It had been just after 0900 on Daedalus time when Methos has arrived on Atlantis, late afternoon in the city itself, and near dusk on the tree-infested disaster area (apparently designated M6R-299). He was practically suffering from whiplash from the time zone hopping.

Really, though, by the end of that very long night, Methos was much better off than most of the Atlantis personnel, since he hadn't already been up all day before diving through a wormhole to perform physically and emotionally-taxing major rescue operations. While being Immortal did not, alas, mean a person didn't have to eat or sleep, Methos still came out of the whole experience a lot fresher than his new compatriots, some of whom had to be practically carried to cots before Daedalus herself arrived around dawn.

With the ship (and her astonishingly useful transporters) in position, they were finally able to rescue the last few survivors still buried under debris, and move the injured to treatment with both speed and ease.

Of course, what the survivors were going to do with their town and lives reduced to a pile of rubble… Happily, that was not Methos's problem. He was more than pleased to let someone else worry about that. Instead, he made himself busy cleaning up the scattered detritus of medical treatment in the makeshift triage center and clinic, in between checking on the less-injured patients who had not been transported to either Atlantis or Daedalus for further treatment.

Finally, even he was pretty well wiped out and all but collapsed into a cot that had been recently vacated by a patient evacuated for more extensive treatment. His eyes slid shut almost immediately.


Helpless. A prisoner in his own body. He'd promised himself that this would never happen again. He slammed against the barriers of his mind, struggling to free himself, but he might as well have been pounding against a wall of diamond.

Fury. Fury and unrelenting fear as he clawed and scraped and hammered uselessly inside his head.

The snake ignored his futile efforts as it marched his body down the corridor. That's all he was. A body, a convenient set of legs and opposable thumbs. Except it was worse than that, because it could also flip through his mind, read his thoughts and his memories like a book. It could know everything he knew.

Every secret, laid bare. And try as he might, he couldn't even move his eyes of his own accord.

Not again. Not again!

They reached the conference room. The door opened. The Goa'uld reach out and tossed in the grenade.


A hand touched his shoulder. Methos's eyes snapped open. In an moment, his knife was in his hand and at the throat of… someone?

"What the-" the stranger choked. Methos blinked, coming back to himself. He instantly withdrew the knife, slipping it back into the sheath on his thigh.

"You're not Carson," the other man squeaked in apparent non-sequitur, his voice somewhat strained and a little strident. He had a somewhat chubby build and receding brown hair, and Methos realized that he actually recognized him from the files he'd read on the trip to Pegasus: Dr. Rodney McKay, the man in charge of the science teams on Atlantis.

"No, I'm not Carson," Methos responded to the man's earlier remark.

"You had a knife at my throat!" McKay's expression turned swiftly indignant, though it was pretty obvious he was more than a little unnerved by the unfortunate experience.

"Yes, sorry about that." The apology was actually far more genuine than normal for Methos. "Bad dream."

"I'll say. Who are you, anyway?" demanded the lead scientist.

"A man who was a Goa'uld host for two years after being kidnapped. Twice!" Well, kidnapped two and a half times, really. But who was counting?

Surprisingly, the acerbic and snarky response actually set McKay back slightly.

"You still shouldn't wave knives around at people," he protested, somewhat more weakly.

"I wasn't 'waving' the knife," Methos pointed out logically; really, though, McKay had a point. There were no Immortals here trying to sneak up on him in the middle of the night to take his head. Unless one counted the Wraith, and Methos had no intention of actually coming into contact with one of them. He cleared his throat and gave a peace offering. "If you're looking for Dr. Beckett, the last I saw him he was beaming up to Daedalus with a very anxious pregnant woman who insisted that he and only he would be the one to check on her and her baby."

"Why would she do that?" McKay's face screwed up in comical confusion, completely losing his original train of thought.

"Having never been a pregnant woman, I couldn't even begin to answer your question. Maybe you should find one and ask her."

Before the other man could come up with a response, another (more familiar voice) interrupted the conversation.

"Hey, McKay, you looking for Dr. Beckett?" It was Major Lorne, looking even more gray and haggard than Methos had seen him earlier. "He's on Daedalus. I told him to get some rest after he checked up on that last patient of his. Told him I'd send Ronon up and sit on him if he didn't."

There was clearly some sort of history or story to be told there, to judge by the expression on McKay's face.

"Yeah, that'd do it. I've, I've just got his meds, and I knew that everyone else was all running around trying to rescue people, and I knew he would probably need more, and he's the last person to think of himself..." McKay shifted awkwardly, clearly embarrassed. Lorne acted like he didn't notice.

"Know what you mean." He clasped the other man lightly on the shoulder; McKay seemed slightly disconcerted by the comradely gesture and quickly excused himself.

Lorne turned and exhausted grin to Methos.

"Guess what, Doc? We've been relieved. We're headed back to Atlantis."

"Brilliant. Because this cot is possibly the most uncomfortable excuse for a bed I've ever slept in, and I'm counting bare rock in a cave!" Methos did not mention that his discomfort was more likely connected to that dream and what came after than the actual cot.