see through the flaw in your plan. We human animals are social, pack animals. My people will find me and stop you. So your best option here is to let me go, stop occupying my people and get the hell off Atlantis before we kick you off.”

“I told you he was too dangerous to be useful. We should have just exterminated them all and taken the ship at our leisure,” Curly snarled from where he was watching in his chair by the workbench.

John snorted at the melodramatic pronouncement, but a little jolt of fear fluttered John’s already fast pulse, none the less. He had no doubt that they could find a way to kill most of the expedition if they wanted to, especially since no one - else - knew they were lurking in the city. Curly was the kind that kicked puppies and drowned kittens for fun, John decided.

Mo went nervous again. There was clearly difference of opinion between these two. Kidnapping must have been Mo’s idea.

“The technology was designed to be manipulated by creatures of this form. It only makes sense for us to use that advantage,” Mo explained.

“That’s why you needed someone with the gene,” John confirmed, understanding a little more. “You want to figure out the technology, but couldn’t do it with your borrowed bodies.”

“Yes. We still have not been able to synthesize a treatment that will entice this body to accept the indigenous gene."

"Our own doctors can only get the ATA gene therapy to work in 40% of our people," John confirmed.

"Our own kind are more interested in the hard sciences than in animal biology."

"You sound like Rodney."

"So you will help us.” Mo pulled out the green crystal and John watched it nervously as the man/alien/thing went on. "The next step requires access to the chair room. You will be allowed entry without question. Once the task is complete, we can accomplish the rest of our goals from here where we are quite well hidden."

Mo stepped to the workbench in the middle of the room and John was further shocked to see that a large area had been cleared while he'd been out. Another platform had been built in the space, this one looking just as hodge-podge and sloppy as the transporter. "You've been busy," John acknowledged, impressed despite himself. "But I won't help you."

"You do not have a choice," Curly snapped and snatched the crystal away from Mo.

John fell out of his body just as abruptly as before, but this time he felt a faint consciousness hanging around in his head with him. The feeling was disturbingly familiar and he spent a moment trying to track down the sense of deja vu when he suddenly realized that Curly was standing in front of him, holding a short length of piping. He was looking way too smug for John's liking: the stray dog was about to get kicked. Sure enough, Curly swung the stick at John's head. His view wobbled with the blow and sparks flashed, but he was powerless to duck or fight back. His damn feet were inches away from Curly's shins. One good kick... The frustration of his impotence flared into anger again and his wrists twisted slightly in their bindings.

Curly chortled, missing the twitch this time, and released John to experience the results. Once he was back inside his head, it exploded with the effects of the whack to his skull. He slammed his eyes shut against the massive headache that radiated out from the lump he could almost feel swelling up underneath his hair.

"Abuse is not necessary!" Mo squeaked.

"Animal life forms are designed to respond to sensory stimulus." Curly's words were logical, his tone was not. John seriously thought about kicking him just for spite, but...he really didn't want Curly to try out any more sensory stimulus until his eyes uncrossed from the last one.

"We also...respond...to treats...and...squeaky toys," he panted through clenched teeth.

"You may consume food when you return," Mo offered promptly and John just almost laughed. The nervous kind of laugh, not the good kind.

He was almost relieved when he was yanked out of himself again. Didn't hurt nearly as much. Curly unwrapped the cords from his chest and snipped the zip-ties around his wrists. John watched from the distant stupor of his floating eyeballs as his arms pushed off the seat and his body stood up. His vision greyed immediately, and both Curly and Mo reached for an arm to steady the shaky automaton. Blood pressure was blood pressure and John knew that his body was down a pint or two. He assumed that it had to be conscious for them to control it.

They held him for a few minutes while he/it got his/its feet under him/it. John couldn't decide how to refer to himself. He felt so...distant. Mo began talking while they waited.

"Although it is late, you will hopefully run into others, eventually. You will need to acquire clothing that does not reveal that he has been injured."

John thought about the holes in his shirt and the shiny stain that was obvious even on black fabric. He had a point.

"Once you reach the chair room, the Cohall imprint should be sufficient to perform the simple command that will put the chair in maintenance mode." It was then John realized that Mo was talking to the Curly sharing his head, not him. The Cohall device, of course! John shuddered and saw the twitch of reaction in his hands at the deep sense of revulsion. Thalen & Phoebus - the warriors who's lifepods had beamed their consciousness into his and Elizabeth's heads...and then run all over the city trying to kill each other. These guys were using the lifepod blackbox technology on him, and had found a way to control the imprinting. It was impressive, in a terrifying way. Curly's presence wasn't as strong or overpowering as Thalen's had been, but now John recognized the feeling.

He began walking which distracted John from his musings. He needed to concentrate on what Curly-in-his-head was up to and watch for opportunities to...do something. He started with slow careful steps, then moved more confidently as Curly got used to John's form. He picked up several devices and shoved them into the large cargo pockets of John's pants, then stepped up onto the transporter platform. His hand waved a command and the room flashed.

The next half hour was a blur, literally. Curly-in-his-head moved his body from the transporter through the halls and to John's quarters in a fast, wary pace. They met no one and before John could be comforted by the trappings of home, Curly had pulled out a fresh uniform, stripped off the old one and was washing his hands and blood-streaked arms in John's bathroom. John looked at himself in the mirror as Curly inspected his body for remnants of visible blood. His face looked pale and sweaty, his eyes lined with dark shadows. He'd seen that face before - when he was recovering from surgery to repair the hole from six inches of re-bar yanked out of his side. His other side. He'd have matching scars.

Curly didn't bother washing John's sides or legs and just pulled the clean clothes over the bloody and...moldy mess of his abdomen. He moved the devices into the new pockets and then they were on the move again. They had almost made it out of the residential tower when a voice out of thin air snapped him into focus.

"Sheppard!"

McKay! Yes! Get this guy out of my head and help me stop these loony tresspassers! He "spoke" the thought and was almost surprised when he didn't hear his voice saying it. Curly-in-his-head took another two steps before realizing that "Sheppard" had meant him. McKay drew closer and began rambling in typical fashion.

"You can keep Spiderman for a couple of more days if you want. You don't have to keep hiding out. I'll call my minions off if you just promise to bring it by sometime before my day off."

What the??? Oh yeah, the stupid comic book. Look, I don't care, just look at me. Notice something, please! Curly apparantly decided to ignore the comment and started walking again. McKay pursued, tried to stop him.

"Where are you going? Is something up?"

Yes! Something is up! Something bad. I...need your help.

Curly-in-his-head barged past McKay, bumping his shoulder aggressively. "Go to bed, McKay," John heard his own voice growl.

"Ok," came the reply from behind him and even John recognized the hurt in the voice.

Anger exploded into rage and by the time Curly had turned the corner, John was seething. Dammit, John! You blew it. You didn't get help and now Rodney's feelings are all hurt. He'll be avoiding you for the next week because of that snub. He wanted to kick something, the need to blow off steam so fierce that he was shocked to see his body lurch, and his foot actually strike out at the wall.

Curly-in-his-head yanked his body back under control and continued walking. John quickly understood that anger had overpowered Curly's control for a moment and was happy to try again. He imagined swinging at the next window they passed by, fueled by the frustration of his captivity. But anger was a volatile liquid and John had spent too long keeping his deep river of the stuff under tight control. When he tried to smash the window, he was closer to curiosity than true fury and he managed only a slight twitch.

Curly instantly regained control, snatched for the combat knife hanging on John's belt and pressed the blade against John's wrist. Anyone looking at him from down the hall would have seen John alone, holding a knife to himself. The anger and frustration flared again. For just a second, he was pissed enough to consider the ignoring the threat. Even if Curly managed to cut him, a nice trail of blood would lead someone his way eventually, and a badly bleeding body - already low on the stuff - would be of no use to the intruders who surely had no good in mind for his people. The knife pressed a little deeper as Curly sensed John's temptation. A thin line of red welled up under the extremely sharp blade.

John relaxed with effort. No, no, that wouldn't work. Curly-in-his-head could slice him open before John managed enough anger and enough control to stop him. If he became useless, Curly and Mo would just nab someone else. His body would most likely be found dead from self-inflicted wounds. Curly's presence felt pleased as John backed off - for the moment. He kept a simmering flame going, however - waiting.

When they finally reached the chair room John was suffering both from anxiety and from his obviously deteriorating condition. It might not hurt to walk so far and with no compensation for the gunshot wound, but if the floating black spots and fuzzy vision were any indication, his body wasn't a happy two-person camper. Curly nodded to the bored security guard on duty outside the door.

"You're up late, sir."

"Couldn't sleep. I'm going to run some simulations in the chair for a while. Get some drone target practice," John heard his voice say. Here was his chance to get someone's attention. He fanned the flame, willed himself into deeper anger. These aliens were trying to steal his city, putting his people in danger. His arms twitched and Curly moved quickly past the guard and to the door.

You are not getting in there you bastard!

"Sounds fun, sir."

"Not really," Curly answered, waving the lights on in the room, fighting silently with a furious, screaming John. "Why don't you take a break in the duty room for a couple hours. I'll call you if I'm going to leave before you get back."

Don't you dare leave your post! John got his body to take a step towards the guard before Curly yanked back control again. The guard was eyeing him warily, clearly undecided.

"That's OK, sir. You're not armed. I'll stay."

Good man! You just got a commendation, Sergeant.

"Then I'll make that an order. Return to the duty room and wait until I call you back."

"You OK, sir?"

John had wrenched another twitch out of Curly's control and the guard was going from wary to suspicious. Yes! Maybe all he needed to do was get his body to act wierd enough that the Sergeant would call for a doctor.

"Fine, Sergeant. Just tired. Now do as I say."

"I'll stay," the man repeated firmly and tightened his grip on his P-90. John heard himself chuckle and was distracted for a moment from his campaign against Curly.

"Well done, Sergeant," Curly was using him to say. "Just making sure you're staying on your toes." Curly shoved John's hands into his pockets. What was he up to?

"Thanks sir. Did seem a little odd you'd want me to leave, sir. Especially after all the trouble with the intruders last month and all the new drills."

"Exactly. Can't be too careful. Intruders can take on the appearance of anyone on base. You passed my dumb little test with flying colors."

"Sure." The Sergeant fidgeted for a second. "You really going in there, sir?"

"No. Not tonight. Finish your watch."

Curly turned as if to leave and John was confused. Had he realized that John would fight him and was going to give up on the chair? John only had a second to realize he was completely wrong when Curly whipped out one of the items he'd shoved into his pockets and jammed it into the Sergeant's side.

Oh, crap! No, no, no, no, no!

The loyal guard seized. His lips peeled back in a horrified grimace and his neck stood out in strings. Blood began to trickle out of his nose. I said STOP! John screamed, feeling his fury spike and Curly jerked away from the soldier, breaking the contact. The Sergeant collapsed in a heap on the ground. John's body jerked and rocked as he battled internally with Curly. He could see his hands shaking, his chest heaving with the effort. His vision greyed out into a startling fog. The fog overwhelmed him and John drifted for a time. When it finally cleared, his line of sight was askew. He'd fallen against, and slid down, the doorframe and sat staring at the motionless guard.

He could feel Curly struggling with his half-conscious body. When it did finally lurch back upright, John watched dully as Curly pulled out one more device, aimed it at the guard. A white beam, just like the culling beam from a Wraith dart, surrounded the Sergeant and then sucked him into the device. Curly closed the chair room door behind him and locked it. John had failed, and probably gotten his man killed in the process. He wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to stop and think because everything was still foggy and there were still spots swimming in his vision.

But Curly just kept going. His hands poked at the control panel for a while. John watched and was able to figure out that Curly was shutting the chair down for some reason, unlinking most of the city's connections to it. He sat down next in the chair and it responded instantly to John's ATA by reclining and lighting up with a brilliant blue glow. He could tell Curly was concentrating hard and John remembered something about Mo saying the imprint "should" be enough.

If only he could imprint himself on the city, somehow. Leave a black box of his own for Rodney to find - a clue. Wait a minute!

John concentrated as hard as Curly, but this time he didn't need to move muscles or re-route emotion - the link between mind and body was direct to the chair. The ATA would interpret the chemical signals regardless of the Cohall imprint's interference. The heads' up display flashed into life and Curly grunted and cleared the screen. Rats. Curly didn't seem mad, though; he was having enough trouble working the chair that he seemed to have assumed the HUD had just been a mistake. John tried again. The HUD flashed again and John thought so hard that his brain hurt. Curly cursed and cleared the screen, dug his fingers into the squishy control arms, then sighed in relief. The chair tilted into its upright position, John watched his feet sinking back to the ground, and then it went dark.

Had he finished his message in time? Had it worked at all? John didn't know, and with the uncertainty came a mental lethargy that even Curly noticed. His body moved slowly and clumsily out of the chair and Curly had to hang on tightly to the arms when standing brought another rush of vertigo. John watched dully as Curly pulled out the device that had sucked up the guard then reversed the beam and dumped the unconscious Sergeant back onto the floor in the corner of the room. At least he's not...gone, John thought, his despair mounting.

Curly turned the mini-wraith beam on the chair next. He twiddled with the dials, aimed carefully and before John could muster so much as a sneeze of a protest, the chair was gone, sucked into the device.

The walk to the closest transporter took a long time. John's body moved more and more slowly and Curly finally had to steady it with a hand against the hallway with each step. John's floating vision was so blurry, he felt like he was being carried around in a mist. His mind wandered, wondering how he'd gotten back on the planet with the sentient fog.

"Colonel Sheppard? Do you...need any help?"

John hardly reacted to the barely familiar, female voice. Curly-in-his-head turned and straightened, trying to look stronger. The face that came into view was also familiar - one of the gate technicians, on a break during the night shift most likely.

"Thanks, but no. Pulled a muscle running. I'm headed back to my room for a shower and some sleep. See you in the morning."

They were almost at the tower transporter and Curly lunged inside without another word. He waited til the doors slid shut, then tapped a code into the manual control panel instead of using the touch map. The room flashed and John was looking at Curly and Mo's lab.

Well, damn, John thought. He hadn't stopped them, he didn't even know if his message had worked, and he was back where he started.

"Did you get it? Were you seen? Was there any trouble?"

The excitable Mo kept glancing at the real Curly, clearly hoping that he'd be vindicated by a successful mission.

"It's here," Curly-in-his-head said with John's voice. He handed over the mini-wraith beam and then stumbled to lean heavily on the workbench. "I had to engage the guard at the chair room. This animal - " John's arm thumped its own chest angrily "fought the imprint and drew the guard's suspicion. Two others witnessed Colonel Sheppard moving through the city."

"Good!" Mo said looking relieved. "The witnesses will help create the suspicion that the Colonel is involved in the theft of the chair. They will waste time looking for him rather than us."

"The imprint is fading," John's voice said. "This body is in distress."

"Try to return to the chair," the real Curly snapped, reaching for the cords, but it was too late. Curly-in-his head took one more step, then simply ceased. Like when Thalen's imprint had occupied his mind, John seized at the abrupt absence and snapped back into his body. He fell against the desk, banging his side into the edge then slid to the floor. The resulting flare of exquisite pain drew a howl from deep inside John's chest even as he convulsed. He was still twitching when the surge of complaints - fever, hypotension, anemia and good old-fashioned exhaustion - overwhelmed him and the world went black.

Your turn, Rodney. I couldn't stop them. It's up to you now. Figure it out. Please...figure it out.

Scavengers, Part 2
Scavengers, Part 3