In the fifteen years he'd been in the Air Force, he'd heard many reasons for joining. The most popular, but least often true was, "For the women," or, if you were talking to a female officer, "For the men." The cheesiest and most often true was, "To see the world," but there were dozens of others ranging in degree of truth from vulnerably honest to cockily deflective. "I like the uniform." "My dad was in the service." "I needed a way to pay for school." But the only reason John Sheppard had ever given anyone, including himself, was, "I think people who don't want to fly are crazy."
It had always been that simple. And, combined with his deep and abiding love for anything that went faster than 200 mph, that made the Air Force the only truly viable option for him.
If the truth of the reason was inversely proportional to its popularity, Sheppard figured he was the most honest airman in the Force. He'd thought it was a given. Love to fly, join the Air Force. But no one he talked to took him seriously when he said it. They all assumed it was his pat answer to take the place of some deeper, more personal or more complex reason.
And if there may have been other factors in his decision to apply to the Academy, Sheppard knew they were only secondary, things just about any college far away from home could have offered.
So when the general he'd been ferrying to what turned out to be some sort of alien fortress complete with bizarre weaponry didn't smirk knowingly when Sheppard gave his honest answer, he knew whatever reason the general was about to give to induce him to travel to another galaxy with a distinct possibility of never being able to return (never to fly another chopper) would be a good one.
That the wording was different from his own made little difference. It only took fifteen words to change his mind from "Hell, no," to letting a coin decide his fate.
It was all he could do not to grin when General O'Neill said, "I think people who don't want to go through the stargate are equally as whacked."