WARNING! SPOILERS FOR NO MAN'S LAND - read no further if you wish to remain unspoiled for this ep!
A quick "missing scene" tag fic for No Man's Land... I couldn't resist the whump potential of the awesome scenes of Sheppard's F302 taking fire and the him being dragged along by the Wraith guards inside the hive. This is my imagining of what happened between those two scenes. Hope you like!
The impact was stunning.
He'd dodged and twisted, spinning the versatile craft around and over and back again, but there were simply too many of them; darts everywhere he looked, swarming from the hives, bursts of weapons-fire streaking past him. It was only a matter of time until one of them hit.
The sudden impact threw him sideways, his vision whiting out as a blinding flash of light lit up the cockpit. The force of the blow was staggering, the F302 jerking heavily, the controls unresponsive in his hands as the high-velocity energy burst slammed into the craft. A grunt of surprise and pain was ripped from him as he connected solidly with the unforgiving metal of the cockpit interior. His head spun dizzily, reeling from the impact, the noise. The ship shrieked in agony, juddering and shaking in its death throes. It felt like the craft was shearing in half. For a long, endless moment he thought this was it; he was dead.
He must have drifted for a moment because when awareness returned he was still slumped over in his seat and there was only silence; he realised groggily that, though he was alive, the ship was dead. The controls were dark, the engines silent, the only sound a slow, constant hissing noise from somewhere to his left. He ached, sore muscles protesting the violent impact, and his head still swam woozily. Movement was an effort and he groaned vaguely as he pulled himself back upright in his seat. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn't just a knock to the head that was making him dizzy – it was motion. He tried to focus on the view out of the cockpit canopy and saw the stars spin crazily. Oh crap. He was adrift, the ship spinning and tumbling in space. His stomach churned. And the hissing sound? Air. Air escaping into vacuum. He has venting atmosphere. Shit. He'd been right the first time; he was dead.
He tried his best to check for options in the darkened cockpit. His head was pounding and he wondered how much oxygen he had lost, was still losing; how much was left. The ship was utterly dead, no power getting to any of the instruments or controls; his stomach swooped and spun along with the ship as it tumbled lazily end over end. Looking out the canopy made him even dizzier but he grit his teeth and tried to make a visual assessment of the damage. He had to close his eyes as part of the hive ship swung into view overhead, looming over him as he drifted. When he felt steady enough to try again he saw the stars spin by and felt the breath ripped from his lungs as he found empty space where a wing should be. Sonofa.. The entire left wing was gone, a ragged edge of metal all that remained of almost half of his precision spacecraft. He felt hopelessness tug at him as he closed his eyes against the nauseous spinning; it was a mortal wound, there was no coming back from this.
There was nothing he could do. Even McKay couldn't fix this. He felt a moment of black despair as he thought of McKay and Ronon still trapped on the hive, still alive. He would be no help to them now. Dark spots were beginning to crowd in at the edge of his vision and the air was starting to feel thin. He fumbled at his face-mask, unsnapping it from the side of his helmet and letting it dangle against his neck. He didn't have long, not long at all. He was venting atmosphere from a myriad of severed conduits along the left flank of the F302, hydraulics and wiring ripped and sparking uselessly. The hive ship swung into view again and seemed closer now but it was hard to tell for sure; his vision was dimming and it was getting harder and harder to draw breath, his lungs labouring uselessly to pull in what simply wasn't there.
His body was no longer his to control and he slumped helplessly to the side in his seat. He was gasping now, rapid, shallow breaths. The wildly spinning stars were the last thing he saw as his eyes slid closed.
He wasn't aware enough to register the dull thud of the craft hitting a solid surface, stirring vaguely at the loud cracking sound as the canopy was forced open. Air rushed in with a hiss and his body responded instinctively, sucking in a deep, desperate breath that left him coughing and gasping. He was helpless and dizzy, struggling to make sense of his surroundings, helpless to fight back when rough hands grabbed at his shoulders and tried to pull him from the cockpit. He grunted as the safety harness resisted, holding him in place, his abused muscles screaming as he was pulled in two different directions.
Hoarse, gutteral sounds, snarling and deep, and he felt more hands, reaching across him, pulling at the straps. A sharp jerk and the pressure was gone, the harness cut free, and he was being pulled and lifted, dragged bodily from the wreckage. They dropped him onto the floor, not bothering to be gentle, and he lay winded, still gasping for breath, bemusedly watching darts flit to and fro overhead against a background of thousands of pin-pricks of light.
Conscious thought was slow to return. Hanger bay. Hive ship hangar bay. Not great – but better than dead.
His legs still wouldn't support him when they dragged him to his feet and two of the faceless drone males were forced to hold him upright, their huge hands tight around his upper arms. It seemed like his whole body was one big ache. The tall, slim male stared down at him in contempt, his grip painfully tight as he grabbed Sheppard's chin and jerked his head upwards, examining the flight helmet with an expression of bemusement.
He never spoke, his eyes merely flicking upwards to meet another's gaze as his command was passed on. Rough hands from behind took hold of the helmet and pulled it none too carefully from Sheppard's head, jerking his head painfully to the side. He couldn't help a grimace at the stab of pain. The male hissed, his expression one of displeasure, and turned abruptly on his heel. Before Sheppard had time to get his bearings, they were moving, the soldier wraith dragging him along after their superior.
His legs tripped and tangled as they dragged him through the twisting corridors of the hive ship but eventually he managed to get his feet under him and start to bear some of his own weight, the solider wraith shifting their grip as they hauled him more upright. His head was still spinning and his muscles ached as much as ever but he was starting to feel a bit more awake, more aware. His thoughts began to race, trying to see a way out of this, when suddenly they stopped moving.
He frowned as the Wraith guards shoved him roughly to a halt, peering past the male Wraith to see a figure blocking their way. The light hit the stranger's face as he spoke, and Sheppard saw the short, white hair and heard that distinctive voice.
Michael.
Fin.