They've been on Atlantis for two weeks when she has the nightmare again.
Bahzir don't require much sleep, but occasionally it's necessary, and she's been so tired lately.
Dr. Beckett decreed that Major Sheppard was not to go anywhere for three weeks. Period. Dr. Weir was reluctant to allow the Alketch through on their little expedition without her chief military officer, and asked Ezrikos to wait.
Reluctantly, she had agreed.
Beckett has been running tests on her since they realized she had their precious gene; apparently no other member of the Strike Force has it. Probably because they're all Alketch.
And she's a patient woman, but the tests are long and boring, mostly consisting of Beckett asking her to turn random things on, turn other things off, taking blood samples…and she's tired.
And the nightmare hasn't come for months now.
So she risks it.
It's always the same: a disorienting sensation of waking, even though part of her knows she's still dreaming. Cold metal under her cheek, and absolute blackness. Blackness not even her hybrid eyes can penetrate.
And the rocking.
The constant, back and forth, gentle rocking. When it happened she didn't recognize it, and she wasn't afraid.
Now she knows what it is.
And she's terrified.
Sometimes this is all there is to the nightmare, the slow, constant, rocking, and the blackness, until the pounding of her heart jerks her from sleep.
Sometimes it ends there.
But not always.
She knows she's dreaming; she always knows, but she can still feel the footsteps, their staccato rhythm at odds with the rocking.
Back, forth, step, step, step, back, forth, step…
Sometimes it ends here.
But not always.
Sometimes it goes farther, like now, and the steps and the rocking are swirled away in the flash of painful light that greets her outside of the cool metal box. And she's afraid in the dream but she knows she wasn't when it happened.
Knows she wasn't afraid, thinking she could run, she could run and run and no one could outrun the Bahzir. And she wasn't afraid until she got out.
And saw that she couldn't run.
It ends here, with the rising panic and choking terror, looking out over the boundless ocean, knowing she's trapped light years from home, knowing she can't run, can't hide on a ship barely ten meters long.
Being eight years old, and knowing she's about to die.
Ezrikos falls out of bed with a cry, hits the floor in a roll, and comes up on her feet with a seven inch knife in one hand, and her handgun in the other.
There's no one else in the room.
She stares wildly at the strange walls, until she remembers where she is.
Not again.
It's been months – months – since she's had that nightmare.
Ezrikos sighs, and walks into the bathroom attached to her room. The Ancients sure had a lot of accommodations: every room has an en suite bathroom, and oh, is she glad of that now.
She stares at herself in the mirror, and forces her heartbeat to slow, and her breathing to steady.
She knows the haunted look in her eyes will fade in a few minutes.
Of its own volition, her hand slides slowly down her back, to the jagged scar that her tattoos don't quite hide.
She knows from experience that looking won't help, but she twists and peers into the mirror over her own shoulder.
Still there.
It hurt, she remembers. It hurt like hell, and it was hard to do herself, but she's never regretted it, even though everyone said she would.
Everyone being the soldiers who found her, and the Imperial officials who met the flight coming in, and her mother.
Her mother especially.
Well, fuck them all, she doesn't regret it.
She turns back to face the mirror, and decides she's fine. Her eyes are still eight years old and terrified, but she wears sunglasses all the time anyway; no one will notice.
No one will ever know.
Major Sheppard catches her in the corridor. He's walking now, but Dr. Beckett has threatened bloody murder if he even thinks about doing anything more.
"Captain," he says in greeting, falling into step with her, "come help me convince Dr. Weir that I'm fine. I'm going stir crazy here."
Ezrikos rolls her eyes behind her sunglasses. What is it with men and not resting their injuries?
"You aren't fine, Major," she replies, coolly. "And Dr. Beckett hasn't cleared you, so Weir is hardly going to go over his head and let you go off world."
He scowls, and opens his mouth to reply, but she beats him to it.
"I'm sorry, Major." He gives her a questioning look. "I apologize for letting reality interfere in your little universe where nothing slows you down, and the good guys always win, and discrete skull fractures don't cause deadly relapses when pushed too hard. Of course I'll go help you convince Dr. Weir of your readiness."
Sarcasm is something Ezrikos does best.
Sheppard gives her a long look. "Well then just come with me."
She sighs, and follows him into Weir's office.
She's not there, of course. She's out on her balcony.
Ezrikos steps onto it and her heartbeat trip-hammers.
"…staring out over the boundless ocean…"
It doesn't appear that she's required to speak in this little argument, so she just leans against the wall and hopes they'll think her arms are merely crossed, not hugging herself.
At least Atlantis doesn't rock.
A/N: Major, major credit goes to littlefoot22 for this. Actually, without her help this would never have been written. I actually don't think I've stolen anything this chapter…amazing.
