INHUMAN
A/N - posting 7 chapters daily bar one day, my leeway for last minute tweaking, most likely Sat, though Russian roulette being what it is... Final chapter will be posted by Halloween. Yes, it's a horror. Fair warning! Not a death fic, mind. I don't ever do those, perish the thought. Shudder... :O
That was an instruction! And order! Shudder! Why aren't y'all shuddering? Read, already! LOL
My thanks go to shepsgirl72 for being my infinitely patient, unflagging beta, though I messed with this big time since, so blame me not her for any tpyos, speling missteaks and general slapdashery. :-D
My thanks also go to joaniexjony, who set me straight re haggises. I had no idea apart from partaking in one once, when my dad came home from the Scottish highlands with a dead one slung over his shoulder... ;-D
Spoilers: Search & Rescue, The Seed and Sunday.
Well, on with the tale!
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"Remind me just one more time, Sheppard. Exactly why are we trudging up a mountain? Eh?"
John rolled his eyes, and turned to his pissy, flagging team mate without missing a beat as they all marched along the rugged, mountainous terrain prevalent on M45-937 aka Kemmia, a newly discovered sister planet to New Lantia. Woolsey had suggested touching base with the Kemmians, and John had cheerfully agreed it would be downright unneighborly if they didn't. Problem was, Kemmia was a tad further away from the sun, and a more than a little chilly climate-wise. This planet was also damp and overcast, and they were constantly hitting freezing fog patches, making visibility poor, or in his case, poorer. Wearing shades didn't help any, but there was no wriggling out of it. Condensation trickled down the back of his neck. John wished he'd brought his long-sleeved, turtleneck fleece shirt instead of just his regular shirt and tee. He was beginning to feel ill-equipped even for this, a cakewalk mission after a meet'n'greet executed flawlessly and incident free by Lorne and his select team.
Despite the temperature being in the mid to low fifties even at the height of summer, John noticed that Rodney McKay's face was ruddy, and he was sweating profusely. So, what else was new? At least he wasn't complaining he was sickening for something. Exertion plus rampant hypochondria, a sorry-assed combo in Rodney's case. John vaguely remembered Carson Beckett politely suggesting that there was nothing out of the ordinary going on with Rodney when he had declared himself exhibiting symptoms per the Case Of The Hives.
John had just been administered the phage while restrained in the infirmary, and had subsequently gone into agonizing convulsions. Not that Rodney had stolen his thunder or anything, but the man'd unwittingly distracted the doctor when he himself had been in need of close observation. Thankfully, Ronon had his back. John had felt his muscles twinge then contort as they launched themselves into a full-scale assault upon his rapidly jerking body. Apparently he'd gone into v-fib, and Beckett had called for a crash cart. The good doctor and his trusty staff had brought him back from the brink yet again. He'd gone on to crash his jumper into the tower housing the tendril-toting, Keller-hijacking baby hive ship, and had eliminated the threat to his beloved Atlantis at minimal cost to himself and others. Just another impaling and yet another stay in his home from home. No big deal, as Ronon would say.
"Seriously, we've been trudging for miles, and I've yet to spot a single downhill!"
John struggled in vain to keep an amused expression off his face.
"Buck up, McKay. How about a little gratitude? These good people have offered us an endless supply of melony things, though for some reason 'beetroot' comes to mind."
"Beetroot? They look nothing like - Oh, funny har har. Let's all get in a dig at the hot, sticky lobster man." Rodney tutted, then mumbled something about dumb jocks.
"Did you really say 'melony'?"
The two young marines with them nudged each other, but at a glare from their CO, even from behind his dark sunglasses, they chose not to join in the banter.
"They consider them to be weeds, Rodney," Beckett piped in, "and would be happy for us to clear some land by taking maybe three quarters of it away. That's worth a little discomfort." Beckett, however, didn't look convinced. His dimples barely manifest themselves. He dabbed at his forehead with a turtle print handkerchief, reminding John once more that he should've worn his turtleneck. Damn.
"Oh, joy. My cup overfloweth." McKay looked around in disgust at the endless fields of round, black objects, and narrowed his eyes. "Yes, they do look remarkably melon-like, if not pumpkin-like. On tendrils."
"We could clear five-sixths of it instead, McKay. That should be right up your alley."
"Lowest form of wit, Sheppard."
"Pot/kettle, McKay."
"Unlike you, I subscribe to irony not sarcasm. And, of course, pathos."
John shook his head, and snorted. As they trudged inexorably onwards, he observed how the plants grew up and over bushes and trees, forming gloomy caverns either side of the meandering gravel path they had taken. Tendrils reached out like clawed fingers, and he visualized them scrabbling towards him, whipping about his head and body, hell-bent on impaling him. He almost wished he'd come armed with a spritzer full of Round Up.
"Tendrils… " John repeated with a shudder. He hunched his shoulders.
"Colonel Sheppard?"
"I'm good, Carson," he replied wearily. He gave a non-committal shrug.
"You having a wee bit of trouble, son?"
"No, it's - never mind." John rubbed his left side. Beckett gave him a knowing look, and scanned him up and down, thus warning him that he would be watching him like the proverbial hawk for any signs of flagging. John straightened his back, gripped his P90 with newfound yet ill-gotten vigor, and winced at the pull on recently healed scars. Two impalements and a thrashing. All within a few weeks of each other. He'd received two black eyes from the latest offworld skirmish that had put half his team in the infirmary. Teyla with a slashed Achilles tendon, and Ronon with two broken wrists. Without being able to wield a single knife, Ronon was out of commission, as was Teyla, though she put on a brave front, and even declared serenely how it gave her the opportunity to spend more time with Torren. Ronon merely grunted.
"Seriously, I could do a roaring trade with these back on Ear- back home, selling fancy black pumpkins for Halloween, which is, may I remind you, mere days away? Beats orange hands down. It'd be all the rage! I could finally retire and write my memoirs. Er, are we there yet?"
Again, John turned to give McKay 'The Look', but remembered he was wearing shades. He rested one hand on the butt of his P90, and mouthed, "Zip it," with accompanying gesture.
"Shutting up now." McKay zipped his lips shut.
John glanced over to Beckett. He looked just as exhausted as McKay. He felt bad about not offering to carry the medical kit, but he was still recovering from that last supposed cakewalk mission, the one that put half his team out of commission, and almost jeopardized his ability to lead another. No broken limbs, though his vision suffered for about a week, which had him terrified for a while that he wouldn't regain his 20/30 acuity.
"Wish Ronon were here," said Beckett, his voice sounding pained.
"Same." John eyed up the kit. "I'd carry it, Carson," he added, sensing a pained expression crossing his face, "but, y'know - " and he thumbed over his shoulder towards his back. The last bad guys had taken bludgeons to all of them, but as leader, he had borne the brunt of the assault as he struggled to deflect blows to the rest of his team, especially Rodney, their main target of interest. At least he was back on his feet. The two marines, Rozenberg and Sorensen, were lugging more than enough equipment, for the most part crates of C4, detonators, fertilizer, weed killer and tough-as-nails grass seed.
"Aye, lad. I know you would if you could. It's the thought that counts." Carson smiled fondly, finally revealing his dimples.
"What if they stain?"
"Whuh?" John rounded on Rodney.
"The melonumpkins. Of course, it wouldn't affect you, Colonel Cool, with your Men In Black garb. What's with the sunglasses?"
"Unlike you, I make this look good." John dipped his shades, and shot Rodney the coolest look he could manage with two black eyes.
"Oh, hardy har har. Ouch! That still looks bad, Sheppard, though I see there's some yellow and red appearing at the edges. The rest still looks green and blue. At least most of the black's gone, eh? By the way, why do you wear so much black these days? What are we doing in gray? We should be in camo. What's with the SGC? Just about every planet we visit looks like Canada. We should be in green. Lincoln green! Like Robin Hood! And his Merry Men! Of course, that would make Teyla 'Maid Marian' - "
"Not wearing tights, McKay," John growled, then stopped walking, tilted his head to one side in thought. He stared at McKay, incredulous. "Melonumpkins?" He waved his arms sideways. "I thought I'd trained everyone not to name anything?" The two marines snickered, then drew in their lips, eyes comically wide. John struggled not to think of the poor centurions in The Life Of Brian at the mention of Biggus Dickus. He turned away from the pair and broke into a grin, and considered asking them if they found it 'wisible', though he didn't think he could keep enough of a straight face to carry it off. He was tempted to proclaim, 'Welease Wodney!' If he could only compose himself. Double damn.
"Slow on the uptake. You're as bad as Conan. They must have mashed your brain cell when they beat you," McKay mumbled.
John grimaced.
"Rodney? Can we drop it? I'm feeling pretty good these days. I got off lightly for a change. Anyway, it was your half a brain cell they wanted. Remember? Extract it and inspect it under a microscope?"
Yeah, he had come off relatively unscathed. Two black eyes, not too many bruises where they'd pummeled him, and - nothing broken! Yep, the Sheppard luck was finally changing.
"And crap at snappy comebacks," McKay mumbled once more, though much quieter.
John chose not to respond.
Ten minutes on, and although it wasn't exactly a 'downhill', the steep incline had lessened from forty degrees to some twenty degrees, to reveal rolling, mist-shrouded hills covered in gorse and heather. It was pleasant, in a moody sort of way.
"Looks a wee bit like Scotland."
John spun around. Beckett had a dreamy expression on his face. The man drew in a deep lungful of cold, moisture-laden air, and exhaled with a sigh.
"You roamin' in the gloamin' up there, Carson? Home on the range?" John tapped his temple, but he made sure he flashed an empathic smile.
"Och, aye, John. On the bonnie banks o' Clyde. Where the deer and the antelope play."
"Wi' a lassie by his side, no doubt. Where never is heard a discouraging word. The jagged outcrops, rainclouds of Doom and cloying smog were probably your first clue. And - I do believe… "Rodney snapped his fingers, and in an uncharacteristic burst of energy, ran towards something skittering in the undergrowth, "… I just spotted a haggis. A living, breathing haggis. That or a freakin' tribble."
Said haggis slash freakin' tribble, a puffball on legs with dark, spiky fur, scurried across the dirt path right in front of them. It turned, and gave them a startled look before edging nearer to them. John thought the little guy looked kind of skunk-like.
"Pepe Le Pew."
"What?"
"I just named it." John flashed his patent wicked, lop-sided grin. "Hey!" he added with a shrug of mock contrition.
"Funny. Not. Watch out Sheppard! I think it's after you! You should wear a hat in case it's mating season. Ooh! There's another one right behind you, about to hump your leg!"
Sheppard did a whirl and a hop, and his hand flew to his holster.
"Scat!" he squealed. The creature squealed back, reminding him of Ellia in her last feisty moments, drew its legs in, and rolled downhill like a tire, chittering to itself.
"Think you just told it you had a headache. Does that thing have brakes?"
As if in response, the creature stuck out its rudder-like tail much like that of a duck-billed platypus, effectively interrupting its forward momentum. The thing looked like it had stunned itself. It shook its head, then disappeared amongst the tangle of melonumpkins. John chuckled at Pepe's inane antics.
"Now that's what I call camouflage!"
"Then you should be right at home in there, Sheppard."
"Now, now, Rodney. Give the lad a break."
"Huh. Just because I was winning. Seriously, are we there yet?"
"No."
"Are we there yet?"
"No!"
"So, Carson, you feel at home, too?"
"Aye. I do, lad. Despite the fact that wee creature can't possibly be a haggis as they actually only have three legs, and can only go round in circles, not roll downhill." Carson acquired a wistful look. "Y'know, perhaps there's fishin' to be had. Anyone care to go fishin' with me?"
At that, John looked at McKay, whose eyes clouded over. They might even had teared up. John was at a loss for words, and he let his eyes beg McKay to change the subject. Thankfully, he caught on, though his jaw dropped, and his bottom lip quivered slightly.
"How about hunting? You can skin the whatever-it-is, and make yourself a lovely sporran."
The mention of hunting was too close to fishing. Not exactly the distraction John had in mind, so he pitched in.
"It's a… uh… haggistribble." John winced.
"You suck at naming things, Sheppard. You know that, don't you?"
"Yeah, but, melonumpkins? Why not pumpkinelons? Have you tried opening one yet? Do you know if it's more melon-like or more pumpkin-like? Might make all the difference." John winked at Beckett.
"Er, no. I bet they carve great, though." With that, McKay bent down to the nearest one, sliced into it with his k-bar, and was duly hit in the face by a spray of dark juice. So much for being the new Halloween fad. The stuff most likely stained, too.
John expected McKay to be pissed with him in a don't kill the messenger kind of way. He waited for the barrage. He should have known. McKay's stomach had taken his brain hostage. McKay was licking his lips.
"Tastes great! Like a daiquiri! I love those. No, wait! I've just had a terrible thought. Are there lemons in daiquiris? Oh, nononononono! I've been drinking them on and off for years! Decades even! Maybe it works like a slow toxin? I've been committing suicide! Slow, agonizing, suicidal suicide... No wonder I have sweaty palms and palpitations. My mouth is going numb." Rodney fumbled all eight fingers around his lips. "I'm bubbloosing the blablility to spleak!" His eyes widened and rolled like the dreary hills and dales of Kemmia.
John chuckled. Carson grinned. Even the marines let out long-suppressed snorts.
"From your mouth to God's ears, McKay… Death by daiquiri, huh?"
"Beat the sorry mainstay, chocolate. How you Americans can stand Hersheys, I'll never know. Stuff tastes like soap."
"My vote's for death by single malt. A wee dram at a time."
"Mine goes for death by Guinness and a Cuban cigar. So, you going for a prolonged death, Carson?"
"Life is a prolonged death, John."
"Always look on the bright side, eh? Well the bright side of death by Hersheys would be taking it intravenously rather than orally. Which brings me to cake or death… "
John was enjoying the banter. Despite the cold and damp, the absence of two of his team-mates, the interminably bleak tendril-ridden terrain, plus a tired, aching body, this was turning into a pretty good day.
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A/N - Bwah! Silly boy. You iz in my eevle clutchiz now. There's no such thing as a 'pretty good day'... XD
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