As he lies dying, alone in the desert, John Sheppard contemplates his life, and that of his counterpart. Vegas AU
I do not own Stargate Atlantis, in any shape or form
/\\
As the echo of the blast began to fade, former Detective John Sheppard leaned his head back against the remains of his car and let out a slow breath. The transmitter, or whatever the fuck it was that McKay and his minions had been so concerned about, was gone for good. The wraith was dead as well, having rushed back inside the trailer in what was either a last ditch attempt to save his device, or punch up the power so that it could finish its job before it was destroyed. Which was lucky for him, because it wasn't as if he could have killed the thing with an empty clip.
Enough stalling. He needed to get out of here, pronto, but he knew better than to try and use his car. Not only had that Mr. Woolsey admitted that there was a trace on his vehicle, but the damn thing had at least two flats, no spares (he couldn't afford them) and was so full of bullet holes as to make driving a bad idea, if not impossible. It was all but guaranteed that at least one slug had made its way into the engine, possibly more.
That didn't change the fact that he needed to move if he intended to vacate the area before the clean up crew arrived. And there would be a crew coming, McKay's group of suits couldn't take the risk that any alien technology might have escaped the blast for some idiot hitchhiker to stumble across. Lurching to his feet John staggered almost immediately, the pain from his wounds and weakness from loss of blood nearly enough to send him crashing right back down again. He only made it a few steps before his strength gave out entirely, new pain filling his body as he made abrupt contact with the hard desert ground.
He rolled onto his back, staring blankly up into the darkening sky. He wondered, idly, just how big was the universe, really? All the things McKay had shown him, from the strange glowing chair, to the wrecked spacecraft, all of it so clearly alien to a pilot's eye, to the strange wraith who knew his name, deep in the bowels of Area 51; all that, which was clearly just the barest tip of the proverbial iceberg, just the smallest glimpse of the wonders and horrors beyond imagining that lurked behind the serene glints of the light twinkling so innocently above.
And somewhere out there, in another reality, was another John Sheppard. One who was a hero, someone who was larger-than-life enough for McKay to take a chance on a washed-up has-been detective, who, by luck or fate (he wasn't sure which, given that both prospects sucked mightily in equal and equivalent proportions) had managed to get closer to an alien serial killer than all the government spooks in the nation combined. Hell, closer than anyone on the entire planet.
What was he like, this other Sheppard, to have made such an impression on the arrogant scientist? John had met guys like McKay before, though never to such a degree. Hell, before the court martial, before the endless downward spiral his life had taken that had led to his current predicament, he'd been that way himself. Arrogant, so absolutely sure they were right, unwilling to accept help, and oh so confidant they could do no wrong, at least, until they did. McKay had been all of that and more, and yet, somehow had been willing to take a chance on him in the vain hope that he was enough like his counterpart to make a difference.
With that he gave a weak chuckle, little more than a soundless hitch of air through wheezing lungs, still enough to send daggers of pain shooting through his broken body. If he was enough like his counterpart to be suckered into McKay's little heroic speech, than this perfect Sheppard, the hero, was more than a little like him as well.
"Two roads diverged in a wood and I / I took the one less traveled by" his lips shaped the words unheard. His eardrums were more than llikely shot. That had been one loud explosion, and he'd been very close to it. Closer than was safe no doubt, even if his car had sheltered him from the flying debris. But both those roads had sprung from the same path, he'd chosen one fork, his counterpart had chosen the other. If he remembered the theory surrounding parallel universes correctly, they were created when one decision was made, forming another where the other choice was made, forming all the variations of what could have been, giving life to all possible outcomes of any given scenario.
He wondered, what had been the deciding factor? What choices could he have made to become the man McKay described: the strong one, the leader, the hero, the Sheppard-he-was-not. John's lips twitched in a terrible smile. He practically defined himself not by what he was, but by what he was not. He was not Patrick Sheppard's pawn, to be moved across the chessboard of the business world to advance his father's company. He was not the pilot, not the man who could make any aircraft sing and dance through the clouds as if it was alive, not anymore at least. That self had ended in Afghanistan, in the crash, in the court martial and what had come after. He was not even the screwball detective any more; he'd quit just before heading out here to die. He was nothing, and this other John Sheppard was everything. And yet…
McKay had told him that his counterpart had been a hero, and a good man. He hadn't added more, but apparently his counterpart had made enough of an impression of a man whose moral character was strong enough to transcend reality, that McKay was able to bring himself to trust in the integrity of a man he had only just met. John snorted to himself at the thought. He had no integrity, not any more at least. He'd lost any illusions about himself years ago. He not only hung out in the shit, he wallowed in it, covered himself in it so thoroughly that he almost couldn't remember a time when that had been different. And yet…
That hadn't always been the case. Once he'd believed that no rescue was hopeless, that everyone could be saved, that no one should be left behind, ever. Once he'd been someone to look up to, until trying to live up to his own damn bullshit had gotten innocent people killed and screwed him over, starting the decent into the pit he'd lived in until the captain handed him the serial case. The case which had brought him to this moment, dying alone, alone and forgotten, no doubt destined to be picked clean by vultures until he was as decayed and desiccated as the bodies that had led him here.
The bodies he had nearly joined. McKay had told him about the wraith and how they ate. He remembered the wounds on the victims chests, remembered the orifice on the wraith's hand as it prepared to feed on him. It would have been a fitting end. McKay had warned him, told him not to engage. He hadn't listened, like he ever did. Apparently he couldn't seem to learn his own damn lesson: trying to be a hero only got people killed.
He knew he was going to die here. He knew better than to believe rescue was coming for him. No doubt Colonel Perfect Sheppard could expect a rescue, could expect his team to move heaven and earth to get to him in time. He didn't delude himself. He was alone, and would always be alone. There was only one person who he'd expect to care about him in this situation, and she was already dead. Dead, because he'd fucked up her rescue.
Most likely he'd fucked this scenario up as well. With his luck, he'd been too damn late to stop the wraith from accomplishing his/it's goal of sending a message to another galaxy (and how fucked up was that?), that is if McKay had been correct about the purpose behind the wraith's unknown device. There had been a little dispute over that matter back at Area 51, if he remembered correctly.
Not that it mattered now, but John kind of thought McKay had been right after all. It had been the arrogant scientist who had helped him find the life-sucking fucker after all, with the comment about how the wraith needed more power to accomplish whatever he/it was planning. That had jiggled the idea about the power lines, which had led him here, here to die. If it didn't take more energy than he had right now, he could almost hate the scientist for that.
But no, he knew the truth. McKay may have laid out the situation, but he'd gotten himself into this situation. He'd been driving out of town, tracking device or no, headed to Mexico, or California, he hadn't quite made up his mind as to his final destination. Then like pieces falling into place, all the clues that had been eluding him for months, coupled with the new information from the motel and Area 51, had finally started making sense.
Even then, John still could have walked away. He could have given Uncle Sam and his government suits a big fuck you, complete with the requisite hand gestures, could have ignored the evidence staring him in the face, complete with the guilt trip from one arrogant asshole of a scientist about some other self who was perfect in every way, every way he was not, could have shoved the strange bodies that had been sucked dry into the same mental box where he kept everything he didn't want to think about and locked it up tight. Sure, he'd have nightmares for a few weeks, but he'd had them before. He knew how to deal with them and move on with his life.
But for reasons he still couldn't completely comprehend, he hadn't done that. Instead he'd turned his car around, found the trailer he'd barely glimpsed in the motel parking lot, called in the location to McKay, and then done what had to be the stupidest thing in his life: play the hero. Christ, he thought he'd left that part of himself behind in Afghanistan, buried in Lauren's grave.
Apparently he hadn't. At least his sudden case of stupidity hadn't killed anyone else this time. Just him, and it wasn't as if his life was really worth a whole lot when all was said and done. Delayed justice really, retribution for all the times he's screwed up and let other people suffer the fallout of what he'd done.
His sight was failing. For a minute John thought the darker shades were merely the deepening of night, shadowed by smoke from the burning debris, but no, even the stars were growing dark. But he abruptly thought he heard voices shouting, could have sworn he heard McKay's distinctively abrasive tones calling for him across the sudden, fading din. He was definitely imagining the hands, quick and professional, that probed his body, noting down exactly how it was broken, trying in vain to patch it back together. Isn't that pathetic, he thought to himself as blurred faces he only vaguely recognized blotted out what was left of the stars. I'm hallucinating, and the rescue I imagine is led by the guy who guilt-tripped me into this mess to start with. Who when he looks at me, doesn't see me, he sees someone else, someone I'll only be a shattered reflection of at best.
It wasn't real. It couldn't be. He didn't believe in happy endings anymore. Yet another difference between him and this other Sheppard.
An all-encompassing white light filled what was left of his vision. He closed his eyes against it, and fell forever.
/\\
Do they get to him in time? You decide.
The inspiration for this plot bunny almost deserves a fic of its own, the trail is so convoluted and complicated that trying to describe it all would take almost as long as the fic itself. I will try to be brief.
I was pondering Sheppard (the regular universe one, not the Vegas one) and how you only get periodic glimpses behind his mask to what lies beneath. I was assembling a mental list of various episodes that show those glimpses, (Sateda, Phantoms, Doppelganger, Miller's Crossing, Remnents…to name just a few). Actually, few of those who aren't on the list are the most of the "Sheppard episodes". Yeah, that's right; Conversion, Common Ground, Epiphany, and Outcast are not on my list. But that's beside the point.
I put Vegas on the list, because the John Sheppard in that episode, while not our John Sheppard, still embodies so many of the qualities that make our Sheppard who he is. If that's the case, than the reverse is also true. The Vegas Sheppard, is Sheppard-as-he-could-have-been. They are reflections of each other, reflections in a shattered mirror. That gave me a title, and the plot bunny was born. The rest just flowed from there.
Please review and let me know what you think. It could be that I'm wildly off base in my assessment of Vegas Sheppard's character. If you think so, I'd appreciate it if you let me know. However, I would also appreciate no flames, as this is just my opinion, and I know everyone has theirs.