Too Much To Pretend

by Mirwalker


DAY SEVENTEEN (cont.)

"Your outfit says military, and your accent suggests… United States?" somewhat guessed Atlantis' resident linguist. He leaned forward and offered the next insight as if it were a secret. "I'm not sure what the bodyguard indicates," gesturing toward the observant but disinterested Marine.

Matching Royce's stage whisper, Kenmore shared, "I'm a Lieutenant under Colonel Sheppard's command, am told I'm from Texas, and the guards aren't for me, they're for everyone else."

Royce sat up and took in the whole scene, before confessing with a slight, uneasy grin, "I'm just a civilian, so I'm not sure whether that's supposed to reassure or rattle me."

Kenmore sighed and put his fork down a little more heavily than intended. "Sorry. I thought everyone knew; guess I'd better get used to explaining…"

Fearing that he had, again, overstepped the bounds of decorum, Royce interjected, "Lieutenant, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry and you certainly don't owe me any explanation."

"No, it's OK. I just assumed everyone else knew. It's actually a little reassuring to meet someone who doesn't; I'm not alone in the not knowing!" His smile was genuine, if a little nervous, even as Royce continued to look at him more than a little puzzled. "Uh, let's see, basically: Not long after coming to Atlantis, I was captured by the Wraith, and then recently rescued. We don't know what they did to me, if anything; but Dr Weir and Colonel Sheppard aren't taking any chances on me freaking out and hurting someone."

Royce stared incredulously at him, still not sure whether to be sorry or scared. Knowing that neither reaction would be useful to the man across the table from him, he chose to commiserate, "Wow; I'm sorry. I'm not really sure what to say. My one run in with the Wraith was quick and unpleasant enough; so I can only imagine what being captured must have been like for you."

"Yeah, and I can only imagine too, because I can't remember anything—not of them, not of my life before, not anything. My memory starts last night when I woke up in the Infirmary."

"You don't remember anything? Nothing at all?"

"Well, I can speak, and read, and get around obviously. Some faces and words are familiar, like 'Wraith' and 'Atlantis'; but they had to tell me my name and that I'm from Texas." His eyebrows shot up in epiphany, "How'd you know I was from the US if we haven't met before?"

"I'm a linguist—I study languages; so I recognized your accent family. You talk like many English-speakers from North America, sort of. Though your vowels aren't quite right for Texas…"

Kenmore clearly wasn't convinced whether the observation was encouraging or more troubling; but his concern rebounded toward curiosity quickly, as a genuine smile broke across his face again, "So, where are you from? Who talks like you?"

Warmed by the interest, but not really having another answer, Royce gave a practiced but honest response, adapted from his diplomatic cocktail party repertoire. "I've lived all over the world—Earth that is; so I've typically talked however the locals did. Most recently, I've spent a number of years in California; so, I guess my accent is largely North American, with some undertones of a few other places including my British mom's Received English."

Kenmore listened intently, trying to take some meaning from the locations mentioned; but it was clear that no bells rang. Quickly growing accustomed to dead ends, he switched topics again, "So, I get why the military is here, what with the Wraith and all. But what does a linguist do in Atlantis if everyone at least speaks English?"

Grinning openly at the too rare blatant intrigue of this truthful, if troubled, person, Royce finished his sip of tea and gladly shared. "Well, I'm assigned to work as an interpreter as needed—between the Expedition and off-world contacts, to support the translation of artifacts, and to work with the engineers on developing some portable translation software." He laughed at the insight Kenmore's question showed, "You're apparently not the only military officer who wonders why I'm here. My science division colleagues have told me that the science and military types don't mix a whole lot, except at the highest levels of leadership." He gestured between them, observing, "I guess our talking is pretty rare."

Kenmore's face dropped again, "But it's allowed, right?"

"Of course," smiled Royce, on some level relieved not to be the only party concerned about faux pas. "I don't think I could stand hanging out with only the science corps all the time. They're nice enough people, but can be a little narrow in their interests. The entomol- the insect scientist who was on the spaceflight from home, all he was able to talk about was the iratus bug, dragonflies and such. Interesting for a while, but not weeks at a time…"

"I'm afraid I'm probably not good company either, as I don't have much to talk about beyond questions about myself."

Royce leaned in slightly, to emphasize the delicacy of the insight he was about to offer, "Lieutenant…"

"'Michael,' please."

"Michael. I've met a couple of folks here who like to talk about nothing but their wants and needs." He nodded his head in the direction of Atlantis' Chief Science Officer, who sat a few tables away picking irritably at his red dessert gelatin. "But I get the sense that your focus is more self-reflective than self-aggrandizing. And as a new guy myself, I'm happy to have another friend outside my workgroup. I don't know what I can do, but I'd be happy to help you as much as I can; we're starting from scratch between us as it is…"

Kenmore absolutely beamed at the non-judgment. "I'd like that. Thanks. Among the things I could use right now, friends are right up there."

At that moment, Royce's wristwatch beeped urgently. He silenced it and sighed, realizing he'd talked through his midday break. "And, at the risk of starting this friendship off on the wrong foot, I'm afraid I've got to go. I have a meeting to start developing grammar indices for an AI translation matrix."

Kenmore stared are him blankly.

"Sorry, technobabble for work; it's not the fun parts, I promise." He stood to leave, remembering to "Thank you for letting me interrupt and sort of join you for lunch. A good friend is very ill right now; and it's been a rough week at the office. You have no idea how reenergizing it's been to meet somebody not involved in it all."

Kenmore jumped up as well, again causing the Marine guard to twitch slightly. "I'm sorry about your friend. So thank you all the more for talking with me. It's nice to have another friendly face, when everything is so unfamiliar. Maybe we can see each other again?"

Royce paused and smiled neutrally, not sure whether to read something more than friendship into the invitation. Choosing to take it at face value, he responded sincerely, "My pleasure, Michael Kenmore from Texas. We may not have all the info yet, but I can tell already you're a good guy."

The amnesiac airman looked both embarrassed and appreciative, and a little confused as to what might make him say so.

Royce reached over and took a small item off Kenmore's tray, "With a blank culinary slate, you chose tater tots with your lunch." Popping the day's apparent lunch into his mouth, he explained, "No one who chooses tots can be all bad."

He smiled and headed off, pausing near the door and turning back to see Kenmore still standing and grinning after him. Before turning into the hallway, he just caught a glimpse of the officer popping a tot into his own mouth as he sat down.

Behind Kenmore, a voice a few tables over cut through the background noise, "Ah! Hey, what happened to the, uh, blue Jell-O? ..."(1)


Grab dinner and then get to the Infirmary, that's all he wanted to do. He had obeyed Dr Beckett's orders not to visit, or even call, since the morning; and while he knew they would contact him if anything had changed, he felt the need to be there almost as strong as his hunger. Word was that tonight's menu was spaghetti; and he fully intended to take a tray of steaming marinara and garlic bread to add a culinary stimulus to Evan's environment. Never mind that he hadn't actually eaten lunch himself.

As he bee-lined for the cafeteria, the shout came from down the hallway, "Max!"

He turned to see a smiling Michael Kenmore hurrying toward him, with two different, but equally menacing Marines following watchfully.

"Hello, Lieutenant."

"They wouldn't let me go to your lab, or tell me where your quarters were; so I hoped I might catch you coming for dinner." He gestured toward a bench where he'd apparently been waiting in the hopes Max would pass by.

Primed for bad news of late, Max's faced wrinkled with worry, "Is everything OK?"

Michael's glee evaporated, realizing and reflecting the concern he had caused. "Yes. Well, same as it has been." He smiled again, hoping to redirect the mood.

Max looked at him inquisitively, still not sure whether that was, in fact, good or bad, given the security precautions the base leadership were obviously taking with him.

Dropping his volume, but still upbeat in tone, Michael explained, "I had a session with Dr Heightmeyer this afternoon, to help me cope with… with this whole experience. And among the things she told me was to concentrate on the positive; and our lunch was one of the most positive parts of what little I can remember..."

Royce blushed at the honesty itself, and blanched at the thought that the military escorts had perhaps heard it. Not sure how to respond before the two audiences, he glanced about humbly and nervously. "Um, well, I'm glad…"

"I was hoping, maybe, that we could eat together again." Michael gestured toward the dining hall, with puppy-like hope in his face. "I'll make sure you actually get something on your tray this time…"

Max grimaced, knowing his answer would not settle well. "Actually, Michael, I was planning to grab a tray, with food, and head to the Infirmary to see my friend there. He loves pasta; so I'm hoping the smell of tonight's 'zesty tomato sauce and garlic butter' will help him get up and about sooner."

"Oh," acknowledged Michael, initially disappointed by the denied company. His face lit slightly, asking, "Well can I come with you? I could help carry something…"

An angry cloud passed over Max's face, before he realized that Michael wasn't insensitive to the circumstance, he just didn't understand the inappropriateness of the intrusion. Smiling politely, he explained, "It's really not a social occasion, Michael. And, I hoped to just spend some time with Lorne. Perhaps tomorrow?"

"Right," Michael nodded dejectedly, disappointed and sensing on some level that he'd overstepped another social rule he didn't remember. "I understand," he tried to lie.

"Michael, it's not that I don't want to have dinner with you. I enjoyed lunch. Really. I just can't tonight… How about we go through the line together?"

"It's OK; really," Michael continued, beginning to literally backpedal down the hallway. He thumbed at the two guards, "I've always got company." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he led his escorts the long way around to the dining hall, leading the entourage toward another table for one.

"I'm sorry!" Max shouted after him, before a growling stomach reminded him of his two pending appointments.


Later that night, Kenmore sat at the desk in his spartan quarters, staring at the laptop screen on which only a few words sat. He rubbed his tired eyes, and leaned back in the chair, wishing words, memories, anything would come to him.

From the direction of the door, a voice narrated the accompanying sound, "Knock, knock?" Royce stood in the slightly opened door, looking oddly at the unsecured glass entry.

"Max!" beamed the odd room's resident, hopping up and hurrying toward the unexpected guest.

The linguist remained in the doorway, not wanting to intrude further without invitation. And when the Lieutenant just stood there silently, Royce realized he'd probably need to take the lead on this social script. "May I come in?"

"Yes, please," waved Michael, stepping aside.

"Thanks. I would have rung or knocked, but you don't seem to have a doorbell of any kind."

"Yeah, no way to lock it from in here either. I guess we're a trusting place," observed Michael with no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Max looked around, still showing a little surprise at the strange set-up of the room—glass interior walls, only a few personal items scattered about. He was no decorator himself, but knew that most arrivals to Atlantis moved somewhat quickly to de-alien the comfortable enough spaces. Surely having touches of home and history would also be helpful to Michael as he tried to recover memories of them; but the room looked like the officer had only unpacked an overnight bag. All he said, though, was "I've not been to any of the interior quarters before; a lot more glass than those on the exterior walls. A lot like my lab, actually…"

"What is your room like?"

Max turned to face Michael with a genuine warmth, "That's a good segway, actually. I'm sorry again about being short with you earlier tonight; I hope you enjoyed your pasta… The Dining Hall meals are nutritious enough, I guess, but I wondered whether you might like to come to my quarters tomorrow night for a home-cooked meal?"

Michael lit up at the invitation, even before Max could give his reasoning.

"More than a month out from home, and I'm feeling the need to hotplate a little comfort food. And I imagine that evenings may be an especially tough time for you; when most everyone else is off doing their own thing, you're just here. So, I'm asking to make up for tonight but with no pressure; just an option for another change of scenery."

"I'd like that very much," nodded the guest-to-be.

"Great. Anything you do or don't like?

Michael's face flashed with a resigned confusion, "I don't know what I like or don't, except tater tots; I very much like those," he admitted, his smile returning. "Dr Beckett tells me I have Type I diabetes, if that makes any difference." Again, not the least hint of self-consciousness around the rather personal, if relevant disclosure.

"That shouldn't be a problem," Max reassured as he quickly thought through the likely menu for starch and sugars. Pleased, but not sure how to continue, Max gestured to the open laptop, "I'm sorry, I'm interrupting…"

Michael walked over and traced an absentminded finger over the largely blank screen. "No, not really. Dr. Heightmeyer suggested that journaling might help me cope with my feelings about the situation. But, all it's done so far is call attention to how little I know and how frustrating that is. The few lines you see describing today are all I've been able to come up with…"

"I can only imagine how difficult that must be," Max returned. "But I keep a journal myself, and find it useful in sorting through my current thoughts, never mind the past."

Michael snapped himself back to the positive of the friendship at hand, "Well I'm just hoping it will come back to me, and soon. In the meanwhile, it's nice to have people concerned and trying to help. How is your friend, by the way?"

It was Max's turn to shift to somber. He bit his lip and looked down before putting on his own happy front. "Physically he's continuing to heal, but there's still no sign of his waking up. They say it's really up to him now; he could snap to tonight, or… Or never," he nodded matter-of-factly.

Inhaling deeply, he shifted gears obviously, "Well, it seems you've had a full day already. Maybe some sleep will help loosen the mind a little… Get some rest and I'll see you tomorrow; let's say nineteen hundred? Seven o'clock…"

"I'm looking forward to it."

Determined to show progress and support, Michael put out his hand and shook Max's vigorously.

Max chuckled at the genuineness of the effort, and returned to his quarters a little cheered by the Lieutenant's apparent positivity despite his own situation. He hoped his cooking wouldn't detract from that rapport or progress…


DAY EIGHTEEN

"Why do we not simply tell him the truth?" asked Teyla to the assembled leadership the next morning, as Michael Kenmore paced in his room on the monitors around them. "I am finding it difficult keeping it from him; and I am beginning to question whether our course of action is the correct one."(2)

"I'm sorry he's not sleeping well," quickly dismissed Sheppard. "But as you told him, a bad dream is nothing unusual for anyone here. You could say that a healthy subconscious fear of Wraith is actually progress; certainly no reason to abandon the project," he concluded looking from Teyla to Weir.

The latter inquired about another variable in the equation, "And what about his friendship with Dr Royce? How does that factor in?"

"Michael told me that Dr Royce is making dinner for him tonight; he seemed very excited," shared the Athosian.

Dr Heightmeyer suggested that "It may be useful to see how he interacts with someone who doesn't know his story, how he handles a genuine, from-scratch relationship."

Ever mindful of the security situation, whether for the City overall or individual team members, Sheppard worried, "But Royce doesn't know enough to be careful. If Kenmore flips out…"

"Nothing Michael has done since waking suggests that he poses a threat to anyone," restated the Athosian leader.

"Then why do we still have two armed Marines assigned to him around the clock?" posed McKay. "Not that I'm complaining about them. The guards. Armed guards."

"I'm pretty sure Royce can handle himself," assured the taller Pegasus galaxy native. "But I don't like Michael being here, anywhere, with anyone."

McKay rolled his eyes indignantly, and stage-whispered to no one, "I've been here two years, and get belittled regularly. But he's been here all of two weeks, vomits at the slightest energy surge, and everyone thinks he's a 'big boy'?"

Weir ignored the tangent, "I'm actually more concerned that Royce will become too helpful, trying to help him uncover his recent or deeper past—and not find anything. What happens if he asks around to other personnel, and no one's heard of a Lt Kenmore before?"

"I think Dr Royce has plenty to keep him occupied as a one man department, and with his best friend still in a coma." Sheppard looked to Beckett for confirmation.

"Aye, if anything, Michael has given Dr Royce someone to engage with beyond Rodney, my staff and Major Lorne. The new friendship seems to be doing them both some good…"

"Even if their friendship is genuine and without incident, is it right to deceive him with this experiment?" posed the still uncomfortable Teyla. "And what of Dr Royce's reaction when he learns that Michael was a wraith—a wraith involved in injuring Major Lorne?"

That eventuality and ethical question hung in the room without a quick remedy.

"I haven't met with Dr Royce yet," finally interjected Heightmeyer. "Given his experiences since arriving, I think it would be appropriate for me to initiate a welfare check on him. Without breaking his confidence, I could garner how he sees their friendship developing, and try to assess how well he can handle the friendship and the eventual truth on top of everything else."

"That sounds like a good idea. And, Rodney, as you're working together on the SAWgate logs, perhaps you could get a sense of his interactions with Michael too?" Weir half-asked.

"What, now I'm a social worker slash private investigator? Would you like me to get the windows while I'm at it?"

"No," corrected Sheppard, "you're Royce's supervisor, and have been trying to make a closer connection with your staff member; remember?"

"It's settled then," nodded Weir. "Let's see how it plays out. If there are problems, the guards are right there; and we can always loop Royce in when we feel it necessary."

The decision favoring the status quo hung in the room, more comfortably with some than others. Seeing acceptance, if not actual agreement, from everyone, Weir shifted to another, unrelated issue. "Now Rodney, speaking of SAWgate, how about a quick update on the progress you've been able to make with the Ancient logs, the beacon debris, Wraith materializers, etc?"

McKay's face was no brighter for the change to this topic, but at least it interested and involved him more…


NOTES

1. This line of dialogue borrowed from Michael (SGA 2.18), written by Carl Binder.

2. Teyla's initial dialogue here borrowed from Michael (SGA 2.18), written by Carl Binder.