Ophidia
A Stargate Atlantis Fanfic
Wednesday, 1 August 2007


Chapter 6: Suspense

Kneeling, his tilted his head at the scientist, regarding his fear and obvious bafflement with a fake concern, before his grin returned. "You should have someone take a look at that, Radek," he said, patting Zelenka's shoulder and laughing as the other man flinched away from him. As he rose again, he took the tablet from the table, and walked towards the exit— deliberately stepping on Zelenka's discarded radio in the process.


Again, Weir and Sheppard exchanged a long glance, and her hand went up to her radio— it was hard to see it shaking in the low light. "This is Weir. I need a medical team in the chair room."


Zelenka held as still as he could, hoping McKay would just leave, get out, before he couldn't contain himself any longer. If he could just hold still, keep quiet, then McKay would be gone. He was terrified that any movement, even the smallest of sounds would bring the mad man back.

Carefully, slowly, he began to turn his head towards the door. McKay was standing there— staring directly at him.

Panic welling again, Zelenka let out a short, quiet gasp, involuntarily flinching just a bit further back.

But McKay did not move he continued to watch the Czech's reaction, a small, dark smile on his face. Then, something that he barely registered as extraordinary, so distracted by pain and fear was he— for an instant, a light seemed to flash in the other scientist's eyes. And then, he was gone.

Somewhat in shock, the scientist forgot to move until he realized he was hyperventilating. Forcing himself to take slower, more even breaths, he laid his head back on the cool floor.

What is going on? he thought to himself. Something was wrong with McKay. Horribly wrong. The man could be rude and uncouth and heartless, but cruelty was a rarity. Something like this was unthinkable… he couldn't wrap his mind around it…

The Czech let out a short, high pitched laugh. Give me a break, Radek, he could imagine McKay saying. Given, your mind is nothing like mine, but even you should be able to handle this. That was McKay. That is the Rodney I know, he thought, continuing to shake with delirious laughter.

But he had seemed so lucid. So perfectly in control. Both possibilities couldn't be right, but…

Laughter died into sounds of hurt, faint and slow. Gingerly, he tried to prop himself up on his one good arm, before pulling his legs up under him. A spasm of pain shot through one knee which refused to work, and he fell back to the ground, face first and injured arm pinned beneath him. A muffled scream escaped from his throat— it felt as though someone was tearing his hand from his arm— and he did not attempt to move again.

Under the finger tips of his good hand, he could feel something plastic and sharp. Closing around it, he drew it slowly towards himself, hand shaking.

The radio… the earpiece was broken and the plastic cracked in many places but, impossibly… static was still coming through intermittently. Exhaling in disbelief, he pulled it up next to his mouth, squeezing its damaged button gingerly.

"Medical team… to the science lab," he said, before closing his mouth and eyes, trying not to moan.

There was nothing he could do now but wait, and pray.


"You don't think—"

Sheppard cut Lorne off with a glare. Cowed by his superior officer's behavior, Lorne glanced back down at Beckett, silently wondering. For his part, the colonel quickly regretted it, but all the same…

"It wasn't him," Sheppard insisted, surprised to realize that it was, even if only in small part, to convince himself as well as the others assembled. "You'd have to tie Beckett into that chair just to get him to sit in it." Even though the situation appeared grim enough what with the man knocked out cold, Sheppard couldn't help but feel there was more to it.

Now kneeling beside Beckett, Weir offered a tiny smile that didn't quite reach her eyes for the colonel's joke. "What happened to you, Carson?" she whispered to the unresponsive man.

The colonel could offer no reply. Lorne stepped in. "We'll find out, ma'am," he assured her with a certainty he didn't have.

"I know you will, Major," she replied, once more establishing the fearless-leader façade. Looking to some of the marines; "Go scout around— make sure there's no one else nearby."

A few minutes passed uneasily— Beckett didn't stir. The patrolling marines found nothing else out of the ordinary, besides a second forced door. The stillness and anticlimactic lack of action was starting to wear on Sheppard's nerves, and he shifted from side to side. "What the hell is taking that med-team so long?" he muttered, fingering his radio again. "Control Room, this is Sheppard… Control Room?"

Weir glanced up, confused as Colonel Sheppard said nothing after a few moments. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

Looking disconcerted; "I'm not getting anything."

She stood from where she was, trying it herself. "This is Weir. Can anyone hear me?" She too got no reply, and tilted her head. "Is the radio dead?" He could tell she was concealing some anxiety, and could sympathize.

"I dunno," he said under his breath. "Hold on—" he said, pulling his earpiece out and fiddling with the frequency for a moment, before holding it up to his mouth. "Can you hear this?" he asked softly.

Frowning, Weir hesitated, before placing a finger over each ear, pressing the radio's earpiece into the one. "Try again," she instructed him.

He did so, and saw her frown deepen. "I heard it," she said at length— "At least, I think I did. But only barely. It was like something was interfering with it," she added, concern growing on her face.

"Colonel! Dr. Weir;" one of the marines ran up, looking slightly out of breath.

Sheppard bristled slightly. "What is it?"

The man looked somewhat shaken. "Power just went out in the hallways around here."

"You're sure it wasn't already out?" Weir asked. "Zelenka could have disabled this entire section."

"No ma'am," he replied, even more ill at ease. "All the doors past those leading directly here were working just fine— the lights were on and everything. And then, all of a sudden, no power."

"Lorne and the others?" Sheppard broke in, sure he already knew the answer.

The marine seemed to deflate. "Kaczynski's on this side, but the major and Riley are stuck."

Jutting out his jaw, Sheppard paused to think. Finally; "Alright, you and Kaczynski work on getting them out. Elizabeth," he added, turning to her and gesturing with his head. "You're with me."

She seemed ready to pull rank on him for a moment. "And what about Carson?" she reminded the colonel.

With a troubled looked back at the man, he said, "He's not going anywhere."

The two of them then set out back via the door they had initially come through, Sheppard leading the way. It wasn't long before Weir's flashlight illuminated the closed door of the transporter, which refused to open, even when he thought at it. Valiantly, he attempted to force it open; it refused to give, and Weir tucked her flashlight under her arm, stepping up to help. Both straining with the effort, the panel eventually started to slide to one side, enough for Weir to slip in and brace herself against the doorjamb and use both her legs and arms to help push it the rest of the way.

With one last heave, the way to the transporter room was clear, and Weir moved in to make room for Sheppard. He went straight for the panel at the back, looking at it, then placing his hand upon it. Then punching it.

Weir frowned at him as he cursed under his breath, though at least part of it was for the unresponsive technology. "Apparently, neither are we," she remarked.


"Whoa, whoa whoa whoa!"

The gate tech on duty glanced over at his nearby comrade, who had recoiled away from his station. The strange events of the night were only getting stranger, and he found himself tensing up, anxiously waiting for the other man to elaborate.

Finally, someone couldn't take the suspense. "What is it?" they demanded.

The first man shook his head in disbelief. "Power all over the city." He returned to his keyboard. "It's out in some places, but surging in others." After a few more strokes, he held his hands up helplessly. "It makes no sense!"

They all went after their own stations, trying to make something of what was going on. For his part, the gate tech found nothing malfunctioning with the Stargate— a small relief in a long line of worries.

"Communications aren't working," someone called.

He called back, "Are they down?"

The woman who had spoken bit her lip, not replying for a moment. "I can't tell. But something's definitely wrong—"

For a moment, the Control Room seemed to glow like it was day again, bathed in too-bright blue and white light emanating from the Ancient consoles. Before any of them could register the increase in light for what it was, every piece of their own technology started sparking, and lights shattered. Shouting and crying out, they all flinched away from their stations— many dove for or fell to the floor, seeking cover from the flying glass.

A second later, the power completely died, to Earth and Ancient technology alike.

Picking himself up, the gate tech looked around; he couldn't see much, despite the starlight from the many windows in the Gate Room below. "Is every one okay?"

There was a general chorus of assent, and he looked around.

Everything that they had witnessed so far tonight had been completely inexplicable— shots out of the dark. And somehow, that made it that much more terrifying.


With every new challenge, every line of code, every command it wanted, the thing dove back into his mind. He could feel himself fraying at the edges, in mental agony and threatening to come undone. Rodney felt that it was only the creature itself holding him together, both for the information he possessed and the enjoyment it derived from torturing him like this.

You are pathetic. Weak, it told him, an easy, light assurance that left him feeling ever more revulsion for it… and him. You are like the last.

The image of Beckett in his mind— being tossed away, like a rag doll, then kicking him… the sense of satisfaction he had derived from seeing the man remain still, overcoming the natural terror he had felt— would have felt, should have felt. There was no part of him the thing couldn't violate and control, apparently, to include his emotions.

This time, though, it was a memory that it chose to show him. Not one of his own, violently distorted and nightmarishly real, but one it conjured up from a previous host. With a shock, he seemed to see himself walking down a hallway, and heard a high, agonized voice that he recognized as Beckett's. The metaphysical stabbing sensation that he had come to associate with the creature tore through him, and even in memory, it hurt. It hurt. No! he could hear the voice scream. No, please! Anything, anything, just stop! Stop, take him instead, it begged. He can do it. He can make it work!

Rodney tried to pull himself out of it, to tell himself that it was a lie, and illusion created by the snake in his head, but couldn't. All he could do was listen to another— someone he had called his friend— try to bargain his life for theirs.

He wanted to not believe it… he wanted to… but he couldn't…

And the puppet master smirked to himself, using stolen lips. Even as McKay rested on a balcony, tapping away at a tablet and watching havoc unfold across the city, that facet of Rodney McKay was but a shadow in a back corner of his mind. It did only as he made it do. And he reminded it of that once again, calling up another memory…