December 2002

The first time John Sheppard ever laid eyes on a stargate, all he could say was, "Holy crap."

It was also his first day as a major, and the two were not all that unrelated. John had heard of the stargate plenty of times -- everyone had after Anubis, some crazy alien from outer space who really hated Earth, had blown up the US's gate and, by proxy, most of North America, including John's parents' home in LA -- but it was different seeing it in person. It was especially different when a guy only had a vague idea of what the hell a stargate was.

But John didn't begin his day in a newly-constructed underground facility in Siberia. He started it by dreaming of a city with high towers, surrounded by a wide, endless ocean. He was standing on some kind of balcony, and he could feel the breeze on his face and smell salt in the air.

Suddenly, he was in a white, windowless room. Another guy was there, dressed in a white sweater and jeans.

"Hello, John," said the guy with a squinty smile.

"This is the weirdest sex dream I've ever had," John said. He shrugged. "Oh well."

He was unbuckling his belt when the guy said, looking startled, "No! God, no. That's-- that's not why I'm here."

"So we're not having sex," John said disappointingly.

"No," said the man, drawing out the word. "I'm here to tell you something very, very important: you need to remember 'Atlantis.' That's it, just 'Atlantis.'"

John scrunched up his face. "Sure, okay, Atlantis. Got it." He glanced around the room, but there really wasn't much to see. "You sure this isn't a sex dream? You look like a guy I met once in Bermuda."

When John woke up, and pretty abruptly at that, he was the same place he'd been for the last six months: Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. Someone was shaking him and saying his name. They sounded pissed. "Shep, I'm not telling you again, wake up!"

Groaning, John mumbled, "It's too early to have a snowball fight." Without opening his eyes, he pulled the covers over his head and rolled over.

He was warm and content for all of three seconds before Mitch yanked the blankets down over his feet, exposing him to the freezing air. "You need to get up right now, you lazy fucker," Mitch said. "The Colonel wants to see you in his office."

John sat up grudgingly. "What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his face.

"Almost ten. You didn't answer your door," Mitch explained when John gave him a curious look.

When John stood, fumbling for the pants he'd draped over his desk chair, Mitch glanced at his chest and looked away, face blank. It took John a second to remember he was wearing one of Holland's t-shirts. He'd hastily pulled it on the night before, praying on the jog back to his place that no one saw him and wondered just why he was sneaking out of Captain Holland's quarters at three in the morning. Again. Hopefully, that had nothing to do with why the Colonel wanted to see him.

"Why does he want to see me?" John asked. He slid his winter parka on over the t-shirt and shoved his bare feet into his boots. "If this is about the thing with the goat, I wasn't even there. Burns gave me his share because he's a vegetarian."

Mitch shrugged, scowling a little. John figured he was still irritated he hadn't gotten any of the goat meat. "Dunno. The Colonel saw me coming out the mess and told me to find you. It sounded urgent."

The ten minute walk from John's quarters to Colonel Newcombe's office was just this side of unbearably cold. The bottom of John's pants were soaked by the time he managed to find a hardened path, created by people moving back and forth over the same patch of snow for six months, leading to the office. Shivering, John shoved his hands into the pockets of his parka. Some of the guys who'd been on tour longer had told John the winters before the attack were plenty cold, but they were much worse now. It had been months since John had seen sunlight.

Colonel Newcombe was waiting behind his desk. The blast of heat that hit John in the face as soon as he entered the room reminded him just how cold it really was out there. "Sir," John greeted, brushing the snow off his shoulders with one bare, ice-cold hand. Damn nuclear winters. Maybe next time they'd get attacked by aliens with a heat ray.

"Captain Sheppard, you've been given new orders," Newcombe said, getting straight to the point.

John wondered why Newcombe was telling him this. "We have, sir?" he asked.

"No, you have."

Newcombe handed John a stack of papers. The words John Sheppard, report to the US-Russian Stargate Command Facility, and Siberia jumped out at him. And also Военно-воздушные Силы России, but he had no idea what that said. It was co-signed the US Chief of Staff of the Air Force and the Russian VVS Commander. John's stomach dropped.

"Am I being punished, sir?" he asked worriedly. He tried to think of what he'd done lately to piss off his CO. Okay, so he didn't always follow orders to the letter, and he didn't tuck in his shirt even though they always yelled at him for it, and maybe he'd missed a few briefings because he was busy playing Xbox, but he was pretty sure that wasn't enough to ground him. Oh, and there was that whole gay affair thing, but that was totally a secret. He zipped up his parka a little higher though, just in case.

Newcombe rolled his eyes. "It's a promotion, Captain. Or should I say 'Major'?"

Major. Major John S. Sheppard. Take that, Dad, he thought triumphantly. Then he remembered his dad was dead, and he felt kind of bad.

"Why me?" he asked.

"I guess they thought it was time you were promoted."

That left John feeling even more confused. He glanced back at the papers in his hands. "You're sure this was meant for me, sir?"

"Maybe they saw your Xbox scores," Newcombe said dryly.

"But... but what about the war?" John asked. He'd liked flying, even while being shot at; flying was the only thing in life he'd ever felt passionate about. But no one on the base had flown for months, and getting sent to Russia seriously lowered any chances John had of flying again.

Newcombe sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Son, with the end of the world and all, I don't think the war against terrorism is all that important anymore. It's been months since I've received orders. Besides, the Taliban have probably frozen to death by now."

"But--"

"You've been given an order, Major," Newcombe snapped.

John grimaced. "When do I leave?"

The Colonel glanced at his watch. "In about fifteen minutes."

"What?" John asked.

He clapped John on the shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Major."

*

The elevator ride to the centre of the Earth was long, cold, and unnervingly quiet. They were playing Britney Spears over the speakers.

After a flight that had felt longer than his entire Afghanistan tour, John had been dropped off, alone, on a landing strip in the middle of a snow-covered field. The only signs of life in the area were a locked private hanger and a one-story building that sort of resembled a park restroom. The air was cold enough to freeze the inside of his nose and mouth, and his eyes stung.

"This is bad," John said to himself, after he'd waited five minutes and no one had come to meet him. The plane was long gone by then.

After ten minutes, he thought, I'm fine. This is great. I'm totally fine. So cold he was shaking, he pulled his hood down over his forehead and wondered how long he should wait before he tried to build an igloo, and whether or not he had the guts to kill a Siberian wolf with nothing but his trusty Swiss Army knife. Finally, just when John began feeling antsy, the thick metal door to the restroom slammed open. A man in a fuzzy, fur-lined hat poked his head out. "Major John Sheppard?" he asked in a heavily-accented voice.

"That's me," John replied with relief.

"This way to the Stargate Command, please."

He'd given his coat, gloves, and scarf to the man and was escorted, none-too-gently, into an enormous elevator. By now, he'd been inside for a good ten minutes, and he wasn't much warmer than he'd been on the outside; John's bare fingers felt stiff and frozen, and the skin on his face -- the only part of him that had been exposed to the Siberian air -- burned. He was pretty sure his toes were numb, even through three layers of wool socks. He wondered if Russia was any colder now than it had been before the nuclear winter.

When the elevator reached level eight, it paused long enough to let on two burly guys with identical sour expressions. They flanked John on either side without saying a word. John wondered if all the guys at the SGC were this huge; he'd been pretty sure this place was run by the Air Force, not the Marine Corps, but now he wasn't too sure.

"Hey there," John said.

The man on John's right quietly reached over and pressed the button for the twenty-fourth floor.

"It's my first day," John said, smiling at one, and then the other. He had to lean back and up to see them. Neither of them reacted. "Don't speak English, huh? Are you Russian? Ru-skee?"

The time, the one on his left glanced down at John. The look on his face was anything but inviting.

"I get it," John said, turning to stare at the door. "Playing it cool, huh?"

At level fifteen, ten floors above where John was supposed to get off, the elevator stopped again. A guy wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt and BDU pants stepped on. He had a book in one hand and a peeled banana in the other, and he started humming along to the music, which had rolled over from Britney Spears to something John vaguely recognized.

"Words can't keep me do-- Oh, hey, you must be the new guy." The man tucked his book under one arm and held out his free hand. "Jonas Quinn, SG-1."

John had no idea what an SG-1 one was, but he shook Jonas's hand anyway, glad someone was being friendly towards him. "Major John Sheppard." He couldn't help but puff out his chest a little when he said it. "What gave me away?"

"The only people here who wear a dress uniform are the liaisons and General Landry," Jonas replied, gesturing to John's chest with his banana.

"Are there other liaisons?" John asked. He hadn't put much thought into what exactly it was he was doing here. He hadn't really had time, in between the promotion and the flying across the entire continent of Asia and the waiting in the snow for someone to get him. Maybe they'd left him outside on purpose. Maybe he was just one more interloping officer the SGC had to deal with, butting into their business and telling his bosses every move they were making. They probably hated him for it. He kind of hated himself, just thinking about it. At least in Afghanistan everyone had left him alone.

"Just the Russian liaison, Major Damurchiev," said Jonas. "The Americans haven't had one since Anubis attacked." He glanced away, looking sad. "Poor Major Davis. He never saw it coming."

As John contemplated what exactly it was that had happened to Major Davis, klaxons went off. He immediately tensed. He'd thought the one perk of being assigned a desk job was not worrying about being attacked without warning. "Unscheduled offworld activation," said a voice over the intercom.

"Uh-oh," Jonas muttered.

"What's going on?" John asked. "Did he just say 'offworld'? Is it Anubis?"

Jonas handed his book and banana to John and hit the number twenty-eight on the elevator keypad, followed by a red button that said 'override.' The two Russian guys started rapidly talking to each other. "Everything's fine, yes, and probably," Jonas said, glancing back over his shoulder with a grin.

"Great, attacked by aliens on my first day," John muttered.

Floor twenty-eight was a long corridor leading to a blast door and a smaller, person-sized door. John followed Jonas through the latter and up a set of stairs into some kind of control room, where the atmosphere was thick with tension. Among the people there was a guy about John's age with a receding hairline yelling at a hot blonde in fatigues, who kept trying to direct a bunch of people on computers. Both of them looked furious. One of the techs kept repeating, calmly, "Gate will not deactivate," and a shorter man in full uniform paced between the computers and the arguing couple. While John stood there goggling, a man with greying hair and a big dude with a gold thing on his forehead pushed past him to dash out the door. It was a lot more chaotic than anything John had ever imagined happening at an intergalactic command base. Everyone on Star Trek was always really calm.

That was when John noticed it: the huge, round stone standing behind the glass. The middle of it was lit up, and there were a bunch of officers pointing guns at it. It was like a beautiful, terrible alien creature.

"Holy crap," he said without thinking.

It seemed like the entire room stopped to look at him.

"Uh, hi," he said, raising his hand for a wave.

All at once, everyone in the room went back to what they were doing. The man with the receding hairline, however, gave John a look of disgust and turned back to the female officer. Belatedly, John noticed he was still holding onto Jonas's banana. This was officially the worst first impression ever.

"Well, that could've gone better," John said to Jonas.

"Most of them are really nice people," Jonas said. "It took them a while to warm up to me too. Just be glad you're not replacing someone they loved and admired. Duck."

John, intrigued, started to ask, "You replaced a guy named Duck?" when Jonas grabbed his arm and pulled him down -- just as something whizzed over his head; whatever it was had gone through the bullet-proof glass and into a computer, right where John's chest had been. John could hear gunfire on the other side of the glass, and when he stood back up, a bunch of armour-plated men -- women? aliens? -- were running through the blue watery circle and being shot down by the airmen. The two guys who had passed John earlier were taking down most of them. It would've been a lot cooler if ten aliens weren't running through the circle every time one was shot down by the SGC's people.

"That's it!" he heard the blonde woman exclaim. He tore his eyes away from the scene below in time to see her hurry over to the computers; one of the techs offered her his seat, and she started typing away.

Seconds later, the giant stone circle appeared to... shut down, or turn off, maybe, just as the last alien had a bullet put through its head.

"Unbelievable," said the balding man, drawing the word out. There were a few, "Good job, Major Carter"s and, "I knew you could do it"s, but instead of congratulating her like the others, the guy pushed her aside to check what she had done, scowling. What a jerk, John thought, just as the older man in uniform stepped forward to get John's attention.

"Major Sheppard," he greeted John, his thick Southern accent polite despite the smirk on his face. John had a feeling this was the General Landry Jonas had mentioned in the elevator. It was more than the uniform; he had that kind of assholish air of authority John was used to from his commanding officers. "How do you like our facility so far?"

John was covered in glass shards, his dress uniform was singed where he'd brushed against the computer that had shattered when a spear went through it, and he had no idea what was going on. Yeah, he was having a blast. "Does this kind of thing happen to you guys often, sir?" he asked.

"A little too often, if you ask me," said a new voice. It was the grey-haired officer who'd blown the shit out of those aliens, looking like he wasn't even breaking a sweat. He must've come back in when John hadn't been paying attention.

"Indeed," said the tattooed guy behind him.

General Landry gestured towards them. "This is Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c." John waited for a last name, but Landry didn't offer one. "Major Carter is over there. And I see you've already met Jonas Quinn." Landry nodded at Jonas, who was picking his squished banana up off the floor. John must've dropped it when he'd been knocked over. "SG-1, this is Major Sheppard."

"Sorry about your banana, buddy," John said to a disappointed-looking Jonas.

"This is Sheppard? Hmm," O'Neill said. He critically dragged his eyes from the tips of John's boots to the top of his head. But then he slapped John on the back, surprising him. John squirmed awkwardly at the unexpected show of affection. "Looking forward to getting out there?" O'Neill asked.

Confused, John asked, "Out-- out where?"

"We'll get your team set up in the morning, Major," said Landry.

"My team," John repeatedly blankly. "But I thought I was a liaison. Shouldn't I be liais... ing?"

"I have direct orders to put you in the field, son," Landry said gravely.

"You want me to go through that?" John asked. He gaped at the huge, alien ring.

He was pretty sure his orders hadn't said anything about going through stargates or fighting bad guys in space; that was where everyone had said Anubis was, in space, with a huge fleet of ships ready to attack at any moment, but John had had problems believing that even after the stargate had exploded. All he wanted to do was fly planes. John didn't know what any of this stargate stuff had to do with him -- or more importantly, why the Air Force had chosen him, of all people. Maybe Newcombe was right and the they had seen his Xbox scores. This was what he got for playing so much Jedi Starfighter.

But then again, being able to explore other worlds -- that was a big deal. He already knew there were aliens, but there could be things out there he had never even imagined. He could be the real life Captain Kirk, or John Sheridan, or Phillip J. Fry. He could boldly go where no man had gone before.

"Cool," John said.

*

The next few hours were filled with paperwork. On top of the normal stuff, John was instructed to sign a series of confidentiality agreements. It seemed awfully redundant; the whole world knew about the SGC and the stargate by now. It was kind of hard to miss, what with North America being destroyed and all. Six months ago, John had crowded around the tv with the rest of the people on base at Bagram, trying to make sense of what the BBC reporter had been saying: "The US was in possession of a device called a 'stargate,' which allows people to travel to other planets via a 'shortcut' through outer space. It was this device the alien warlord Anubis detonated. Many of the personnel of this 'Stargate Command' were able to escape the destruction -- but unfortunately, most of the people of Canada, the United States, and Mexico were not so lucky." Those had been some rough days.

He also had to sign a document about what was to be done if he died in battle (against aliens! he thought wildly). It had one part for if they had a body, and one part for if they didn't. That one made him uneasy. He'd known what he was signing up for when he'd entered the Air Force; filling in forms for what to do if his body was "misplaced offworld" or "lost in an incident involving alien or experimental technology" was an entirely new experience. One that he wasn't sure how he felt about.

There was one thing definitely bothering him, however. "Sir, you said you were given orders to put me on a team?" he asked, signing his name on the final paper.

Landry simply smiled and collected the documents into a folder marked SHEPPARD, JOHN SEAMUS. "Walter will help you with whatever you need, Major," he said, ignoring John's question. "You can leave your jacket here; we have plenty of extras."

He left John alone with a beaming Sergeant Harriman. "If you'll let me give you the tour, sir?" Harriman said, clutching his clipboard to his chest.

Not seeing much of a choice, John stood and draped his ruined uniform jacket over the back of the chair. A second later he popped open the first two buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. "Where to first, Airman?"

"Oh, no, sir, we're not going anywhere," said Harriman, before launching into a lengthy description of the entire facility. "You can go anywhere but levels six and twenty-three. You need special clearance for those. The mess is located on level ten; personal quarters are on levels eleven through fifteen..." He went through the entire base like that, although there were some things John didn't understand -- what the hell a Kelnorim room was for, for instance, or why the infirmary needed two whole floors. There were twenty-eight floors, total, stretching miles and miles underground, with laboratories, living quarters, offices, power generators, and training facilities. From what it sounded like, the SGC was bigger than the nearest town, Alzamay.

When he was done, Harriman looked at his watch and said, "You have twelve hours until your briefing with General Landry. What would you like to do?"

Normally, when John landed on a new base he either went directly to his own quarters or to the hangers to check out the aircraft. He wasn't really a social guy. At the SGC, he only had two real options: either going to his room and hiding from the big, scary aliens, or staring at the stargate some more. He had to admit, both had their appeal.

As if sensing his indecisiveness, Harriman said, "You could go get something to eat at the mess. Or you could go to the fifteenth floor lounge and meet some of the other officers. Or," he suggested brightly, "you can go to bed."

John checked his watch. It was five PM Irkutsk Time (two back at Bagram; two in the morning, the day before, in Pacific Time). "How about I don't. What do you guys do for fun around here?" he asked, heading for the elevators without any real place in mind. He'd made up his mind; he had nothing to do until tomorrow, and he was in a base full of alien things. Maybe there were even aliens walking among them. There was no way he was going to go sit in his room for the rest of the night.

Harriman trotted after him. "Fun, sir?" he squeaked.

John pressed the 'up' button. "You know, that thing you do in your off time?"

"We don't really get off time, sir," Harriman explained. The elevator arrived, and he followed John inside. But before John could touch anything, Harriman hit the key for level twelve. "Some of the guys and I play Magic: The Gathering between shifts sometimes," he said as they started moving.

"No thanks, I gave that up," John said.

The elevator stopped on level eighteen. Once again, Jonas stepped on. This time he was wearing camo pants and a black t-shirt. He was also carrying a green apple. John wondered where he was getting all this fruit from. Last he'd heard, Earth was in short supply.

"Hey there," Jonas said with a wide, sparkling grin.

John couldn't help but grin back. "Hey."

"Mr Quinn," Harriman said, standing tall, "if you don't mind--"

"You want to meet some people?" Jonas asked John slyly, interrupting Harriman.

John left the stammering sergeant to follow Jonas back down, this time to level nineteen, a long, cold hall of locked doors with strange sounds coming from behind them. "These are the labs," Jonas explained, as they passed a door with blue smoke billowing out from under it. The corridor didn't look all that different from the other ones John had seen, but it felt different; there was a definite air of cautiousness. These labs were serious business.

"I remember what it was like being the new guy," Jonas said as they turned a corner. He tossed his apple from hand to hand. "Unfamiliar people, unfamiliar place... they all call you 'hey you'... you miss those little cakes your mom used to make..."

"Mostly I miss being warm," John said truthfully. He hated being pasty. Belatedly, he realized he should probably have said the thing he missed the most were his parents.

"I miss Colorado," Jonas said wistfully. "One of the women anchors on the local news channel was very, uh, impressive."

They stopped outside one of the doors, behind which John could hear arguing. "Who exactly am I meeting?" he asked.

Jonas made a grand gesture of opening the door. "You, my friend, are about to meet the SGC's best and brightest."

Inside the room were at least twenty people. Some were dressed in white lab coats; some were arguing over various equations scribbled onto a large white board; others were typing rapidly onto clunky laptop computers. It was some kind of meeting room, although it looked more like the scientists were going to beat each other senseless rather than share ideas.

The people who took notice of John and Jonas fell quiet. Others started following their lead, until John had a silent room staring at him. He was experiencing a keen sense of deja vu.

"This is Major Sheppard," Jonas said cheerfully, not looking or sounding uncomfortable at all. "He's been outside." He put his free hand on John's shoulder and pushed him forward.

"Oooh," said one of the scientists, and John found himself crowded by a bunch of eager brainiacs.

"What's it like up there, on the surface?" someone asked.

"Cold," John replied.

"I knew I should've bought that cottage in Aruba," mumbled a crazy-looking guy with glasses.

John looked around at everyone's pale skin and dark under-eye circles. They all had them except for Jonas, who was as tanned and polished as a movie star; the perks of being on SG-1, John guessed. "You don't go outside? Most of Moscow and St Petersburg are still standing. You could take a week off."

"You're assuming," came a sneering voice, "that we'd want to go up into that frozen wasteland."

Several of the scientists ducked out of the way of the sneering guy's wrath, clearing a path between him and John. It was the same man from the Embarkation Room, the balding one who had looked at John like he was something he'd stepped on. This time he was wearing a green t-shirt that said 'My Other Ride Is Your Mom' and khakis. Up close he was taller than John had thought, almost John's height, with wide shoulders and an angry, crooked mouth. He looked like the kind of guy who'd been on one too many caffeine benders.

"So you would rather be stuck down here for the rest of your life?" John asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No," the guy said, sounding like John has just asked him the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "Just until the SGC can find us a safe place to move to. I'm not freezing my nuts off trying to see the last vestiges of human civilization." Jonas cleared his throat, and the man rolled his eyes. "Fine, Tau'ri civilization, are you happy?"

"You want to leave Earth?" John asked. It hadn't occurred to him that that was what people might be using the stargate for.

"Hello, nuclear winter, North America blown to bits, farmlands devastated, aliens bent on our destruction -- haven't you been paying attention?"

"Come on, it's not that bad," John said defensively.

The cranky guy gave him a look. "Kevin Costner is the president of Kevin Costner Presents the People's Republic of South Florida."

"It could be worse," John pointed out. "He could be wearing a postal worker's uniform. Besides, where would you go?"

"Anywhere not populated by Goa'uld, Replicators, or, I don't know, disgusting, goopy aliens who eat human brains."

John thought he understood most of that sentence, but he glanced over at Jonas for support, who was listening to all of this intensely. "Goa'uld?"

A hush fell over the lab. "You don't know what the Goa'uld are?" one of the scientists asked, her eyes wide.

They were all looking at him like he was nuts. Cranky Scientist Guy had a tight, pinched expression on his face, like he wasn't sure whether or not he believed him. John didn't care what he thought right now, but he hated being left in the dark. "Hey, I just got here," he replied, putting his hands on his hips. "One minute I'm in Afghanistan running drills, the next I'm being flown up here to do some liaising."

Someone muttered, "Poor Major Davis." John really had to get the story on that.

"The Goa'uld," Cranky Guy began, drawing himself up straight, "are a race of parasitic aliens who rule entire star systems as gods. They pilfer technology from older, more advanced races, and use it to conquer planets and enslave the people. We, by which I mean the SG teams and myself, from a classified, secret location--" A scientist in the back coughed, and John spotted at least two of them rolling their eyes. "--have been fighting them for years."

"So they're aliens with super powers," John deducted, beginning to realize what exactly he'd gotten himself into.

"And Anubis is one of them," said Jonas.

John looked around the lab, at the cheap, bulky computers sitting in the underground bunker that looked straight out of one of those PSAs from the 60s, and thought about all the science fictions shows he'd loved, and how the people of Earth still used fossil fuels and called technical support whenever their printers ran out of ink.

"How advanced are we talking about?" he asked.

The geek squad looked shifty. Jonas picked at the skin of his apple.

"I think I need to sit down," John said.

He wasn't sure whether it was better to know what was out there or to live in ignorance. It sounded like the SGC had been fighting these Goa'uld for years while John had been playing video games and flying Apaches. His life would've been completely different had he known what was going on. Probably. Even worse, the Air Force wanted him to go out there and fight them -- fight this alien race that had essentially destroyed the planet Earth. John was a pretty optimistic guy, but the odds were really not stacked in his favour here. He'd been expecting bad guys with a level of technology along the lines of their own, when in reality Earth was getting its ass kicked.

By the time he got over the initial shock, it was time for his meeting with Landry to discuss the formation of his team. Being Air Force, John wasn't a stranger to new places, but he hadn't slept much the night before; every creak and ping had jolted him awake, reminding him he was miles under the surface. The room they'd assigned him was cold and dark, with a video camera in the corner -- which meant John was never, ever jerking off again -- and the kind of decorations he was used to seeing in cheap motels. He'd stayed awake most of the night while his stomach churned as he thought about alien invasions.

Morning came all too soon, and John walked into the briefing room feeling completely unprepared. He figured everything was fine as long as he stayed cool, despite the nauseating pit in his stomach that had been there since yesterday. It worked up until the moment he saw SG-1 sitting alongside General Landry, already deep in conversation. They fell quiet when he got close enough to be spotted.

John acknowledged them with a nod. "General. Sirs." He didn't know what to call the others. "You guys."

Along with SG-1 and General Landry, there were two people he didn't recognize at the table, sitting across from each other: a terrified-looking kid with huge eyes, and a handsome guy around John's age. Everyone was wearing the black t-shirt, green camo pants ensemble John had found waiting for him when he'd opened his door several hours ago. John took the seat between General Landry and the guy about his age. At the other end of the table, Jonas flashed him a grin, but the rest of SG-1 didn't acknowledge him.

Landry greeted him with, "You're looking a little pale, Major."

Bitterly, John wondered how relaxed Landry had looked when he'd found out there were evil aliens bent on enslaving mankind. "Just so we're clear, sir," John asked, "you want me to go through the stargate and fight Goa'uld on other planets?"

"That sounds about it," Landry replied with a smile.

John licked his lips nervously. "Do I have any choice in this?"

The smile stayed on Landry's face, but it grew cold. "Not really."

"Don't worry, you'll love it," said O'Neill, but John couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or sincere.

"Can I pick my own team?" John asked.

"No," said Landry.

"Can Jonas be on my team?" John asked.

"Yes," said Colonel O'Neill.

Landry and Major Carter both glared in O'Neill's direction. "No, Major Sheppard, I'm afraid Mr Quinn is already on a team," Landry said. "I've already decided on a team for you. In fact, we're waiting for Doctor McKay right--"

He was cut off when an all-too familiar voice drifted into the room, from the direction of the stairwell: "What's this meeting about, exactly? I cannot begin to describe how much work I have to do -- work that, if you'll remember, you assigned me so I can-- oh, hello, Major Carter." He sent her a smarmy smirk before locking eyes with John, who was trying really hard not to smack himself in the forehead.

Doctor McKay, it turned out, was Cranky Scientist Guy.

"Nice of you to join us, Doctor," Landry said dryly.

"What's this about?" McKay demanded. He pointed at John. "Why is Captain Newbie here?"

"Major Newbie," John corrected. He glanced over at Landry. "Sir, no offence, but are you serious? I can't have this guy on my team."

"I'll have you know, I'm extremely competent in high-stress situations. And 'team'? What team?" McKay looked John up and down and made a face, like he didn't like what he saw. "I thought he was a liaison," he said accusingly to Landry.

"You know what they say about assumptions, McKay," O'Neill said breezily. Major Carter ducked her head, smirking, and the kid looked back and forth between John and SG-1 like he couldn't believe where he was.

Grumbling, McKay took the seat beside the young officer -- putting him directly across from John. "What team?" McKay asked again, while John avoided eye contact.

"The team I'm putting you on," Landry replied. He folded his hands and set them on the table. "Major Sheppard, let me introduce you to Doctor Rodney McKay, Second Lieutenant Aiden Ford, and Captain Cameron Mitchell. The four of you are about to make up our newest gate team, SG-13."

"But--" John and McKay began simultaneously.

"Major, Doctor, I know neither of you have gate experience," Landry continued, raising his voice. "However, both Captain Mitchell and Lieutenant Ford do. I'm sure they'll be happy to teach you everything you need to know about interplanetary travel."

The kid -- Ford, John guessed -- swallowed thickly. Mitchell puffed up like Landry had said he was the best officer on base. McKay stared at both of them with obvious disdain.

Knowing there were two people on his team who had done this before made John feel a little better. He started to mention as much when McKay stabbed a finger in Carter's direction and shouted, "You! I knew you were up to something. All those compliments you were giving me on my ability to stay alive despite my numerous enemies -- you were just waiting to put me on one of your death teams!"

"I wasn't complimenting you," Carter said to McKay, sounding agitated. "I was calling you a cockroach."

"Your mouth says 'cockroach,' but your eyes say 'sexy man beast,'" said McKay smugly.

"'Death team,' that doesn't sound like fun," John said, trying to bring the conversation back around to the part he cared about.

"Only one guy's ever died on this team," said Jonas, in a light, teasing tone. Carter blanched, and Teal'c and O'Neill looked uncomfortable. Realizing his mistake, Jonas's eyes went wide. "Oh. Ah. Is it too soon?"

Landry raised a hand to his temple. "Doctor McKay, no one's trying to kill you. Mr Quinn, yes, it's too soon to make that joke. And, Major Carter, as much as your hate for Doctor McKay is justified--"

"Hey!" McKay said.

"--can you save those comments for outside the briefing room?"

"Yes, sir," Carter said sheepishly, staring down at the table.

Standing abruptly, Landry said, "Well, I'm going to give y'all a few minutes to get to know each other while I take some Aspirin. Suddenly I have a headache."

He went into his office but left the door open. SG-1 immediately launched a conversation between themselves. Or continued one, from the sound of it. "I don't care how much you pay me, sir, I'm not helping you cheat at a crossword puzzle," Carter was saying, and O'Neill whined, "Come on, Carter."

The first person to break the ice on John's side of the table was McKay, who eyed the top of John's head and sneered, "Nice hair, Sonic the Hedgehog."

John narrowed his eyes. "Nice bald spot, Captain Picard."

Mitchell hastily reached across the table and stuck his hand out at John. "Captain Cameron Mitchell," he announced, cutting off McKay's angry sputtering. He had a drawling Southern accent, but not the same accent as Landry's. "General Landry wants me to keep an eye on you."

From the direction of Landry's office came a low grumbling sound. John had a feeling Mitchell wasn't supposed to tell him that. He was glad Mitchell had, though; it was better to get these things out in the open. John didn't particularly like surprises.

"John Sheppard," he said with a handshake.

"I really wanted to be on SG-1," Mitchell added loudly, throwing a glance in SG-1's direction. At the far end of the table, O'Neill rolled his eyes. "I applied, but they turned me down. I guess this'll have to do for now."

"I think this is awesome, if you don't mind me saying so, sir," Ford cut in. He gave John a big, toothy smile, but he was still looking nervous. "I was on SG-8, but my team leader, Colonel Betton, didn't make it off the Mountain when Anubis attacked. I'm the last one from my team to be reassigned."

"How old are you?" McKay demanded. John was wondering the same thing, but he still didn't like McKay's tone. He couldn't believe this creep was going to be on his team.

"Twenty-two. I was recruited straight out of TBS."

The kid was a Marine. John raised his brows in surprise, and even McKay looked slightly taken aback.

"So I'm on a team with a snitch, a guy who just saw his first stargate, oh, yesterday, and a twenty-two year-old who can kill me with his pinkie," McKay said, ticking the items off with his fingers. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, this is fucking great. Why don't I just shoot myself in the head now and get it over with?"

"Yeah, why don't you?" Mitchell muttered under his breath.

"Wait a minute," John protested, lightly hitting a fist on the table to get their attention. "Where's this negativity coming from? We haven't even had our first mission yet. I don't see why we can't be the first team to kill some of these Goa'uld whatchamicallits."

"SG-1 has killed sixteen," Mitchell pointed out.

"Well, hey, that means we have a chance," John said enthusiastically. He beamed at his new teammates, at Ford, who was wincing, at Mitchell, who had a frown on his face, and at McKay, whose contemptuous expression still had not changed.

That was when Landry returned to the meeting. Taking his seat at the head of the table, he said, "I hope everyone has had a chance to talk. Now, Major Sheppard, let's discuss the dangers you're going to face on this mission," and John felt his grin fade.

*

SG-13's first mission was to escort a group of diplomats, ambassadors, and world-building UN types to a secure location on another planet. John had soon discovered the reason SG-1 had been at the briefing was because they had some experience with the people who currently inhabited the world; apparently the natives (aliens!) were happy and peaceful and not at all dangerous, according to Jonas and Major Carter, something which John was looking forward to (Mitchell had been disappointed). All his team had to do was make sure their group got to the pre-determined location without any scary bad guys getting them. As far as first missions went, it sounded like a walk in the park.

John could barely hold down his jittery excitement as he dressed in his gear and mozied over to the Embarkation Room. McKay was already there when he arrived, staring at the stargate with a look of dread on his face. His tac vest and camo gear looked out of place, and the pristine black cap on his head was obviously brand new. When he noticed John he looked like he wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried.

"Nervous?" John asked.

McKay's mouth flattened into an even thinner line. "No, of course not. Just because I'm a scientist and shouldn't be going on an away mission in the first place doesn't mean I'm nervous." He shuffled his feet. "Are you?"

John gazed up at the stone ring that was about to send him via an artificial wormhole halfway across the galaxy. "Nah," he said.

"How nice it must be, being you," McKay said with a glare.

John smirked. He was about to reply when the doors opened, and in walked General Landry, Mitchell, Ford, and five people John didn't know. "Major Sheppard will personally ensure you reach your destination safely," Landry was saying, indicating John.

All of them looked petrified, with the exception of a tall, thin woman with wavy hair, who was gazing at the gate, clearly awed by what she was seeing. John definitely understood how she felt. He smiled at her, and she smiled back shakily.

Even though he had already seen the stargate in action, when it was activated, his breath caught. He stared at the rippling wormhole a long time before he realized the other people in the room were looking at him expectantly. Landry raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at the gate, and John grimaced.

"Right," he said, trying to smile, "let's get this show on the road."

He walked up the platform, Ford at his heels. Up close, the wormhole looked solid, not at all like something he could pass through. It was terrifying.

"Does it hurt?" John asked quietly. Ford had been through the gate plenty of times; it couldn't have been that bad if people did it every day.

"Like hell, sir," Ford said, face grim, bursting John's bubble.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he heard McKay ask, but when he turned McKay was talking to Landry, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look happy.

John swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, taking a step forward. He felt the rest of his body tugged through the event horizon, and a disorienting moment later, a cool breeze ruffled his hair. When he opened his eyes, the dirt path and rolling hills in front of him told him he was definitely not at the SGC anymore.

He was still gaping when the rest of his team and the diplomats came through. McKay was the last person to arrive, stumbling out of the gate like he'd been pushed from the other side.

"--Dim-witted cretin!" McKay was shouting. He stopped and looked around, blinking rapidly. "Huh."

John's first alien planet was disappointingly similar to Earth, from the clear blue skies to the boreal trees. But still, there he was, on another planet light-years away from the one he'd been standing on just minutes before. The future was awesome. Already, he knew the stargate was going to be his favourite new way to travel. He heard a low murmur coming from the diplomats; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford and Mitchell exchange grins.

Ford walked up beside John. "The beta site's on the other end of this path, sir."

John sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the butterflies in his stomach. He nodded. "Right," he said. "This way, folks."

The trail followed the natural shape of the terrain, which meant they zigged and zagged through the woods for a good while. The sun on his face felt great; John hadn't been in weather this nice for nearly a year. At one point, they passed a large, metal box that reminded John of electrical boxes people had on their lawns, except he couldn't figure out what it was doing in between two trees. McKay eyed it as well, narrowing his eyes, but he didn't try to stop and look at it.

Not long after, John heard a series of strange, unfamiliar sounds in the distance. He signalled for his team to halt.

"Goa'uld staff weapons," Mitchell said in alarm. He and Ford raised their P-90s, looking in every direction.

"I thought there was a shield around the gate and compound," John said.

McKay blanched. "The shield must be down. That was probably the thing we passed earlier." He swung his backpack around to his chest and rummaged inside before pulling out a tool kit. "I can fix it."

"You can?" John asked worriedly. McKay had to be pretty smart to work at the SGC, but this was alien technology they were talking about here. "Are you sure?"

McKay glared. "I realize we don't know each other very well, Major, but trust me, I can fix anything."

"Major Sheppard," asked one of the diplomats, "are we safe?"

John looked at the terrified faces of the people he was supposed to protect. He made up his mind. "Lieutenant Ford, go with McKay," he ordered. "The rest of us will head towards the beta site. You get in any trouble, call us."

"Sir, yes, sir," Ford said enthusiastically.

With John in front and Mitchell in the rear, the group headed towards the drop off point. John kept his eyes and ears out for anything suspicious, but the only thing he knew to look for were armoured guys holding big sticks. If the Goa'uld were as advanced as McKay had said they were, then they probably had a few more surprised up their sleeves.

"Major Sheppard?" came McKay's voice from John's walky-talky. "I need-- ow! I need an assistant."

"What's going on?" John asked, coming to a stop.

"I'm at the shield generator. I need someone to hold the front panel open while I work. I'd ask the Lieutenant to do it, but it's very crucial right now that he protect me. I'm an invaluable member of the SGC."

John couldn't afford to leave the diplomats unprotected like that. Dividing his team in half was bad enough; he didn‘t think it was a good idea to let Mitchell go as well. While he tried to think up something, the thin, dark-haired woman who'd smiled at him earlier stepped forward. "I'll do it," she said, raising her chin high.

"Dr Weir, I must protest!" one of the men exclaimed.

"The sooner we get the generator fixed, the sooner we'll be safely indoors, Simon," she said fiercely. "We're sitting ducks out here."

"I can't let you do that," John said. She was a civilian, for crying out loud.

Weir stiffened. "Major, I assure you, I‘m--"

"Y'all," Mitchell said abruptly, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…" He pointed at the sky over John's shoulder. "Deathgliders."

John braced himself and turned, afraid of what he was about to see. It was just as bad as he'd expected; he had always thought his first time seeing a spaceship would be a happy one, but when he saw four small, sleek, and definitely deadly ships running a patrol, he had a sinking feeling.

"You don't have much of a choice," Weir said to him. She put her hand on his arm, expression softening. "I'll be fine."

"I guess you don't want this shield fixed," McKay butted in impatiently.

Angrily, John snapped at McKay, "Dr Weir's coming, hold your horses."

Weir took off down the path, while John and Mitchell hurried the rest of the diplomats in the opposite direction. Moments later, the Deathgliders were back, except this time one of the them broke away and headed in John's direction. They were busted. He thought, Shit, and said, "McKay, we've been spotted."

"I'm working on it," snapped McKay.

John looked at Mitchell. "Do bullets have any effect on these things?"

"If they fly low enough, yeah," Mitchell said, but he didn't look confident.

Together, they pushed the civilians back into the trees and aimed at the ship. But it was no use; she soared overhead, firing lasers directly at them. The ground shook where the lasers hit it, puffs of smoke rising from each new hole in the ground. The ship disappeared, probably to swing back around and finish them off, and that was when John saw the three other ships, most likely having been alerted to their location by the first one, coming straight for them.

"McKay, we need that shield up now," he shouted into his walky-talky.

"I've just about-- Aha!" McKay exclaimed, and just in time, too: two of the ships fired at once, and it bounced harmlessly off an invisible bubble over their heads. John heard a few relieved gasps from the civilians behind him. He was pretty relieved himself.

"Good work, McKay," he called.

"Yes, of course. Genius here." There were the low sounds of talking, and then McKay added, grudgingly, "And I suppose some credit goes to Dr Weir and Lieutenant Ford for assisting me."

They made it to the beta site in record time, where Ford suddenly and astonishingly took out every single enemy combatant. John finally got why Landry had put Ford on his team; in the time it took him and McKay to get rid of the Jaffa standing guard over the local military officers, Ford had made it through all three levels of the stone fort.

John and Mitchell stared. "You got all of them?" John asked, a little strangled.

"Yes, sir," Ford said cheerfully. He casually brushed something off his sleeve that looked like brains.

"Jarheads," Mitchell said, shaking his head.

The local general took Ford's hands. "You have our thanks, young man," he cried. He was an older man with a deeply lined face. Like the rest of his people, he was wearing a high-collared robe that belted at the middle. For an alien, he looked surprisingly human. John was pretty disillusioned by the whole thing.

"I'm the one who fixed your shield," McKay said cheekily. "And I shot somebody!"

"We will escort your people to our capitol city, where they will be quite safe," said the general, still addressing Ford.

McKay looked pissed. "Must be tough, not getting the recognition you deserve," John said dryly.

Sniffing, McKay replied, "Exactly. You'd think, as the smartest person in the galaxy, I would-- Oh, I see what you're doing. Very funny, Major."

On the way out, John caught a glimpse of Weir deep in discussion with one of the native officers and another diplomat. He caught her eye and flashed a smile; she waved back.

Halfway back to the gate, Mitchell said, "Good work, sir."

John looked for a sign Mitchell was pulling his leg, but, surprisingly, he looked sincere. Nodding, John said, "You too, Captain."

"Did you see me back there?" he heard McKay ask Ford. "I shot one of the Jaffa in the leg. How much of a badass does that make me?"

*

"Come on, Rodney," John said. "I thought you said you wanted to be home in time for lunch."

They were wading through an endless sea of brown and green grass that was almost as tall as he was. It stretched for miles and miles. John stopped to allow McKay to catch up. Behind him, he could make out the faint signs of a village, but it looked impossibly far away; in the direction he and McKay were headed was a huge man with dreadlocks, and John could just about make out the coppery top of a woman's head. The man kept glancing down at her and chuckling, the sound carried back to John by the wind.

Rodney hurried to John's side, panting and red-faced. "Not all of us have your freakishly long limbs, Colonel."

John raised an eyebrow. "We're practically the same height."

Scowling, but still flushed, Rodney said, "Yes, but I'm much more well-proportioned than you are."

"Hey, I'm proportionate," John protested, glancing down at his body.

"I have two words for you: chicken legs."

John rolled his eyes, even though McKay wouldn't be able to see it behind his sunglasses. "Quit your belly-aching, we're almost to the gate."

As he said it, they reached the top of the hill, and the stargate came into view. It was resting on a high stone platform; engraved steps on all four sides disappeared into the grass.

"Finally," McKay sighed, wincing and pressing a hand against his side.

The man and woman they were traveling with waited for them on the steps, guns drawn and aimed behind Rodney and John. McKay ambled over to the DHD, muttering under his breath.

"Do you think Weir will be mad we destroyed their government?" the guy in dreads asked. His face was blank, but he sounded amused.

"No," John replied. He paused. "Well, maybe a little."

"John," the woman called urgently.

John turned in time to narrowly miss an arrow landing on his foot. At that moment, McKay finished dialling and the wormhole formed, the tail end barely reaching the edge of the platform. Another wave of arrows hit the stone floor, ricocheting off in every direction, causing McKay to yelp loudly and the woman to determinedly fire into the grass.

John reached up and turned on his radio, shouting, "Atlantis, this is Sheppard. We're coming in hot."

"You have a go, Colonel," said a voice in his ear.

McKay and the woman jumped through the wormhole together, and John and the big guy threw themselves against the far side of the platform just as a wave of arrows plummeted down on where his team had just been standing, effectively blocking them from getting through the gate. John counted to three, raised his head, and fired in the direction the arrows had come from, satisfied by the cries of alarm coming from the field. The other guy did the same, but he had some kind of cool laser pistol.

"Wonder what we did to piss them off," John yelled, and the man gave him a look.

After they'd been arrow-free for three minutes, John turned to his teammate and said, "On my count, make a run for the gate."

The man nodded. "And you'll be right behind me." It wasn't a question.

"You betcha," John replied. He braced himself for a moment, and then pushed up on his knees, shooting down into the grass. Before John even finished firing the last bullet, the other guy leapt to his feet and jumped, from exactly where he was standing, into the wormhole.

John gaped for a second. Then he realized there were no answering arrows, and he took a running leap for the event horizon, and--

John awoke with a start.

He blinked up at the cement ceiling; for an instant, he didn't remember where he was, but the hard mattress and chilly air brought him back to reality. That had been one intense dream. He'd felt the grass as he'd walked through it, he'd known those people, and Weir -- that had been the woman from his first offworld mission, hadn't it? The last time he'd had a dream that vivid had been the day he'd gotten his assignment, a month ago, and all he remembered about that was a city on an ocean.

December had been relatively quiet. John's team had gone through the gate four times since that first mission, each one slightly more sticky than the one before it, but nothing they couldn't handle. Even McKay was starting to bitch less and less. In the past three weeks, his team had been trapped in a cave (John and Ford), nearly cannibalized (McKay), married to an alien princess (Ford again), and stabbed (Mitchell, in the foot). From what John understood, this was pretty typical of the gate teams. One of the medical doctors -- a pretty but scary lady -- was practically an honourary member of SG-1. (John never got her during his post-mission physicals; he was always stuck with this chatty Scottish guy who liked to lecture him on how much he was eating, or not eating, or what he was eating, or something; John just smiled, nodded, and let his mind wander.) Most of Earth's leaders had been shipped off to other worlds with the help of other various gate teams, and SG-13's recent four missions had all been recon.

At least his team didn't get the kinds of missions SG-1 did. Jonas would disappear sometimes for days at a time and come back looking worn out. John found him on several occasions hunched over his desk, reading book after book in strange, alien languages. The rest of SG-1 wasn't much better. John had heard from McKay that Major Carter liked to lock herself into her lab, alone, and whenever John saw Colonel O'Neill in the corridors the man pretended not to recognize him. Teal'c remained as mysterious as ever.

Despite the coolness of being able to go to other planets, being a member of the SGC was kind of boring. There wasn't much for John to do when he wasn't gearing up for a mission, especially since he didn't have many excuses to go to the surface. He'd gone up a few times to check out the bookstores in Alzamay and Nizhneudinsk, but getting back and forth had been such a hassle, it wasn't worth it. He'd also gone skiing twice with Ford, but Ford kind of talked a lot, and apparently it looked bad to request to go skiing alone -- something about moles in the SGC, or something.

When he ran out of his own books, he started asking around. Luckily, Jonas had a library in his office, a tiny, cluttered room on level eighteen. It was more accurate to say Jonas's library contained an office; books covered the room from top to bottom, on shelves, on tables, and even on the floor. He also had a tv, on which he was constantly changing the channel to find a news station with the weather. (John could've predicted the weather for him: snow, snow, clouds of ash, more snow.) He didn't seem to notice, or care, most of the channels were still running old episodes of Russian soaps.

The morning of his dream, a cold, January day, John went to see if Jonas had anything to read in English. He would've even settled for manuals at this point. He was thinking about maybe teaching himself Russian, or reading up on stargates so he could surprise McKay the next time McKay lectured them on wormhole travel -- anything to distract him from the intensity of that dream. There was something about it he couldn't shake off.

Atlantis, he thought dully on his way to Jonas's office. Why did he have a weird feeling about that?

He found Jonas studying something that looked like a stone tablet. He was popping green grapes into his mouth, one by one. Today his tv was turned to Russia's Channel One, which was telling John the weather outside was a cool minus forty-three Celsius.

"Knock, knock," John said, leaning against the door frame.

"John," Jonas said brightly. He tucked his pencil behind his ear.

"Mind if I borrow a book?"

Jonas looked amused. "Be my guest. I might even have a few fiction ones over there." He gestured to the far right corner of the room, where the books were a little less faded and weather-beaten than the rest.

"I've never heard of these," John murmured, scanning the titles. There were a few in Russian and French, but most of them were in languages he didn't recognize.

"It would be strange if you did, considering they're from another planet," said Jonas, chuckling.

"Cool," said John, pulling one from the shelf. He had no idea if the squiggles were supposed to be read right to left or left to right. "Which planet is this one from?"

"Mine."

John's head snapped up.

A smile tugged at Jonas's lips. He looked delighted by John's surprise. "I'm from Langara. I met SG-1 when they came through our stargate last year."

"And they let you on their team?" John asked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard someone refer to aliens -- or humans not from Earth, John guessed, or else really human-looking aliens -- in a way that wasn't borderline-xenophobic. John didn't have any problems with people from other planets himself, even if most of his missions ended with his team getting shot at; he'd figured all societies had their good and bad. It must've been a big deal for SG-1 to have an alien on their team.

"Well, they already had Teal'c..."

John's mouth dropped open. "Teal'c's an alien too?"

Jonas frowned at him.

He was still dwelling on this new information when he went to the mess to get lunch. Suddenly it made sense why Jonas didn't have his PhDs on his wall like the other scientists and anthropologists, and why he had smiled blankly at most of John's jokes. Those had been some funny jokes, too.

Disappointingly, his detour to Jonas's office had put him just in time for the lunch rush, and the mess was bustling with activity. He tucked the physics book he'd borrowed under his arm and joined the line.

A few minutes later, he was scouting for a free table. He wanted one to himself, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. Mitchell had his t-shirt sleeves rolled up and was talking to a pretty blonde at his very populated table; Ford, at another table, was laughing at something one of his young friends was saying. John caught a glimpse of O'Neill near the door, doing what looked like paperwork, but the prospect of sitting with him was too scary. There were a few other people John recognized, but no one he really knew well. And wow, he was just realizing he'd been at the SGC for three weeks and knew the names of less than fifteen people. He wasn't going to be winning any popularity contests anytime soon.

Finally, he spotted the perfect place to sit.

As soon as John set down his tray, McKay snapped, "Funny, Major, I don't remember saying you could sit here."

While John contemplated whether he should leave and eat in his office or stay and annoy the crap out of McKay, McKay stammered, "Sorry, sorry, of course you can sit here." He pushed some of his papers aside to make more room. "Sorry," he repeated. "I'm a little on edge right now."

"Anything I can do to help?" John asked, eying McKay's half-empty coffee mug. McKay really needed to see a shrink or something.

"Not unless you can postpone Major Carter's latest paper while I finish mine. She's three ahead of me now. Three! It's humiliating."

John took a bite of his Chicken Surprise. "So that Major Carter's pretty smart, huh?"

The outraged expression on McKay's face was pretty funny. He stared at John furiously for a long pause and then said, "Oh, I see what this is. You're trying to goad me. Well, it's not going to work."

They ate quietly for a few minutes. McKay pointedly snorted at John when he set the physics book down beside his tray, but John was determined to ignore it. Instead, he contemplated what he'd just learned. Jonas didn't act like the kinds of aliens John had imagined when he was a kid. He wasn't a Spock or a Chewbacca or a Dalek. He was kind of like a Luke Skywalker though; Luke Skywalker had started out as a normal guy.

"Did you know Jonas is from another planet?" John asked as casually as possible.

McKay's brows rose. "Yes, of course I did."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" John demanded. He felt like an idiot.

"I've been calling him 'that little alien guy' for weeks," Rodney said disbelievingly, which didn't make John feel better at all.

"I thought maybe he was Canadian or something," John exclaimed.

McKay scowled. "I'm Canadian."

"You think you know a guy," John said sullenly, and McKay's scowl deepened. "Anyway, he told me he'd replaced someone, how was I supposed to know he wasn't from Earth? He implied the guy died."

"That's right. Radiation poisoning," McKay explained, expression grim. "Horrible way to go, if you ask me."

"Just like Spock," John agreed, digging into his green beans. They tasted stale, like they'd been frozen for too long.

McKay froze mid-motion, fork inches away from his lips. "Just like-- how did you--? I said the same thing when I found out."

A month ago, having the same reaction as McKay would've pissed him off. But either McKay was less of an asshole now, or John had gotten used to him -- or maybe both -- because instead he felt pleasantly surprised. "I've got MechAssult for Xbox," John found himself saying. "You wanna play a few games?"

McKay blinked and lowered his fork. He looked bewildered. "I-- Yes. Okay."

*

"Major Sheppard, can I help you with something?"

John had been standing outside General Landry's office for a better part of an hour, waiting for the man to finish his numerous daily phone calls. Everyone on base knew what those calls were: the only way prime ministers, congressmen, presidents, vice presidents, ministers, and other stately heads could get orders to their nations (the ones that hadn't descending into chaos, at least) was via the stargate, and vice-versa. John had heard from Mitchell, who'd heard it from Sergeant Silar, who'd heard it from Sergeant Harriman, that Landry had been forced to cut back on offworld missions to make room for the daily transmissions, which were beamed to the SGC and then sent out to the governments for which they were intended.

Landry was poking his head out the door and waiting for John's reply. John straightened up from his slouch against the wall. "Sir, if I could talk to you privately..." he started.

With a sigh, Landry gestured for him to come in. John took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. On the desk itself was a framed photo of an Asian woman and a girl in her twenties. This must be Landry's family, John realized. Their absence was probably a bad sign. Maybe that explained why Landry was such an asshole.

"What did you need to talk to me about?" Landry asked, taking the chair behind the desk.

John hesitated. He must've been nuts, asking Landry something from a dream, but it was really bothering him -- he'd felt like he'd heard the name Atlantis before, and not from any ancient myth about a lost city. It was the same feeling that told him his dream wasn't an ordinary dream. Since it was Landry's job to read every mission report from every team, if anyone in the SGC knew, it would be him.

"This is going to sound weird," John said, squirming, "but have you ever heard of something called 'Atlantis'?"

He expected Landry to laugh it off, or to ask him if he was cracking from the pressure of being a team leader, but something changed in Landry's face. "Just that old myth," Landry said with an obvious forced casualness.

He was lying.

John stared at him incredulously, until Landry said, "Anything else, Major?"

"You've never heard of Atlantis?" John repeated.

"No, I haven't." Landry's voice was cool. "Was that all?"

It wasn't until he was on the way back to his quarters that John started to get angry. Landry had flat-out lied to him, and for what? What was Atlantis? Did it have something to do with Anubis, was that why he didn't want John to know? Even if that was the case, it was John's dream, he had the right to know what was happening in his own head. The only reason he could see for Landry not telling John was because he didn't trust him. Well, that was fine, because John sure as hell didn't trust him. John had had plenty of COs just like him.

"Major Sheppard," an unfamiliar voice called.

"What?" John seethed, turning around.

To his surprise, a man was hurrying down the otherwise empty corridor to catch up with him. He had short blond hair and dark eyes, and he was wearing a full dress uniform. A thin, white scar ran from under his eye to his jaw. He didn't look familiar at all. "Do we know each other?" John asked.

"We should know each other very well," the officer said eagerly, slightly out of breath. Now John recognized he had a Russian accent -- and his English wasn't too great, either. "I am Major Viktor Damurchiev, representing the Russian Federation in this fine place."

"Nice to meet you," John replied automatically. But he wondered if it was okay for them to be talking; no one had bothered to tell him exactly how much Russia and the United States were "cooperating" with each other. For all he knew, the SGC was undergoing a second Cold War and John was violating all sorts of unspoken rules. As pissed as he was, bringing down the SGC really wasn't in his agenda for the day. He'd kind of gotten used to going through the gate.

"How'd you know who I was?" he asked.

"Everyone knows you, Major Sheppard. You are often a subject of conversation in the mess."

John stiffened. "Oh, is that right?" He wondered what was being said about him -- probably nothing good. He guessed as long as no one was speculating about his sexuality it wasn't really important what they were saying. That didn't make it any better to hear, however.

Lowering his voice, Viktor said, "I am wondering, if you will answer, why is it you were brought here."

John blinked. "What do you mean?"

Viktor glanced side to side before stepping even closer and replying, "I have seen your record. There is nothing special there. Other SGC officers, they are at the top of their class. You are a good pilot, yes, but you were not brought here to fly airplanes through the stargate. Is this not right?"

"That's right," John said carefully, although it wasn't like the same thing hadn't crossed his mind. "What are you trying to imply, Major?"

"The old SGC leader, General Hammond, he was open with my commander, Colonel Chekov. This General Landry is most secretive."

It was nice to know John wasn't the only one Landry was frustrating. "Look, I don't know what to tell you," he said frankly. "I just go where I'm assigned. If General Landry has some ulterior motive, I don't know it. I don't know anything! I don't know how we got a stargate, I don't know how we got to be in this intergalactic war, I don't know anyone who works here, and I seriously, honest to God, don't know why they picked me for a gate team."

Despite John's outburst, Viktor's eyes narrowed. "I--" He poked John in the chest. "--do not believe you."

John put his hands on his hips. "Fine," he sneered, drawing the word out.

Viktor wasn't intimidated. He started to stomp off, looking incensed, medals on his chest clinking with every heavy step, when something occurred to John.

"Hey," John called. Viktor turned, looking curious. "Have you heard anything about something called 'Atlantis'?"

He waited for the same flicker of recognition he'd seen on Landry's face, but it never came. "No, I have not," Viktor replied, disappointingly. "Is that a... what do you call it, code word?"

"I wish I knew," John said, disgruntled.

By his team's next mission, a week later, John was having doubts. Maybe he'd been so eager to find a reason for having such a weird dream he'd imagined Landry's reaction. Since then, he hadn't had another one; just his usual, muddled dreams about flying and clowns and showing up to work naked. It didn't make sense that Landry could know something that was happening in John's head. It was impossible.

His conversation with Major Damurchiev had only increased his uncertainty. Obviously, Landry was acting shady around the Russians, too. For all John knew, he was just one of those guys who always seemed to be up to something.

John was half-listening to McKay detailing how badly he was going to kick John's ass at chess when Landry entered the briefing room. He clicked a remote, and a digital image from the MALP jumped on the projection screen.

"Gentlemen, your mission is to pick me a flower from this seemingly unguarded field."

"Why would it be guarded?" John asked.

Landry smiled. "Yes, why would it be guarded?"

"That didn't really answer my--"

"Wait one minute," McKay interrupted loudly. "You want us to pick you a flower?"

John was behind Rodney one hundred percent with this, but he was glad Landry's cool gaze was directed in his teammate's direction instead of his own this time. "Yes, that's exactly what I want," said Landry.

McKay didn't seem to notice the temperature of the room had dropped ten degrees. "Is this a magical flower?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"McKay!" Mitchell hissed. "Shut your pie hole."

The flower, to no one‘s surprise, was on a planet run by the Goa'uld. The field wasn't guarded, but the crumbling stone temples between it and the gate were; as soon as John plucked the flower, about a dozen Jaffa appeared out of nowhere, weapons drawn. The team managed to get off a few shots of their own before hiding behind one of the temple remains.

At least half of the Jaffa were dead when John heard, over the sounds of gunfire, a cracking noise. McKay shouted, "Watch out!" and rammed into John. The force of it knocked both of them over, and a heavy stone -- which would have landed right on top of John -- crashed harmlessly to the ground. Unfortunately, then part of the temple broke off and trapped the two of them between it and what was left of the temple wall, cutting them off from the fight.

While they were waiting to be rescued, John asked, sitting on the ground and staring at the sky, "What was the point of this mission?"

McKay looked unhappy. John nudged him with his foot. "Thanks for, you know. Trying to save me."

"Of course I'd try to save you," McKay said. One corner of his mouth curled downwards. "We're-- we're teammates. We're friends. Aren't we? I mean, not Ford and Mitchell and myself, but you and I are, right?"

"Yeah," John said, both touched and surprised -- at McKay, and at himself. "We're friends."

The thing was, John didn't have a lot of friends. There were plenty of people who liked him -- there had been a couple of guys at Bagram he'd played chess with, and he and Holland had started hanging out after one memorable PS2 NFL tournament -- but he'd never really felt like he was part of anything, and there had never been anyone with whom he'd really connected. Dex and Mitch had always had his back, even when he'd done things they didn't approve of (like sneak around with Holland), but he was pretty sure the only time they'd ever taken him seriously was in the field. And they hadn't been the only ones who'd treated him that way. It was something John had always had trouble understanding, because seriously, he was such a cool guy.

He knew exactly who to blame for all his problems. "Sometimes I have so many feelings," a teenage John had once said to his father. "Keep it to yourself," his dad had replied.

For some reason, knowing McKay didn't have many -- if any -- friends, and yet considered John one, made John, well, feel kind of close to him, in a way he never expected. Part of him wanted to ignore it, but another part of him couldn't stop thinking about the sincere look on McKay's face.

That look haunted him for the next few days. On the third day, Mitchell knocked on his door at seven AM and asked if he wanted to go for a jog.

"When you said 'jog,' I thought you meant around a track," John panted as they ran through level twelve side-by-side. They'd passed John's door four times by now. "Why don't we go to the gym on level thirteen?"

"I don't run with Russians," Mitchell said darkly. "They smell like potatoes."

"I guess that's as good a reason as any," John said slowly, eyes on the wall ahead.

When they stopped for a water break outside the communal toilet, John found himself leaning his hands on his knees and asking, "Hey, Mitchell, how well do you know McKay?"

Mitchell gave him an odd look as he towelled the sweat off his brow. "I know he used to work for Area 51 and got sent here because he pissed off General Landry and Major Carter. Teal'c got stuck in the stargate--"

"Hold on, that can happen?" John asked worriedly. No one had ever told him you could die in the stargate. Sure, near, in front of, behind, and in the general vicinity of, but not in.

Mitchell ran a hand through his short, damp hair. "Nah, not that often, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, Teal'c got stuck, and McKay wanted to turn off the stargate, which would've--"

"Killed him," John finished with a dawning realization. No wonder Carter hated him. Well, that, and he was annoying. "Did McKay ever, you know, apologize?"

"McKay, apologize?" Mitchell replied with a snort, which was all the answer John needed. "No one likes him. Get this, they sent him here so they'd never have to deal with him again, and then everyone had to come here after Anubis... A lot of people were pissed. A couple of the geeks were from Area 51 and had to work with him back in the day. They say he's not any better now. I reckon General Landry put him on our team hoping he'd get a staff weapon to the face."

John frowned. "How do you know all this?"

"I talk to people. People talk to me. It's not hard. You oughta try it sometime."

"Hey, I talk to people," John said indignantly.

"No, you talk to Aiden, Quinn, and me," corrected Mitchell. "I know you don't like people, but you should try being more social. The future Mrs Sheppard could be out there."

The last Mrs Sheppard hadn't spoken to him since he'd cheated on her with her brother, but John had a feeling it wasn't a good idea to share that with Mitchell, not unless he wanted everyone else at the SGC to know too. (Also, she was probably dead, so he would have felt bad talking about her like that.) Instead, he bent down and took his time tying and retying his laces.

"Man, listen to me," Mitchell said fondly. "I sound like my mom."

He went quiet, and John cringed; Mitchell's family had been in Kansas, which was currently under several hundred feet of nuclear-poisoned earth and water. He diligently pretended to work on a knot.

When he stood back up, Mitchell was draining the last of his water bottle, but his eyes were sad. "What's up with all the questions, anyway?" Mitchell asked.

John shrugged. "I think I should spend more time with him. As team leader," he added awkwardly. He didn't feel embarrassed, exactly, but he felt weird about Mitchell knowing he and McKay were friends.

"Great, losers unite," Mitchell said. John glowered at him, but Mitchell didn't seem to care.

This time when they reached John's door again, Mitchell decided they were done for the day. Good-naturedly, he called as he headed towards the elevators, "You have fun with McKay. I'm gonna go sit in the mess and gaze longingly over at SG-1's table. See you later, alligator."

John rolled his eyes -- and he'd called John a loser -- and headed inside for a shower.

*

Most of the lab doors on level nineteen were closed, but one or two were open; on his way to visit McKay, John passed one room where a few scientists were territorially circling some kind of cylindrical, glowy rock while debating matter. As he approached McKay's lab a single, angry-sounding voice got louder and louder. Suddenly, the door slammed open and out ran two terrified-looking scientists, almost knocking into John.

"Whoa there," he said, catching Dr Lee's glasses before they hit the floor.

"Thanks," said Lee. He put them back on his nose, where they perched crookedly. He didn't seem to notice. "Dr McKay's in quite a mood."

"Major Carter figured out something before he did," explained the other scientist, Dr Rode, wringing her hands.

"Well, I don't know why he's so upset," Lee said indignantly. "Someone was bound to realize sooner or later it used zero point energy. If it hadn't been Major Carter it would have been someone else. Maybe even me."

"Or me," Rode said, narrowing her eyes.

John ducked into McKay's lab as they started arguing among themselves. As soon as the door shut, McKay sneered, "What can you idiots possibly-- oh, it's you."

"Just me," John replied lightly.

John had only been in there a few times, but he was unsurprised to see the lab a total wreck. Empty pudding and Jell-O cups, gnawed-on pencils, and files littered the tables. A half-finished equation was on the white board. On the opposite wall, an empty can of Folgers was turned over on the bookshelf. McKay was hunched over a laptop and glaring.

"Hurricane McKay strikes again, I see," John said.

"Funny," McKay said. His t-shirt today said 'I'm Huge in Japan,' and it was a little snug around his arms, which suddenly looked a lot stronger than John had realized.

John, trying to keep his eyes off McKay's arms or chest or shoulders, tried peering around McKay's laptop. "Whatcha doing?"

"Something far too important for you to understand," McKay scoffed, moving his laptop so John couldn't see what was on it. "Why are you here?"

If John hadn't known McKay secretly wanted to be his best friend, he would've been hurt. "Just wanted to see what you were up to," he replied. "I thought you might want to go running with me in the mornings."

"I don't know who it was who told you I work out, but they were lying," McKay said shortly, giving him the stink eye.

"No one told me. I figured you might want to, you know, hang out."

"Oh." McKay looked thoughtful. "I'm not in the mood to give myself a heart attack, but we could do something else, maybe?"

Was McKay coming onto him? "I, uh..."

McKay reached under his bench and took out a cardboard box, setting it on the table. He dug around for a moment, then pulled out two of the Star Trek movies. A quick peek told John there were a bunch of DVDs in there. "How do you feel about Star Trek: The Original Series?"

John wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. "That depends," he said instead, leaning a hip against the bench. "We don't have to watch the one with the whales, do we?"

McKay snorted. "Only if we're trying to punish ourselves. Quick: who was originally up for the role of Spock?"

"Martin Landau," John replied automatically.

McKay looked impressed. "Congratulations, you've just outed yourself as a Trekkie."

"I believe the term is Trekker," John said.

Together, the two of them carted McKay's laptop to an unoccupied lounge ("Supposedly, this is for my so-called peers," McKay explained, "but I don't think anyone ever uses it") and watched two Star Trek movies and The Matrix. It had been a long time since John had hung out with someone who knew about his love of sci-fi and didn't think it was lame. During a heated argument over which Star Trek movie was the best -- John's vote was for The Wrath of Khan, but McKay's personal favourite was The Search for Spock -- John realized this was the most fun he'd had in months. McKay was still a jerk; he kept insulting John and their team and the other SGC personnel offhandedly, like he didn't even notice he was doing it, but it wasn't nearly as irritating as it had been a month ago. In fact, now it was kind of funny. They'd played Xbox together just last week, and chess a few days before, but things were a lot easier between them now since McKay had admitted John was his friend.

As soon as McKay stopped to take a breath, John said, happily, "It's nice we can talk like this."

"Whoa," said Rodney, holding up his hands, "let's not ruin the moment with feelings, okay?"

Movies turned into chess, chess turned into MechaAssult, MechaAssult turned into sitting around and just hanging out, and by the end of the week, they were eating meals together and writing emails to each other when they should've been working. It was strange McKay was the first one on the team John was the most comfortable with, but, well, McKay was his age and liked a lot of the same stuff (except sports; he was pretty adamant about that), why shouldn't they spend time together? It beat getting pitying looks from Sergeant Harriman whenever he caught John eating alone.

"The defense didn't cover the receiver because he didn't think the quarterback could throw that far," John was saying on the walk back to his quarters from a team pow-wow late one night, two weeks after almost getting his ass kicked over a flower.

"You realize I don't care about any of this, right?" McKay asked crossly. He looked offended. "Who the hell likes Star Trek and football?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Me, that's who. Come on, what's not to love about football? It's real, it's unpredictable, it's full of passion and... beer... and hotdogs..."

"Cheerleaders," McKay agreed. He smiled blissfully, caught up in some memory John didn't want to know anything about.

They reached John's door soon enough, but when McKay didn't show any signs of leaving John said pointedly, "Night, McKay."

McKay blinked, freezing. "Oh. Yes. Right, I'll see you tomorrow then." He wandered back towards the elevators, muttering to himself.

John couldn't help laughing as he got ready for bed, first brushing his teeth in the restroom down the hall and then tossing his BDU pants in his overflowing hamper. He tried reading another chapter of a book he's borrowed from Jonas -- something about Ancient Egyptian religion, but at least it was in English -- but three paragraphs in his eyes started to droop. The book slipped from his hands, but he was too tired to set it back on the nightstand...

"Come on, what are the odds of me having the same gene as these guys?" John asked.

Much to the Scottish guy's obvious horror, John took a seat in the freaky blue chair. As soon as his ass touched the seat, the back reclined, startling him. The armrests under his hands lit up, and blue tinged his vision; the back of the chair had probably lit up too. The Scottish guy yelped, "Dr Weir! Don't move!" he lectured John, holding out a hand like he expect John to leap from the chair, and then he scurried off.

John couldn't get up if he tried. While he stared at the domed ceiling, frozen in place, several people ran up to him: Rodney, Scottish Guy, O'Neill, Weir, and a familiar-looking man wearing round glasses, all with identical shocked expressions.

"Who is this?" asked Weir. She was gazing at John like he was too good to be true.

"I said don't touch anything," said O'Neill, sounding pissed.

John was in so much trouble. "I-- I just sat down," he explained.

Rodney, looking like he'd packed on a few pounds and dressed in a puffy orange vest, instructed clearly, "Major, think about where we are in the solar system."

John did. In the empty space above him, a beautiful digital image of the solar system formed. It came out of nowhere, but McKay looked like he'd expected it.

"Did I do that?" John asked worriedly.

They all started talking at once. Rodney was making excited sweeps with his arms, and the beaming smile on Weir's face was blinding. Even O'Neill got into it. The four of them seemed to forget John was there, throwing out words like, "Ancient gene" and "aliens" and "stargate."

John started to move, but a firm hand on his arm stopped him. The guy in glasses was leaning over him with an intense expression. None of the others seemed to notice what he was doing; they continued their argument without so much as glancing in John's direction.

"John, you will go to the Dagoba System," the man said. "No, wait, Taonas. Now that's just embarrassing." He sighed, shoving something into John's hand: a piece of paper with a seven-symbol gate address on it. "This is all Teal'c's fault. Taonas. You really want to go to Taonas."

John's eyes snapped open. I have to get to Taonas, he thought immediately.

He rolled over violently and fell out of bed and onto the floor. It was enough to wake him up completely.

After a long run that made his legs feel wobbly, John found himself in the mess. He grabbed a carton each of Cheerio's and milk and was heading back towards the exit when he noticed a familiar, hulking figure sitting at one of the tables.

John sat down. "Hey."

"Hello, Major Sheppard," Teal'c said blandly. His tray was piled high with eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast, fruit, and two different types of juice. He didn't blink an eye at John joining him.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Teal'c rose an eyebrow. "You may."

"Do you like Star Wars?" John asked.

"I do not like Star Wars, Major Sheppard," said Teal'c. John was beginning to feel a faint sense of disappointment when Teal'c added, "I love Star Wars."

"Was there any way I would've known that?" John asked.

Teal'c cocked his head. "You may have known this if you've spoken to O'Neill."

In other words, no, John thought, stomach twisting nervously. But this time his fear was tinged with excitement; something was happening here, something real, and something important. First Landry had known something about Atlantis, whatever it was, and now this. He wasn't going nuts after all. He just wished he knew what exactly this important thing was.

*

But John didn't get a chance to try to figure out why he was getting visions telling him to go to Taonas, because later that day he and his team went through the gate. It had taken them a few missions, but they had a routine by now: Ford had enough C4 in his tac vest pockets to blow up what was left of Texas, Mitchell was clutching a grenade in his hand, and both John and Rodney had their safeties off before they even walked through the event horizon. The MALP hadn't found any signs of human (or humanoid, whatever) life on P4Y-1264, but John sure wasn't placing any bets.

On the other side of the wormhole was a room, which hadn't been what John was expecting. This was the first time he'd gone through the gate and ended up indoors, not counting all the times he'd gated back to the SGC from another planet. The dry, musty air and the hard flooring under his feet threw him off a second.

From the looks of things, they were in some kind of laboratory. Along three of the walls were dusty glass cases, each one of them packed with fragile-looking dirt and sand at varying levels. They sat on tall, grey consoles, with computer screens built onto the top, directly in front of the glass cases. It would've looked like a museum had it not been for the table lined with misshapen beakers and unfamiliar, decaying equipment.

"Hey, those look like terrariums," said Ford, peering over John's shoulder.

McKay frowned at him. "What?"

"Terrariums," Ford repeated, shrugging. "You know, you grow mini-environments in them, maybe have a frog or two? I had to make one in high school Bio."

John remembered that, kind of. He was pretty sure all his plants had died though. High school was a crazy time. "You think this was a garden?" he asked.

"Nope," said Mitchell. He was standing at the fourth wall, where there were no terrariums, awkwardly poking the lit screen of one of the computers and squinting at it. The terminal was almost as high as his shoulders.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" John asked warily, edging towards him. He wasn't in the mood to get blown up today.

"Don't touch anything!" McKay exclaimed, shoving past John and Ford to stand beside Mitchell. "How stupid can you possibly be?"

Mitchell pointed the screen, glaring at McKay. "There's plans for a city in there."

"How'd you turn it on?" John asked. He glanced around. None of the other screens were lit up.

"I touched it, and bam, there it was. It's one of those touch-pads, like they have at the bank."

Rodney scoffed. "They're called 'touch screens,' genius. And how'd you know this was a city? It's all in... alien. Don't tell me they teach you alien in the Air Force now."

"I knew because it looks like a city," Mitchell said irritably.

As Mitchell turned to let McKay touch the screen, John caught a glimpse of some kind of blocky, Lego-like script scrolling across it. "It doesn't look like any language I've ever seen," he mused. Not that he had a lot of experience in alien civilizations or anything, but he liked to think he could contribute somehow.

"You think?" McKay asked sarcastically. John resisted the urge to reach over and flick his ear.

While the rest of his team was gawking at that, John wandered off, looking to see if they'd missed anything. When he reached the far eastern wall a door panel silently slid open, automatically.

"Huh," John said.

He waited for something to happen, like an explosion or something to rush out and attack him, but nothing did. He poked his head in. It was a tiny room, with a small table and a white, boxy crate that John would have said was a refrigerator, had they been on Earth.

"Don't go in there alone, what's wrong with you?" McKay shouted.

John rolled his eyes. "I think this is a break room."

Behind him, Rodney let out an exasperated sigh. "What, an alien break room? It can't be--" He came up beside John, blinking comically. "Or maybe it is a breakroom. What are the odds?"

Mitchell raided the fridge while Ford took photos of the terrariums and Rodney muttered to himself, trying to download the data from the computers onto his PDA with some kind of scary-looking USB cable. Without much else to do, John paced the laboratory, keeping his eye on things. He wondered what would happen if he started pressing random buttons on the consoles.

"Y'all, I think the refrigerator still works," Mitchell called when John was walking right in front of the break room's doorway. His voice bounced around the inside of the crate. "Too bad the aliens didn't leave any brewskies in here. I think there's something in-- oh, gross. Okay, whatever you do, don't touch that. Anyone got any hand sanitizer?"

Ford took out a tiny bottle from his tac vest pocket and tossed it into the room. It sailed over John's shoulder. Mitchell rubbed a generous amount on his hands, making a face.

On John's fourth trip around the room, he noticed something he hadn't seen before: a thin, horizontal line going across one of the terrarium consoles, right beneath the screen. John poked it with his finger; it retracted slightly and pushed back. He felt along the side, and--

"Rodney, there's a drawer here," he said, pulling it open.

The only thing in there was something that looked like a miniature satellite dish and a remote control. He set the dish beside the terrarium and studied the remote, which was small and black and had one large, red button on its face.

McKay set his PDA down and joined John. "What is that?" he asked.

John touched the button. A tiny, red laser shot out of the dish and hit the wall, but otherwise nothing happened. "What the hell is the point of this?" he asked.

"Try aiming it at some of the equipment," Rodney said eagerly.

Mitchell came out of the break room saying, "Whoa, whoa, we're on a reconnaissance mission. The General didn't say anything about playing with the alien equipment."

Ford, predictably, said, "I agree with Captain Mitchell, sir. It could be dangerous."

"I'm making a command decision," John replied defensively. "We're trying this out. It's not going to hurt anything."

They tried aiming it at the terrariums, the refrigerator, the walls, and even, after careful deliberation, John, but the only thing that happened was the dish beaming out red light.

"Maybe you're not doing it right. Hand it over," Rodney insisted, prying it out of John's fingers.

So they tried the last thing they could think of: ice from the alien freezer. As soon as McKay hit the switch, a beam of light shot out of the dish and melted it into a puddle.

"Oh," John said, excited they made it work. Then he realized all it could do was melt ice. His shoulders slumped. "Oh."

"Well, that was incredibly disappointing," said McKay. The rest of his team looked equally dejected.

"I don't know, I thought it was kinda cool," Ford said. McKay shot him a nasty look.

Surprisingly, General Landry wasn't happy about their finding. When they told him they'd found something, he asked, face glowing with excitement, "Did you find it? Tell me you found it," which didn't make any sense to John. It wasn't like they'd been looking for anything specific. But as soon as Rodney and Mitchell gave him an overview of the laboratory, Landry's face fell. He didn't seem too interested after that; he told John to brief SG-9 and let them take care of it, much to John's team's disappointment.

"But, sir," John protested, exchanging a glance with a panicked-looking Rodney, "it's our discovery, shouldn't we--?"

"Your team is needed for more important things than cataloguing dusty lab equipment, Major," Landry snapped.

"What could possibly be more important than an alien laboratory equipped to deal with a food shortage problem?" McKay demanded. "In case you haven't noticed, there isn't much arable land left on Earth."

"That's why SG-9 will be handling it," Landry replied.

Rodney squeaked, "But--"

"Make sure Mr Quinn gets all of the reading material," Landry said, before storming away. Mitchell and Ford looked as confused as John felt.

The team quietly watched Landry leave. John could practically feel the rage steaming off Rodney. He was a little pissed off himself; it was their undiscovered alien lab, they should've been the ones to take it apart, not SG-9. SG-9 had two botanists and a guy whose default tone of voice was sarcastic, for God's sake. They weren't nearly as awesome as John's team was. He knew Rodney could figure out what all that alien stuff was long before anyone on SG-9 could.

"Were we supposed to be looking for something?" asked Mitchell, brow knitting.

"You would know," Rodney sneered. It was his turn to make a big production of leaving; he hurried off in the same direction Landry had, his "General Landry!" echoing as he disappeared down the stairs.

Mitchell looked uncomfortable. Ford did too, but it was a completely different kind of uncomfortable. "Sheppard, you know I'm not--" Mitchell began.

"Yeah, sure," John said dismissively. He knew Mitchell wasn't hiding anything, but he also knew Mitchell was reporting to Landry everything John said and did. Just because John understood didn't mean he was totally cool with it. He left his two teammates and followed the path McKay had taken out of the briefing room.

He bumped into McKay standing red-faced in the corridor. "He won't listen to me," Rodney explained. "I told him about the ice-melting beam, and he said, and I quote, 'What use is that? We can melt ice too. It's a special thing called room temperature,' and then he said he had a meeting with SG-1. Hmph."

With a report to prepare, John gave Rodney a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and headed for his office. He wondered if Landry was expecting his team to find something offworld. But if he did, why wouldn't he have told John? Or Mitchell, at the very least; John knew he was desperate to get close to his heroes, and not opposed to kissing Landry's ass.

The next day, SG-9 headed for P4Y-1264. John watched jealously from the control room. One of the guys on the team -- the sarcastic one, John noted, not one of the botanists or geologists or whatever they were -- gave him a little wave before following Colonel Edwards through the gate, as if he knew what John was thinking. They were back the next morning before John woke, and their data was immediately sent to Jonas for translating, who was supposed to send it to one of the other scientists for analysis.

Things were strained at breakfast. Rodney and Mitchell weren't speaking to each other. Ford, riled up from the tension, kept nervously knocking things over. At one point he flipped a piece of toast into McKay's lap.

"Jesus," McKay snapped, grabbing a handful of napkins to wipe off the butter and grape jelly, "how the hell are you an explosives expert? Don't you need to have steady hands for that kind of work?"

"Rodney, leave him alone," John said. McKay glared at John but wisely kept his mouth shut.

After a knocking back his own toast and orange juice ("You're going to choke if you keep eating that fast," McKay warned), John jumped up and said, "I'm going to see what SG-9 brought back."

On his way out of the mess, he bumped into Viktor Damurchiev.

"Major Sheppard," said Viktor, straightening his jacket, "we should discuss the sharing of informations."

"Sure, maybe later," John said, knowing full well it was never going to happen.

Viktor must have realized this too, because his smile grew strained. When John left him, he was muttering something under his breath that sounded like, "Amerikanski. Huyeplet."

When John made it to Jonas's office, Jonas was talking to the same guy from SG-9 who had waved at John the day before. Several open books lay open on his desk, as well as some plain, paper notebooks, filled with scribbling. "It's just so fascinating," Jonas was saying, face bright with excitement.

"What's up, Sheppard," said the guy, spotting John. Captain Lorne, if John remembered right. E-something. Erwin, maybe. Erwin Lorne. He didn't really look like an Erwin though.

"Hey," John replied, approaching the desk. "How's it coming along?"

Jonas beamed. "There's so much interesting material here. I'm not even sure where to begin."

"I thought McKay said it was all about plants," John said, raising an eyebrow.

"Some of the database was, sure. But the rest of it-- you saw those city plans, right?" Jonas asked. Too caught up in his discovery, he didn't bother to wait for John's reply. "I need to look at it some more. The only thing I was able to really decipher was something about overpopulation."

John leaned over to peek at Jonas's notes -- which didn't work; Jonas's notes weren't in English -- and said, "Maybe they were looking for ways to thin the herd, if you know what I mean."

Lorne looked concerned. But Jonas grinned and replied, "Ouch, that's cynical. You've been spending too much time with McKay."

"Ugh, I can't stand that guy," Lorne said.

John shrugged. "I like McKay," he said. Then, with some alarm, he realized it was true: he liked McKay. He liked McKay a lot.

"Don't tell Mitchell," he added.

*

In March, John had a chance to take a day trip to Nizhneudinsk. Part of him had expected the snow to be on the verge of melting, but instead Siberia in March looked exactly the same as Siberia in December. Rodney, who John had dragged along for the ride, claimed this was a result of the nuclear winter.

"It was about minus six here last March," he explained. His voice was muffled from a neon green scarf he had wrapped around his neck and chin. John did the math in his head: that was about eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. It was easily twenty or thirty degrees colder than that now, and the sun was covered by big, black clouds of soot, which only made it feel colder.

They got through one used bookstore and one tiny, hole-in-the-wall toy store before Rodney's bitching started to grate John's nerves.

"I'm freezing my balls off here," Rodney said for the third time.

"Jesus, Rodney, would you give it a rest?" John finally snapped, exasperated. "I get it, you're cold. I'm cold too, in case you haven't noticed."

Rodney huffed. "Why didn't you bring Quinn with you?"

John glanced at him sideways. "Can't, you're the only one who gets my jokes."

In truth, John hadn't wanted to take anyone else. Ford was too chatty (not to mention way younger than John, which just made it creepy), he and Mitchell didn't have much in common outside of sports and planes, and Jonas was a cool guy, but John couldn't imagine spending an entire day with him off base. When Sergeant Silar had told John it was his turn to use the hum-vee, he'd immediately known he and McKay were going to Nizhneudinsk, whether McKay liked it or not. Rodney must have wanted to get out of the SGC as well, because he had agreed to come before John had even finished asking the question.

"No one gets your jokes because they're appallingly bad," McKay said.

"Hey, you laughed at the Justice League one."

"I was laughing because it was so horrible," McKay replied, but he was grinning.

Together, they bought a bunch of pirated action movies with really horrible English subtitles, and John found a stack of old, used romance novels. They might have been crappy, but they were written in English, and that was all John cared about. But the best find of the day was the set of rusty golf clubs John got from a thrift store. Rodney was in the middle of a rant on how golf was the most boring sport in the world (after NASCAR racing, which, Rodney said, didn't count as a sport) when he spotted one of those ship in a bottle kits. John rolled his eyes as Rodney forked over five hundred roubles for it.

"I never realized you were an old man, McKay," John said as they walked back out into the bitter cold.

"I'm running out of physics journals," Rodney retorted.

John hefted the clubs higher on his shoulder. "You could read a book."

"We live in a post-apocalyptic world and are fighting a race of parasitic aliens," McKay said. "Why would I want to read fiction? Besides, I was never very good at using my imagination. It's one of my very few character flaws."

The drive home consisted of a few hours of bad Russian pop music, an argument of which was colder, Russia or Canada (or the Island of St Trudeau, as the remains were now called), and "I Spy" games. John was saying, "I spy with my little eye something..." when he noticed McKay watching him with a sappy, lopsided smile. John felt the intensity of his gaze all the way down to the tips of his toes. He swallowed thickly. "What, do I have something on my face?" he asked, feeling weirdly embarrassed.

McKay looked away with a sharp jerk of his head, as if coming out of a daze. "What the hell are we listening to? Music like this makes me glad civilization ended." He reached over the started fiddling with the dial, and John was stuck listening to Beethoven for the rest of the ride.

*

He was in a small spaceship, hands hovering over the controls. Space stretched for miles and miles in front of him.

Someone behind him grunted; in the reflection in the cabin window, John saw it was the guy with dreadlocks, sitting in a chair behind the same pretty lady. "So people just sit and watch this box for hours at a time?" He -- Ronon, a voice in John's head supplied -- sounded like he thought they were pulling his leg.

"Yeah, people do," John replied.

The women looked intrigued. "Is it that engaging?"

John knew her name as well: it was Teyla, and she could kick some serious ass. "Depends what's on it," John said, shrugging. "There are lots of programs on dozens of channels, every day, all day."

Rodney snorted. He was sitting directly behind John, and his reflection was wearing full offworld gear. "Most of which are fictional representations of ridiculously attractive people in absurd situations."

"There are educational programs, all sorts of documentaries. Not many people watch them but, uh, well, they're on."

"And that's what everybody on your planet does for entertainment?" Ronon asked, raising his heavy brows. "Watch a box?"

"Not everyone," said Rodney, sounding superior. "Although I will confess to the occasional half hour of 'Jeopardy.'"

Now Ronon looked interested. "Jeopardy?"

"It's the name of the show. 'Jeopardy.'"

"Sounds dangerous."

"Double jeopardy -- that's twice as dangerous," John said, knowing the only one in the cabin who would get the joke was Rodney, and that was when he woke up in his own bed.

For a second he was shocked, and then he was mad as hell. That was it; he needed to figure out what was going on before he lost his mind.

He threw on his shoes and went to find the one person he was sure would believe him, or at least not go blabbing about his being nuts to everyone and their mother. The fact Rodney had been in all his visions was important. Maybe. At the very least, it told John Rodney was the right person to see. He'd already tried telling Landry, who he didn't trust; now it was time to go to someone he did.

Except Rodney wasn't in his room, and when John went his lab, McKay already had company. He and Carter were inside bickering about something. John lingered in the doorway silently, wondering if this was a bad time to interrupt. Despite his harsh words, Rodney was gazing at Carter with a look of rapt adoration; John's stomach twisted uncomfortably.

He left McKay to his... whatever... and headed back to his quarters. Maybe he'd feel better after he ran a few miles.

But instead of thinking about his dream, he was preoccupied with the way McKay had been staring at Carter. When it came down to it, he wasn't sure how he felt about McKay. He knew he liked him, they were friends, and Rodney was hot, as much as he'd tried not to notice. The guy was a jerk, sure, but he'd shown how much he cared; he could spend an entire mission insulting John, his team, and the entire race of people of whatever world they were visiting, but in the end he would do everything he could to save them. He knew what movies John liked, he saved John a seat at meals, he dragged John into the labs to show him stupid shit he thought was exciting (and okay, it usually was) and then bitched when John made him take breaks. Before now, John hadn't really let himself think too much about how much he enjoyed hanging out with McKay, how easy it was to be with him. It was thinking like that that had always gotten him trouble. It was so much easier to be with guys he wasn't all that into.

Jonas was hanging around outside his door when John arrived at his quarters, sweaty and irritated with himself. He didn't see John at first, and John hesitated; he wasn't sure he was up for company.

Jonas spotted him. "John," he called, heading to the turn in the corridor where John was reluctantly standing, "Teal'c and I were going to race the computer chairs down level fifteen."

"I'm in," John said, relieved Jonas wasn't there to talk about dead languages or alien plantlife. Mindless entertainment he could do.

On the way down, it hit John that Jonas was smart, well-read, and more importantly, an alien who'd been to a bunch of planets. "Does the name 'Ronon' sound familiar to you?" he asked.

"'Ronin'? Like the samurai code?" Jonas asked, tilting his head thoughtfully.

John squinted at him. "I thought you were from another planet."

"Hey, I have Wikipedia too, you know."

John just looked at him. "Anyway," he said after a beat, "it's 'Ronon,' not 'ronin,' and there was also the name 'Teyla'..."

Jonas's brow knitted. "Where was this?"

"Just something I read," John lied lamely.

He didn't know why, but he knew Jonas wasn't the person with which to share this. It was weird, because earlier he'd been so set to McKay all about it, and Jonas was four hundred percent less spastic than McKay. Of course, he wasn't as smart as McKay was either -- if anyone was going to figure out what all this stuff meant, it would be McKay. It was just a fact.

"Hypothetically, have you ever heard of someone having weird visions?"

"I was having visions last month," Jonas said.

John's heart hammered in his chest. "Y-you were? What was it?"

"Brain tumour," said Jonas.

John made a mental note to get a CAT scan straight away.

"Nearly killed me," Jonas said cheerfully. "Didn't you notice I had brain surgery?"

Truthfully, John hadn't. In mid-March, his team had walked into a coup d'etat and had been stuck on the planet for five days, waiting it out so they could sneak back to use the well-guarded gate. It had stormed every day they'd been there, and seeing as how they'd spent their time hiding in tents on the edge of a jungle, John had returned to the SGC wanting nothing more than to spend a week at the beach, alone. But since he couldn't, what with the oceans being near-frozen and all, plus that whole abandoning his post thing, he had done everything he could to avoid people. It had worked for three days until Major Carter and another scientist John hadn't recognized had come to his room looking for McKay. After that he had accepted it had been time to get off and his ass and get back to work.

"Of course I did, buddy," John told Jonas. "It was a hard time for everyone."

Teal'c was waiting in the officer's lounge with three black, wheeled computer chairs. "I have procured the chairs," he announced.

Jonas rubbed his hands together. "Great, where'd you get them from?"

"I merely asked Dr Lee if I could take the ones from his lab. He said yes immediately."

"Well, yeah," John said. He couldn't imagine anyone saying no to Teal'c. The man was built like a brick shithouse.

But for a big guy, Teal'c wasn't that fast. Jonas beat them in the first two rounds, and John won the third. They were laughing each time they reached the end of the corridor -- even Teal'c, whose deep laugh was almost scarily enthusiastic.

On the fourth round, John was in the lead. Pulling up his legs and zipping around the corner, he was almost at the finish line when the elevator doors opened. He ploughed right into Ford and Mitchell as they stepped out of it dressed their work-out clothes. Ford was carrying a beaten-up soccer ball under his arm, which went sailing down the corridor when John rolled over his toes and knocked both Ford and himself to the floor.

He lay there for a moment, more stunned than hurt. Ford said weakly, "Ow, sir."

Mitchell pulled both of them up by their respective elbows. "You two okay?"

"Never better," John replied, twisting his neck and wincing at the popping sound it made. He flipped his chair back onto its legs.

Jonas came around the corner next, followed by Teal'c. For some reason, Mitchell looked taken aback at the sight of them. John had a feeling it wasn't because they were riding in chairs.

"I'm okay," Ford said, rubbing one of his knees. He looked worried. "You're probably breaking all kinds of rules, Major Sheppard, sir."

Jonas and Teal'c rolled to a complete stop. Unlike John, they managed not to hit his teammates. "Beat you again," Jonas said to Teal'c breathlessly as he pumped his fists in the air in triumph.

With a polite nod to Mitchell and Ford, Teal'c stiffly excused himself.

"He's probably going to go cry in the shower," Jonas said lightly. He jumped to his feet and reached over with his free hand to pull Teal'c's chair against himself.

Mitchell turned on John. "You're friends with Teal'c?" he demanded, looking at John suspiciously.

"I guess," John said, glancing at Jonas.

Gritting his teeth, Mitchell said, "No one on SG-1 can remember my name."

"I remember your name," Jonas said. He seemed fascinated by Mitchell's behaviour. "Captain Marshall, right?"

"Cam, they're SG-1, you can't expect them to remember your name," said Ford, as Mitchell ignored Jonas completely. He said "SG-1" with only slightly less awe than Mitchell usually did. "They're heroes."

Mitchell wasn't mollified. "But they remember Sheppard's name, and he's-- he's weird."

"Hey," John cut in. He was almost offended by that.

"Well, you are," Mitchell replied stubbornly. With one last withering glare, he stormed away, leaving John a little irritated. Ford threw John a look that said 'what can you do?' and followed, stopping long enough to pick up his fallen soccer ball.

"So Marshall has a hard-on for SG-1, huh?" Jonas asked, clapping John on the shoulder. John stared at him. "What? Jack taught me that word."

John was still feeling sullen a couple of hours later. He was throwing paper airplanes at his trashcan when Rodney barged into his office, announcing, "I need a break from the idiots." He eyed John. "What are you doing?"

"Paperwork," John replied, swinging his feet off the desk and back onto the floor.

Now was a good time as any to bring up the freaky dreams, John supposed, as McKay looked disapprovingly at his dart board. He started with, "Listen, I've been having these dreams, and in some of them you're there, and--"

"Are you coming onto me?" Rodney asked. "Because I'm sorry, but Major Carter and I are destined to be together. I'm merely waiting for her to realize it."

John hated Carter and everything she stood for. "No, I'm not," he said fiercely. "And I'm pretty sure she hates you."

"She'll come around," Rodney said, smirking.

John was torn between wanting to sock McKay in the mouth and actually finding that arrogant demeanour a good look for him. It was a lot like his I'm-smarter-than-you look, and for the second time that day, John was annoyed with himself. "McKay, would you pay attention? I'm not talking about the nasty dreams you have about Major Carter -- which, by the way, you'd better hope she doesn't find out about," he added passionately, and Rodney dropped his smirk. "I'm talking about the kinds of dreams that feel totally real, and when you wake up you can't tell if it was a dream or a memory. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Not really," said Rodney, "but go on."

John glared. "I've been having these dreams of places I've never been to. You're there too, and we're on a team like we have now, only without Mitchell or Ford--"

"Funny, your dreams sound a lot like mine."

"--And they want me to go to this place. A guy told me to go to a planet called Taonas."

McKay went still. "You're having dreams telling you to go somewhere?" he asked, a funny expression on his face. He shut the door to John's office. "You haven't told anyone about this, have you?"

John sat up a little straighter. "No, why?"

"Because you're having dreams telling you to go somewhere, hello! In what universe is that not a trap?"

"A trap?" John repeated. His relief McKay believed him disappeared when he realized what McKay was talking about. "You think it's the Goa'uld?"

"Who else could it be?" Pacing in front of John's desk, Rodney murmured, mostly to himself, "Anubis blew up the Egyptian gate but couldn't get rid of us completely, so he must be trying to send you to this Taonas to get something he can't get himself."

John wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. "So you're saying I should tell General Landry?"

"No!" McKay bellowed. "Absolutely not! You have to-- to just ignore it."

"I can't ignore it. Maybe if I tell Landry he can do something..."

Only, the same gut feeling that had told him not to share this with Jonas had also been telling him not to go to Landry. It was one thing, bringing up Atlantis; telling Landry he was having dreams about things that had never happened was something else entirely.

McKay looked furious. "Or they'll send you to work for another planet's government, so they won't have to deal with you. They'll turn you into a glorified bodyguard. That's what they did to me. Well, not the bodyguard part, but they clearly sent me away so as not to steal the thunder from Major Carter."

"Or because you nearly killed Teal'c," John offered.

Rodney deflated. "Oh, you heard this story already. Damn."

"They can't get rid of me that easily," John said. "I'll-- I'll go to the president if I have to. Or maybe I'll go live on a planet somewhere by myself. There are non-Goa'uld-occupied worlds out there."

He'd only been doing this a few months, but now he couldn't imagine not being able to step through the stargate at least once a week. After all the things he'd seen and experienced, he couldn't go back to the life he'd had before. He loved exploring, and even if the excitement of being on a gate team sometimes got to him, he wouldn't want to give it up; doing a desk job at some alien embassy, or worse, being stuck on a base in some frozen country, would be his own personal hell.

McKay didn't look convinced. "Oh please. Have you ever disobeyed a command?"

John glared. "More times than you could possibly--"

"A big one."

John smirked at him, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "I've been breaking one of the big ones for years."

McKay stared at him for a long moment. John tried to mentally give him a push, but then McKay hissed, "You've been selling secrets to the Russians?"

"What? No," John replied, annoyed.

After that, McKay made John promise he wouldn't tell anyone about the visions. Seeing how worried Rodney was gave him a petty, shameful rush of satisfaction, which only made him feel like a jerk. So he guiltily swore on the life of McKay's estranged sister he would keep what had happened between the two of them.

*

For Mitchell's thirty-third birthday, the team went on a mission to a dry, desert planet. The sky was a pale pink, making the sand appear sparkling white; the first thing John did when he got there was slip on his sunglasses and squint into the distance. He couldn't see much thanks to the massive sand dunes on every side. A dip between the two dunes directly ahead looked like the only way out of the valley, and the absence of footprints in the sand hinted the planet was probably uninhabited.

"Is it okay for us to be breathing this air?" John asked.

Rodney's forehead wrinkled as he cupped a hand over it, following John's line of sight. He had a smear of sunblock on his nose. "Of course it is. The MALP -- the version of which, need I mention again, I helped design -- said it was, didn't it?" He waved a hand. "I'm sure it's just a weird star... thing.

"'Weird star thing'?" John repeated. "Who's the astrophysicist here?"

"Major Sheppard, sir," Ford shouted from where he was balanced on top of the sand dune to John's right, "you should have a look at this."

The desert, it turned out, was only surrounding the gate; the rest of what they could see, as soon as they passed the dunes, was composed of rocky mountains. Growing out of the cliffs were clear crystals the size of SUVs. It looked like a science fair project gone bad, or maybe something out of a B-movie.

Rodney didn't look excited, staring at the rocks with the expression of someone who'd gotten a whiff of a particularly bad smell. Without waiting for the "I'm an astrophysicist, not a geologist!" conversation, John headed towards the nearest gathering of crystals, humming 'Livin' on a Prayer' under his breath. He was in a pretty good mood; no one had shot at them yet, and there was a birthday cake waiting for them back home. It was all a guy needed in life. When Ford caught up to them, he realized what John was humming and started harmonizing along.

John laughed while McKay rolled his eyes in disgust. "Do you remember 'Bed of Roses,' sir?" Ford asked, grinning.

"I don't listen to any 'Jovi after '96, Lieutenant," John said.

"I danced to that song at homecoming," Ford said. He pulled off his cap to wipe the sweat off his forehead. "The fast part always confused me. You slow dance, and then there was that fast part, sir, do you remember? You couldn't really dance to that."

John was too horrified to answer.

"I'm sure Sheppard could dance to anything," McKay said dryly.

John glanced at him, smirking. "Wanna see me jitterbug?"

Rodney's mouth twitched as he tried to keep from smiling, and Ford, sounding slightly uncomfortable, jumped in with, "Doing anything special for your birthday, Cam?"

"Just dinner with a couple of beautiful women," Mitchell drawled, looking smug. He hadn't been paying attention to the Bon Jovi conversation at all, from the looks of it.

"A couple of?" Rodney echoed skeptically. He turned to John. "When's your birthday?"

"Not for a good while," John said.

"How old you gonna be?" asked Mitchell.

"Thirty," John said.

Both Mitchell and McKay glowered at him, not buying it. Ford just looked surprised. "You are such a liar!" McKay said.

John scowled. "Fine, thirty-five."

McKay gave him an appraising gaze. "There's no way you're older than me," he accused, staring pointedly at John's hair. "You look too good-- young. I said 'young'! You look too young, much too young."

John eyed him. "That's because I sleep."

Mitchell clapped Rodney on the shoulder, who was beginning to look indignant. "Face it, McKay, a steady diet of coffee and Snickers isn't exactly the fountain of youth."

By that point, they were approaching the crystals, which was why John shouldn't have been surprised when the natives jumped out of their hiding places in the rocks. They were wearing animal-skin loincloths and vests and had necklaces made out of what looked like bone, but the part that had John concerned was the spears they held in their hands. He gripped the handle of his P-90, but since the locals weren't aiming at them, he wasn't about to start shooting into the crowd.

One of the men looked straight at John and said something that sounded like, "Rok, rok-a-too," which John took to mean, "My crystals, not yours."

"Hey, we're all friends here," John said warmly, smiling.

The natives looked at one another. One in the back said something, and suddenly they all started talking quietly to each other at once. Someone loudly chimed in with, "Rok, rok, tok," and then they fell into an obviously unanimous babble.

"We come in peace?" John said, beginning to get worried.

Abruptly, the natives stopped chattering and stared at him. Then they pointed their long, pointy spears at his team's necks.

"Aw, come on," Mitchell said, drawing his gun, "it's my birthday! I'm not supposed to have to run for my life on my birthday!"

John fired into the air; screaming in terror, the locals scattered, running back to their homes in the mountain, or wherever it was they had come from. "I say we've got ten minutes before they come back with something bigger than a spear," he said.

At least this time the run back to the gate was short. Rodney was dialling the gate as fast as humanly possible when John heard someone yell, "Watch out!" Next, he heard a clunk, and the back of his head explode