Round 1 // Challenge 5 - SGA Entries
Story Title: One of a Kind
Character/Relationships: Carson Beckett, mention of canon characters / Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Night. On yet another world.
Most normal people would have been fast asleep, but Carson Beckett was no normal man.
He stood, his back cracking, and stumbled to the tent entrance. He scrubbed at his bleary eyes, desperate to magically erase the weariness from working too many hours. A reassuring glance outside was all the respite he permitted himself before returning to his field table and Ancient microscope.
He picked up another marked vial and uncorked it, before pushing a slide with a drop of blood under the lens. He was driven to do this, to atone for the monstrous things Michael had forced him into. His only mission for the remainder of his life would be - as it had always been - to help people.
He never had enough time for sleep, nor did he wish it. Moving from one world to the next, trying to treat not only the victims of the Hoffan Plague, but all manner of other life-threatening illnesses, filled the daylight hours. When it grew dark, he retreated to his only abode, a tent, as he could no longer endure the claustrophobia of feeling trapped by solid walls and ceilings.
Imprisonment - first under Michael and then in that not-dead but not-alive twilight of the stasis chamber - meant he chose to sleep in a tent for shelter, beneath the sky and stars, no matter how inclement the weather.
Still, working was more palatable than trying to outrun the nightmares of Michael's infernal charnal house. He hadn't had a single uninterrupted night's sleep since his capture. But working to near exhaustion might guarantee him a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Carson couldn't turn anyone away. As soon as word spread that the "Healer" had arrived through the Gate, crowds would gather and surge forward - yet halt at a respectful, even fearful, distance. There were no screams, no accusations or tears, merely a gently rustling murmur of hopeful voices. Yet it was that quiet patience that nearly broke him. They expected him to produce a miracle. If not there, then soon. He always did as much as he could before moving on.
Always moving on. Never pausing long enough to rest. As far as he was concerned, rest was for the dead. Well, he'd been dead and yet here he was again. He couldn't tolerate being stuck in one place for more than a few days.
Yes, he missed Atlantis dearly and the inspiration of her singular beauty. He missed his friends, Rodney most of all. The man's generosity toward him after his rescue had been a balm to his soul. Rodney could have treated him as an impostor, but hadn't. Had not once uttered "Vampire" or "Dolly the sheep" to his knowledge.
Carson remembered viewing the Gateroom footage of the honour guard, led by Rodney and the Colonel, escorting his - his original - remains back to Earth. From the look of abject misery etched into Rodney's face, Carson could imagine how Rodney had blamed himself for not having taken that fateful Sunday off to spend it fishing with his friend. Not that it would have changed much. Carson would have been recalled and the outcome most likely the same.
Though he missed Atlantis, he did not miss the Infirmary. It wasn't his by rights, even if he could have withstood the claustrophobia of the OR. A surgeon with incipient tremors, no matter how gifted, was a liability.
He tried his best not to think of his unique nature or the isolation he was imposing on his life. He knew he wasn't the only clone in the universe, not even the only human clone. He'd read the file on O'Neill the younger. That was one lucky lad to be able to carve out his own destiny and to have many productive years ahead of him.
But Carson couldn't adopt a new identity. He could only be his mother's son whom she believed, in her grieving prayers, to be singing with the Angels, no doubt in the proper Scottish part of Heaven, complete with bagpipes, never harps.
There was no way he could exist outside of the SGC except in the Pegasus Galaxy. And, even in Pegasus, he'd had to rid himself of that all-too-common human wish for love. He tutted to himself as he thought back to his daft behaviour with Dr. Alison Porter. How could he expect someone so young - so alive - to respond to his foolish advances?
He'd come to deny himself companionship, even of a professional nature. Approached by doctors on each world who offered to travel and work with him, he let them down with kindness, maintaining that they were already desperately needed where they were. The first time he'd been asked had led to a particularly nasty nightmare later that night when he'd woken up gasping, "Perna" on his lips. Thankfully, there had been no witness, nor would there ever be after that painful experience.
Only when Carson wasn't treating the ill or working late into the night did he allow himself one small distraction. He wondered what kinds of simulations Rodney might have installed into the virtual reality of his stasis chamber, even though Carson had declined originally. In one, he could imagine how embarrassed yet proud Rodney would have been, programming the Nobel ceremony where both of them received their rightful honours, side by side. Well, there would be no such honour for himself, but at least he could hope for it on his friend's behalf.
He knew there would come the day when he could no longer rise, no longer work. He could only pray that, on the day he drew his final breath, he had done enough to absolve himself of guilt and was worthy of redemption.
Because, on that day, he intended to meet not only his Maker, but also Carson the First.
And, finally, on that day, Carson would never feel alone again.
Story Title: Stooge
Character/Relationships: Team
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Rodney paced his cell in the Genii bunker. He was alone. He'd been alone before of course -- alone in his labs, alone in his quarters, alone most of the time he wasn't with his team, and that was generally the way he preferred it. The solitude and the work were relaxing. Rejuvenating, even.
This was different. He'd only felt this brand of soul-consuming loneliness once before, trapped under the sea in a damaged jumper. Cold and hurt, he almost lost hope that day. But then she appeared: Samantha Carter, undoubtedly the smartest person he'd ever met, next to himself. But she hadn't been real -- just a figment of his concussed imagination.
But now he wasn't concussed, and he wasn't underwater, and no one -- real or imagined -- was coming.
"Aw, you shouldn't give up on us like that, McKay," Sheppard said. Rodney spun on the spot and laid eyes on Col. John Sheppard, leaning nonchalantly against the cell door. "Hey, buddy," he said with a small wave.
"You're not here," Rodney said.
Sheppard looked at him with mock indignation. "Now that's not a very a nice thing to say."
"No, I mean there's no reason for you to be here, which can only mean--" Rodney stopped and rubbed at his eyes. A small laugh escaped his lips. "Which can only mean that I'm losing my mind."
"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Ronon said, his gruff voice cutting into the air like sandpaper.
"You're here, too?!"
"We are all here for you, Rodney," Teyla answered.
"Well that's just great!" Rodney said. "You know, it'd be better if you were out there, rescuing me!"
"We're trying, buddy!" Sheppard said, "But you're in an underground Genii bunker half a day away from where we were camped--"
"Oh, please, it's an outpost run by Larry, Curly and Moe,"
"So why don't you escape?" Ronon said. "Curly'll be back in 10 for your lunch tray," Ronon said.
"And I should do what?" Rodney said hotly as he crossed the room to his tray of what looked cold oatmeal and tasted like old socks, "Shank him with this perfectly round and smooth spoon; do I look like Action Man, to you?!" Rodney sank onto the cell's bench and leaned his head against the wall. "And how do you even know about the Three Stooges, anyway?"
"Because you do, McKay," Sheppard said. "And you're tired, and the air's thin here. So, here we are."
"Great." Rodney rubbed at his temples while Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon discussed the finer points of slapstick and argued over Shemp versus Curly versus Curly Joe, and Rodney almost wished he were alone again.
"Oh, would you cut it out!" he finally yelled. "I need to find a way out of here and the only tools I have are a spoon, a tray that, face it, may as well be made of paper, and this bench, which in case you hadn't noticed is bolted to the ground!!" Rodney stood and tugged at the seat to prove his point and was surprised to see it rise several inches with a creak. He pulled harder and the plank of wood tore from the bench's legs.
"Well look at that!" Sheppard said as Ronon not-quite-grinned approvingly. "You found something!" Rodney was about to reply when he heard keys scraping against the lock to the cell block. His cell wasn't exactly the first one, but he still didn't have much time.
"Stand over here," Ronon said. "The guard won't be able to see you. He'll have to come in."
"Your equipment is through the cell block door and at the end of the hall on the left. It is unlocked and unguarded," Teyla said quickly. "You can do it, Rodney."
"I'm still not exactly combat-ready," Rodney whispered as the cell block door clanged shut.
"Relax," Sheppard said. "He's a stooge at an outpost, remember? Just hit in the head and poke him in the eye, Nyuk, nyuck nyuck,"
"Okay, as long as you never do THAT again" Rodney said as the guard drew closer.
"You don't like my imitations?" Sheppard said. "Why, I oughta.." he reached a hand out and playfully mussed Rodney's hair. Rodney pushed him away and spared a glance over his shoulder.
Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon were gone. He was alone again.
"Hey, you!" The guard's voice rang out through the cell door. "Where are you?!" Rodney stayed silent and gripped his board tightly. "I'm coming in!"
A key groaned in the lock, and maybe it was the tiredness or the thin air or the memories of a childhood long gone, but Rodney couldn't help but smile, just a little.
Story Title: Run
Character/Relationships: Ronon Dex
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Ronan always believed he would die for his fellow soldiers. He would die for his friends. He would gladly lay down his life if it meant the life of an innocent person would be spared. When he hid at the edge of the village that sheltered him, nursed him, hearing the screams of lives ending, Ronan ran. He wondered why.
Fighting spirit, or fear. It was either one and he had never stopped to decide which it was. Because now the death of that village haunted him. He shouldn’t have run. But then, that’s the definition of a Runner. Their bodies are ripped open and rejigged to the desires of the Wraith and set free. To run.
Ronan ran because that was what he had been remade to do. Whether he wanted to or not. Either way it was clear, the only company a Runner could keep was anyone who could keep up. And anyone who could keep up with Ronan wasn’t the kind of company he wanted.
Maybe it was time to let the Wraith know that.
Story Title: I, Atlantis
Character/Relationships: Atlantis
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
I'm used to being alone. I've been alone for a long time. Ever since the others left, it's just been myself and the ocean. I don't like it. I was built to be filled, to be kept company by the noise of people within me.
Once upon a time my rooms were filled to bursting. I thrived and my people thrived. We existed in harmony; they kept me safe and I kept them safe as best I could. My halls were filled with the sounds of feet, of breath in lungs, laughter, shouting, and song. I was alive with the sounds of living. I was fulfilling my purpose and I was content.
To my eternal shame, there came a black day when I could no longer protect my people. My shields failed, my towers fell. The Wraith closed in on them and in a last effort to survive my people fled through the ring into another galaxy altogether. They buried me beneath the ocean to save me from our enemy.
There I lay for ten thousand years: empty and alone.
I'm used to being alone. I don't like it.
But now the gate is opened again. People have come back to live with me; distant descendants of the ones who'd left me behind. They are cautious and afraid, but I welcome them. I strive to open myself to them and give everything I can to protect and keep them.
My rooms are full again. My halls ring again. I am no longer alone.
I am Atlantis and I am content.
Story Title: Alone, in Jersey
Characters : Evan Lorne, John Sheppard
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
“Colonel Lorne, welcome back, your IOA meeting is scheduled for 1100.” Harriman’s voice droned on with the details for Lorne’s stay at the SGC, which Lorne listened to with half an ear until Walter said, “… prescriptions filled at the VA Hospital in East Orange.”
“New Jersey? What’s he doing in New Jersey?”
Harriman slipped Lorne a piece of paper, which Evan read, and then rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course, makes perfect sense. How soon can I get...”
"Flight to McGuire at 1300 tomorrow. You'll have to drive from there."
"Through Jersey, on a Friday. Lovely. If it hadn't taken so long to make the other arrangements, I'd be ready to kill someone, you know that Walter?"
The night shift wasn't bad. They'd made him train during the day, and interacting with people had sucked.
But at night, he was practically alone in the building. It was quiet. He was learning to live with the quiet. Sometimes he almost convinced himself he preferred it.
He'd jumped through the proper hoops and now he had somewhere to go at night, instead of sitting in an empty apartment with no company. No purpose.
He did the duties they assigned him here and management left him alone.
No one stared at the scars. Not anymore.
Simple machinery; it didn't require two good eyes. It didn't even require two good hands, he glanced down at his ruined right arm, curled against his belly, his hand lying like a dead thing in his lap.
No one here cared that he wouldn’t fly anything ever again.
He preferred it here. No one watched him with pity. The pity was the worst thing. "Poor John, can't fly anymore. Poor John, can't hold a weapon. Poor John."
A flutter of movement to his left caught his eye, his only eye, and he braked.
Awkwardly, he reached up and tugged off the protective headgear he was required to wear, then looked over at the department head with a bored expression. "Yeah, Bill?"
"Can you take care of that clusterfudge over on five that Rarri left from dayshift?"
"Sure, Bill."
Bill turned away, and then turned back, "Oh, you had a call, or at least someone asked for you, they didn't hold."
That almost stirred some interest in him. Then he shrugged his left shoulder and went to clean up the mess on five, which would take him a couple of hours doing it by himself, but that was par for the course, wasn't it, these days?
The last person he expected, or wanted, to see at 11:45 on a Friday night was standing in the center of the lumber aisle, blocking his way. With a grunt of irritation, John pulled to a stop, reached down and shut off the ignition.
"What?"
Lorne rolled his eyes at the tone and said cheerily, "Hello to you too. Why yes, it was a lovely drive. No trouble at all finding the place."
John sat and stared at his former XO impassively.
With a frustrated huff, Lorne looked around then gestured with a sweep of his arm. "Really, John? A fork lift? At Home Depot?"
"I like the smock." Sheppard fingered the obnoxious orange garment. When Lorne continued to stare at him for a bit more explanation, he sighed and said, "It's quiet. They leave me alone.”
After a few moments, John said wearily, “Just leave me alone, Evan."
Evan approached him, "You could have stayed."
John snorted and looked away, turning the scarred side of his face to Lorne.
"Look, there's been a development."
"Don't want to hear it." John reached for the ignition.
Lorne's hand closed over his on the key, and John jolted at the touch, the first time someone had touched him in weeks. Evan's voice was close to his ear. "Carter called a friend in. A Tok'ra friend."
Lorne's hand was warm.
John shivered and looked up at his friend.
Evan gave his hand a squeeze and said quietly, "They think they can fix this. You don't have to do this alone."
STORY TITLE: REBIRTH
CHARACTER/RELATIONSHIPS: ATLANTIS
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: NA
The last time she experienced warmth was as they departed. She watched as they collected their belongings, and one by one disappeared through the gate. At the time, she didn’t comprehend their intentions. The life forces gave her purpose, that touched her, prodded her, needed her, were gone.
She was alone.
Her interior was dark; silken covers lay across the long deserted consoles, the embedded crystals lay dull and colorless. A chill hung in the stagnant air, an eerie greenish-blue light cast shallow shadows through the ornate windows.
She rested. Her energy depleted from efforts to safeguard what remained. She had been alone for a very long time, waiting for their return. She waited, but was unsure how much longer she could exist. At times, she permitted herself to wander throughout the towers, the corridors, rekindling memories of when there was warmth, light, purpose. Now only darkness, coldness, and loneliness existed.
She stirred; a sense of something familiar demanded her attention. It had many thousands of years, since she had felt energy emanating from the stargate. A rush of power surged through her conduits, converging on the gate chamber. She directed all her resources to the gate.
The event horizon erupted into a shimmery plume and then settled into the confines of the ring. Seconds later, the first arrivals exited the gate. Quickly, her sensors determined the creatures were human, and held the Ancient genetic markers. They were of the populations that the Alterans seeded across the galaxies. If she could have been disappointed, she would be. They were not the Alterans.
Only the Alterans or their descendents could interact with her. These humans could not; they would not be able to revive her. She was content to observe the humans as they explored the area. Content until she felt something she had not felt in a very long time. Crossing the threshold of the event horizon was warmth, light, purpose; she could feel the stimulation, the need. She responded as he entered the gate chamber, feeling his presence calling to her.
She was no longer alone.
Character/Relationships: Carson Beckett, mention of canon characters / Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Night. On yet another world.
Most normal people would have been fast asleep, but Carson Beckett was no normal man.
He stood, his back cracking, and stumbled to the tent entrance. He scrubbed at his bleary eyes, desperate to magically erase the weariness from working too many hours. A reassuring glance outside was all the respite he permitted himself before returning to his field table and Ancient microscope.
He picked up another marked vial and uncorked it, before pushing a slide with a drop of blood under the lens. He was driven to do this, to atone for the monstrous things Michael had forced him into. His only mission for the remainder of his life would be - as it had always been - to help people.
He never had enough time for sleep, nor did he wish it. Moving from one world to the next, trying to treat not only the victims of the Hoffan Plague, but all manner of other life-threatening illnesses, filled the daylight hours. When it grew dark, he retreated to his only abode, a tent, as he could no longer endure the claustrophobia of feeling trapped by solid walls and ceilings.
Imprisonment - first under Michael and then in that not-dead but not-alive twilight of the stasis chamber - meant he chose to sleep in a tent for shelter, beneath the sky and stars, no matter how inclement the weather.
Still, working was more palatable than trying to outrun the nightmares of Michael's infernal charnal house. He hadn't had a single uninterrupted night's sleep since his capture. But working to near exhaustion might guarantee him a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Carson couldn't turn anyone away. As soon as word spread that the "Healer" had arrived through the Gate, crowds would gather and surge forward - yet halt at a respectful, even fearful, distance. There were no screams, no accusations or tears, merely a gently rustling murmur of hopeful voices. Yet it was that quiet patience that nearly broke him. They expected him to produce a miracle. If not there, then soon. He always did as much as he could before moving on.
Always moving on. Never pausing long enough to rest. As far as he was concerned, rest was for the dead. Well, he'd been dead and yet here he was again. He couldn't tolerate being stuck in one place for more than a few days.
Yes, he missed Atlantis dearly and the inspiration of her singular beauty. He missed his friends, Rodney most of all. The man's generosity toward him after his rescue had been a balm to his soul. Rodney could have treated him as an impostor, but hadn't. Had not once uttered "Vampire" or "Dolly the sheep" to his knowledge.
Carson remembered viewing the Gateroom footage of the honour guard, led by Rodney and the Colonel, escorting his - his original - remains back to Earth. From the look of abject misery etched into Rodney's face, Carson could imagine how Rodney had blamed himself for not having taken that fateful Sunday off to spend it fishing with his friend. Not that it would have changed much. Carson would have been recalled and the outcome most likely the same.
Though he missed Atlantis, he did not miss the Infirmary. It wasn't his by rights, even if he could have withstood the claustrophobia of the OR. A surgeon with incipient tremors, no matter how gifted, was a liability.
He tried his best not to think of his unique nature or the isolation he was imposing on his life. He knew he wasn't the only clone in the universe, not even the only human clone. He'd read the file on O'Neill the younger. That was one lucky lad to be able to carve out his own destiny and to have many productive years ahead of him.
But Carson couldn't adopt a new identity. He could only be his mother's son whom she believed, in her grieving prayers, to be singing with the Angels, no doubt in the proper Scottish part of Heaven, complete with bagpipes, never harps.
There was no way he could exist outside of the SGC except in the Pegasus Galaxy. And, even in Pegasus, he'd had to rid himself of that all-too-common human wish for love. He tutted to himself as he thought back to his daft behaviour with Dr. Alison Porter. How could he expect someone so young - so alive - to respond to his foolish advances?
He'd come to deny himself companionship, even of a professional nature. Approached by doctors on each world who offered to travel and work with him, he let them down with kindness, maintaining that they were already desperately needed where they were. The first time he'd been asked had led to a particularly nasty nightmare later that night when he'd woken up gasping, "Perna" on his lips. Thankfully, there had been no witness, nor would there ever be after that painful experience.
Only when Carson wasn't treating the ill or working late into the night did he allow himself one small distraction. He wondered what kinds of simulations Rodney might have installed into the virtual reality of his stasis chamber, even though Carson had declined originally. In one, he could imagine how embarrassed yet proud Rodney would have been, programming the Nobel ceremony where both of them received their rightful honours, side by side. Well, there would be no such honour for himself, but at least he could hope for it on his friend's behalf.
He knew there would come the day when he could no longer rise, no longer work. He could only pray that, on the day he drew his final breath, he had done enough to absolve himself of guilt and was worthy of redemption.
Because, on that day, he intended to meet not only his Maker, but also Carson the First.
And, finally, on that day, Carson would never feel alone again.
Story Title: Stooge
Character/Relationships: Team
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Rodney paced his cell in the Genii bunker. He was alone. He'd been alone before of course -- alone in his labs, alone in his quarters, alone most of the time he wasn't with his team, and that was generally the way he preferred it. The solitude and the work were relaxing. Rejuvenating, even.
This was different. He'd only felt this brand of soul-consuming loneliness once before, trapped under the sea in a damaged jumper. Cold and hurt, he almost lost hope that day. But then she appeared: Samantha Carter, undoubtedly the smartest person he'd ever met, next to himself. But she hadn't been real -- just a figment of his concussed imagination.
But now he wasn't concussed, and he wasn't underwater, and no one -- real or imagined -- was coming.
"Aw, you shouldn't give up on us like that, McKay," Sheppard said. Rodney spun on the spot and laid eyes on Col. John Sheppard, leaning nonchalantly against the cell door. "Hey, buddy," he said with a small wave.
"You're not here," Rodney said.
Sheppard looked at him with mock indignation. "Now that's not a very a nice thing to say."
"No, I mean there's no reason for you to be here, which can only mean--" Rodney stopped and rubbed at his eyes. A small laugh escaped his lips. "Which can only mean that I'm losing my mind."
"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Ronon said, his gruff voice cutting into the air like sandpaper.
"You're here, too?!"
"We are all here for you, Rodney," Teyla answered.
"Well that's just great!" Rodney said. "You know, it'd be better if you were out there, rescuing me!"
"We're trying, buddy!" Sheppard said, "But you're in an underground Genii bunker half a day away from where we were camped--"
"Oh, please, it's an outpost run by Larry, Curly and Moe,"
"So why don't you escape?" Ronon said. "Curly'll be back in 10 for your lunch tray," Ronon said.
"And I should do what?" Rodney said hotly as he crossed the room to his tray of what looked cold oatmeal and tasted like old socks, "Shank him with this perfectly round and smooth spoon; do I look like Action Man, to you?!" Rodney sank onto the cell's bench and leaned his head against the wall. "And how do you even know about the Three Stooges, anyway?"
"Because you do, McKay," Sheppard said. "And you're tired, and the air's thin here. So, here we are."
"Great." Rodney rubbed at his temples while Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon discussed the finer points of slapstick and argued over Shemp versus Curly versus Curly Joe, and Rodney almost wished he were alone again.
"Oh, would you cut it out!" he finally yelled. "I need to find a way out of here and the only tools I have are a spoon, a tray that, face it, may as well be made of paper, and this bench, which in case you hadn't noticed is bolted to the ground!!" Rodney stood and tugged at the seat to prove his point and was surprised to see it rise several inches with a creak. He pulled harder and the plank of wood tore from the bench's legs.
"Well look at that!" Sheppard said as Ronon not-quite-grinned approvingly. "You found something!" Rodney was about to reply when he heard keys scraping against the lock to the cell block. His cell wasn't exactly the first one, but he still didn't have much time.
"Stand over here," Ronon said. "The guard won't be able to see you. He'll have to come in."
"Your equipment is through the cell block door and at the end of the hall on the left. It is unlocked and unguarded," Teyla said quickly. "You can do it, Rodney."
"I'm still not exactly combat-ready," Rodney whispered as the cell block door clanged shut.
"Relax," Sheppard said. "He's a stooge at an outpost, remember? Just hit in the head and poke him in the eye, Nyuk, nyuck nyuck,"
"Okay, as long as you never do THAT again" Rodney said as the guard drew closer.
"You don't like my imitations?" Sheppard said. "Why, I oughta.." he reached a hand out and playfully mussed Rodney's hair. Rodney pushed him away and spared a glance over his shoulder.
Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon were gone. He was alone again.
"Hey, you!" The guard's voice rang out through the cell door. "Where are you?!" Rodney stayed silent and gripped his board tightly. "I'm coming in!"
A key groaned in the lock, and maybe it was the tiredness or the thin air or the memories of a childhood long gone, but Rodney couldn't help but smile, just a little.
Story Title: Run
Character/Relationships: Ronon Dex
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Ronan always believed he would die for his fellow soldiers. He would die for his friends. He would gladly lay down his life if it meant the life of an innocent person would be spared. When he hid at the edge of the village that sheltered him, nursed him, hearing the screams of lives ending, Ronan ran. He wondered why.
Fighting spirit, or fear. It was either one and he had never stopped to decide which it was. Because now the death of that village haunted him. He shouldn’t have run. But then, that’s the definition of a Runner. Their bodies are ripped open and rejigged to the desires of the Wraith and set free. To run.
Ronan ran because that was what he had been remade to do. Whether he wanted to or not. Either way it was clear, the only company a Runner could keep was anyone who could keep up. And anyone who could keep up with Ronan wasn’t the kind of company he wanted.
Maybe it was time to let the Wraith know that.
Story Title: I, Atlantis
Character/Relationships: Atlantis
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
I'm used to being alone. I've been alone for a long time. Ever since the others left, it's just been myself and the ocean. I don't like it. I was built to be filled, to be kept company by the noise of people within me.
Once upon a time my rooms were filled to bursting. I thrived and my people thrived. We existed in harmony; they kept me safe and I kept them safe as best I could. My halls were filled with the sounds of feet, of breath in lungs, laughter, shouting, and song. I was alive with the sounds of living. I was fulfilling my purpose and I was content.
To my eternal shame, there came a black day when I could no longer protect my people. My shields failed, my towers fell. The Wraith closed in on them and in a last effort to survive my people fled through the ring into another galaxy altogether. They buried me beneath the ocean to save me from our enemy.
There I lay for ten thousand years: empty and alone.
I'm used to being alone. I don't like it.
But now the gate is opened again. People have come back to live with me; distant descendants of the ones who'd left me behind. They are cautious and afraid, but I welcome them. I strive to open myself to them and give everything I can to protect and keep them.
My rooms are full again. My halls ring again. I am no longer alone.
I am Atlantis and I am content.
Story Title: Alone, in Jersey
Characters : Evan Lorne, John Sheppard
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
“Colonel Lorne, welcome back, your IOA meeting is scheduled for 1100.” Harriman’s voice droned on with the details for Lorne’s stay at the SGC, which Lorne listened to with half an ear until Walter said, “… prescriptions filled at the VA Hospital in East Orange.”
“New Jersey? What’s he doing in New Jersey?”
Harriman slipped Lorne a piece of paper, which Evan read, and then rolled his eyes. "Right. Of course, makes perfect sense. How soon can I get...”
"Flight to McGuire at 1300 tomorrow. You'll have to drive from there."
"Through Jersey, on a Friday. Lovely. If it hadn't taken so long to make the other arrangements, I'd be ready to kill someone, you know that Walter?"
The night shift wasn't bad. They'd made him train during the day, and interacting with people had sucked.
But at night, he was practically alone in the building. It was quiet. He was learning to live with the quiet. Sometimes he almost convinced himself he preferred it.
He'd jumped through the proper hoops and now he had somewhere to go at night, instead of sitting in an empty apartment with no company. No purpose.
He did the duties they assigned him here and management left him alone.
No one stared at the scars. Not anymore.
Simple machinery; it didn't require two good eyes. It didn't even require two good hands, he glanced down at his ruined right arm, curled against his belly, his hand lying like a dead thing in his lap.
No one here cared that he wouldn’t fly anything ever again.
He preferred it here. No one watched him with pity. The pity was the worst thing. "Poor John, can't fly anymore. Poor John, can't hold a weapon. Poor John."
A flutter of movement to his left caught his eye, his only eye, and he braked.
Awkwardly, he reached up and tugged off the protective headgear he was required to wear, then looked over at the department head with a bored expression. "Yeah, Bill?"
"Can you take care of that clusterfudge over on five that Rarri left from dayshift?"
"Sure, Bill."
Bill turned away, and then turned back, "Oh, you had a call, or at least someone asked for you, they didn't hold."
That almost stirred some interest in him. Then he shrugged his left shoulder and went to clean up the mess on five, which would take him a couple of hours doing it by himself, but that was par for the course, wasn't it, these days?
The last person he expected, or wanted, to see at 11:45 on a Friday night was standing in the center of the lumber aisle, blocking his way. With a grunt of irritation, John pulled to a stop, reached down and shut off the ignition.
"What?"
Lorne rolled his eyes at the tone and said cheerily, "Hello to you too. Why yes, it was a lovely drive. No trouble at all finding the place."
John sat and stared at his former XO impassively.
With a frustrated huff, Lorne looked around then gestured with a sweep of his arm. "Really, John? A fork lift? At Home Depot?"
"I like the smock." Sheppard fingered the obnoxious orange garment. When Lorne continued to stare at him for a bit more explanation, he sighed and said, "It's quiet. They leave me alone.”
After a few moments, John said wearily, “Just leave me alone, Evan."
Evan approached him, "You could have stayed."
John snorted and looked away, turning the scarred side of his face to Lorne.
"Look, there's been a development."
"Don't want to hear it." John reached for the ignition.
Lorne's hand closed over his on the key, and John jolted at the touch, the first time someone had touched him in weeks. Evan's voice was close to his ear. "Carter called a friend in. A Tok'ra friend."
Lorne's hand was warm.
John shivered and looked up at his friend.
Evan gave his hand a squeeze and said quietly, "They think they can fix this. You don't have to do this alone."
STORY TITLE: REBIRTH
CHARACTER/RELATIONSHIPS: ATLANTIS
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: NA
The last time she experienced warmth was as they departed. She watched as they collected their belongings, and one by one disappeared through the gate. At the time, she didn’t comprehend their intentions. The life forces gave her purpose, that touched her, prodded her, needed her, were gone.
She was alone.
Her interior was dark; silken covers lay across the long deserted consoles, the embedded crystals lay dull and colorless. A chill hung in the stagnant air, an eerie greenish-blue light cast shallow shadows through the ornate windows.
She rested. Her energy depleted from efforts to safeguard what remained. She had been alone for a very long time, waiting for their return. She waited, but was unsure how much longer she could exist. At times, she permitted herself to wander throughout the towers, the corridors, rekindling memories of when there was warmth, light, purpose. Now only darkness, coldness, and loneliness existed.
She stirred; a sense of something familiar demanded her attention. It had many thousands of years, since she had felt energy emanating from the stargate. A rush of power surged through her conduits, converging on the gate chamber. She directed all her resources to the gate.
The event horizon erupted into a shimmery plume and then settled into the confines of the ring. Seconds later, the first arrivals exited the gate. Quickly, her sensors determined the creatures were human, and held the Ancient genetic markers. They were of the populations that the Alterans seeded across the galaxies. If she could have been disappointed, she would be. They were not the Alterans.
Only the Alterans or their descendents could interact with her. These humans could not; they would not be able to revive her. She was content to observe the humans as they explored the area. Content until she felt something she had not felt in a very long time. Crossing the threshold of the event horizon was warmth, light, purpose; she could feel the stimulation, the need. She responded as he entered the gate chamber, feeling his presence calling to her.
She was no longer alone.