A/N: The reviews! So many reviews! You people are the bomb! Hugs for everyone! It's awesome to see so many hooked, but I fear you're going to be a little miffed at me. The prologue was en media res. To find out what happened to Shep, I must take you to where it all began. (Cringe) sorry. Just a warning so you don't get confused.

Ch. 2

Of Wolves and Their Clothing

(Before)

John stared at himself in the mirror. From chest up, he noted every hair, every line on his face, every shadow, the vague outline of his ribcage, the minuscule twitch of muscles in his shoulders, the shape of his collarbones, the veins of his throat, the gray-shaded skin beneath his eyes, the color of his eyes, the iris, the pupils...

The self scrutiny made his skin crawl, and he shivered. Speaking in terms of skin, the one he wore now wasn't feeling too much like his own, and he had yet to see any physical reasons for this. Perhaps it was because he was tired and teetering on having an out of body experience, or maybe it was because he was a promoted man, something that shouldn't have happened unless hell froze over.

Apparently, hell was now off the coast of Antarctica.

Funny how life changing leaps across light years could be. From the cold wastes of nature's freezer, to the pristine crystalline panorama of an endless alien ocean. From black-marked, fly-by-night, no one and nothing Major, to Lt. Colonel and official Commanding Officer of an entire freakin' city.

Not to say that he wasn't flattered. It was a better outcome than his going-nowhere life in Antarctica, and he knew better than to complain. Truthfully, there really wasn't anything to complain about.

Except that it didn't fit. The rank – it was like wearing a shirt one size too big, or over-stretched skin hanging limpid off his bones. And how long had he been a Lt. Colonel now? Time enough that it should have settled on him, shrunk, wrapped itself around him so that he never gave it second thought again. And, normally, he didn't. The problem was, during the solitary moments, he tended to think too much, and his thoughts would flit back to what brought him into this new rank, and new skin, in the first place.

He wasn't supposed to be alive, and Ford wasn't supposed to be gone.

Think positive, Colonel. City's safe. Wasn't that the goal? Yes, but he was a man who faced facts. Losing people pissed him off. Losing his Lieutenant, a kid under his command, a friend – well, the rage wasn't so consuming now, but had left behind a good-sized gaping hole somewhere in his chest. Seeing Ford in his altered state of being had scraped the sides of that hole to be a few circumferences wider.

John was supposed to be the expendable one, not the one people got screwed over trying to help. He found it odd. Life shoved him around, but wouldn't let him fall. Life gives me lemons, and forces me at gunpoint to make lemonade.

John rubbed the side of his face with one hand, massaging the muscles of his jaw, then digging the heel into his eye, ending with his fingers running through his hair. He hated these momentary musings that came with being tired. He wasn't even supposed to be tired. He'd slept a good eight hours – say for the three times he awoke for no good reason (not even out of dreams), and the half hour spent contemplating a midnight snack only to conk out before coming to a decision. Still, sleep was sleep, and it should have siphoned out the bone-heavy weariness, not add to the weight.

John jerked the faucet on and splashed cold water onto his face. It didn't really kick him into full drive until a few drops slithered down his back. After that, he grabbed his shirt and yanked it on while heading out his quarters and into the hallway.

Prospect – that was why he was tired. The prospect of heading back to PX-48 whatever it was, for the fourth time, to initiate another – pointless – verbal tirade with the 'gentle' natives had prematurely filled his marrow with molten iron that was hardening. It was a world of two races; The stuck-in-the-Iron-age Mykotes, and the elusive and phantasmal (considering if they even existed at all) Cyladrans.

The plow pushers (as McKay had come to so affectionately call them) were a dwindling lot, in part because of culls, and in another part because they were worse than the Amish when it came to regarding technology. Wraith used technology, therefore it was evil. If it wasn't organically powered by hands or animals, then it was snubbed. Those who used it were tolerated, but always with a cold shoulder. A very sub-zero cold shoulder, with the occasional banishment if so inclined.

The Cyladrans were – supposedly – the absolute antithesis. One would think them the dominant race being the wicked Oraks (roughly translated – sorcerers) that they were with all their bright, shiny, whirring gizmos. The logical, initial, belief would be that their numbers were vast.

If all that were true, then they were good at picking up after themselves. Sheppard and team had yet to find a single scrap of evidence that these Cyladrans existed, and the Mykotes weren't too keen on making contact with their sinful brethren (yet kept in contact with them all the same, irony of ironies.) Something about that didn't sit well with John, and it wasn't because of the simple fact that the Mykotes' stubbornness was so freakin' irritating. The Mykotes could turn their noses up all they wanted after spitting out their barrages of no ways – it didn't hide the small spark of fear John occasionally caught in a few pair of eyes.

They were nervous.

John would have left the team's initial encounter with the plow pushers at no, but necessity wouldn't let them. If (and a mighty if it was) the Cyladrans had technology of some kind that hid them from the wraith, then the price of nagging the hard-headed farmers would be worth it.

John covered his mouth when it gaped open in a yawn. He needed stimuli. To fall asleep during the negotiations would be an insult, and an insult would drive them back to square one - and John would probably end up ripping his own hair out if that happened.

He entered the mess that greeted him with air thickly permeated in fried food, and the low, constant murmur of voices. He joined the line and let the cooks slap whatever they had ready onto his tray. Scrambled eggs, toast, a muffin, apple, orange, sausage, tea and coffee. No oatmeal today. He needed food – and drink – with a kick. Something that would last him the whole day since the Mykotes weren't big on sharing.

John took his heavy tray to the farthest table where he spotted Ronon and Teyla hunched over something that seemed to be bringing out a child-like fascination from the two. John set his tray before them, went back for his momentarily abandoned cup of Coffee, then returned, dropping himself down into his seat. He craned his neck to see what it was that had the two so enraptured.

" Watcha lookin at?" he asked innocently and with a just as innocent smile. Ronon jerked upright as though caught in the act of doing something humiliating. Teyla looked up at John, all smiles.

" This." She shoved a book toward John, and he slid it around for a quick perusal.

He flipped through the glossy pages and cocked an eyebrow. " Earth animals?"

" Yes. Dr. Jimenez – the biologist – lent it to me. She said it would help in understanding some of your earth terminology. I believe I finally understand why you continue to refer to Dr. Kavenaugh as a 'weasel'. The description suits him well."

John chuckled, still flipping the pages.

" Any favorites in particular?" He asked. Teyla took the book from him, and John took the moment to take a bite of eggs. She turned several pages, then spun the book back around for John to see.

Butterflies – monarchs, swallow-tails, zebras, and the ones with the rainbow wings. John lifted his brow and looked at Teyla.

" Really?"

Teyla looked from the book to John, troubled. " Why, is something wrong?"

John shook his head. " No, no of course not. It's just... I don't know..." Then he laughed, uneasily, knowing that he probably shouldn't say what he was about to say. " You've always had a way of reminding me of these particular bugs."

As expected, Teyla stiffened, her eyes flashing. " You think me... as one of these fragile creatures?"

Heart thudding, John held up both his hands. " Whoa, wait. It's not all that simple." He then planted his finger on the monarch. " You see that one? That's you. You're... You know... gentle – when you want to be I mean. But you're dangerous... in a good way! Nothing messes with the monarch because it's dangerous. A bird tries to eat it, then bye-bye birdie. Wraith tries to mess with you, same thing. But wraiths aside, you're always there for everyone." He squinted. " You know what I'm saying?"

Teyla's features softened into a smile. " Actually, I do. Thank you, Colonel."

When's she ever going to call me John?

" You consider me some kind of animal?" Ronon said. John couldn't tell by the man's flat tone if he was challenging or generally curious and trying to hide it. John decided to call him on it.

" Actually, yeah." He flipped a few pages over to the tigers. " That. Tyger Tyger burning bright."

Beneath or beside pictures were tid-bits of paragraphs telling about each animal. Ronon skimmed the words, then grinned – very ferally feline. He pushed the book toward John.

" What about McKay?"

John smirked. So this was turning into a game. But John wasn't fooled. For all Ronon's expertise in keeping a poker face, John had come to familiarize himself with the signs that betrayed When Ronon was up to something.

Why bring McKay in unless...?

John turned the pages, stopping on the Chimpanzees.

" What!"

The shrill yelp drilled into John's ears, stabbing into his brain so that he was forced to wince. " Easy there Bonzo," John said, turning his upper body just enough to look up at a rigid, fish-mouthed McKay. " It's a compliment."

Rodney snapped his mouth shut and slammed his tray onto the table, scattering bits of egg. " A compliment. Being compared to a feces chucking, immature chimp is a compliment. Oh, yes, Colonel, I'm just blushing with pride that you would think of me as a monkey!"

" Primate," John said.

" Whatever!" Rodney held up a single finger. " Chimps..."

But John interceded. " Are smart, energetic, and chatty just like you." He then gave Rodney his most irreproachable smile. " It really was a compliment, Doc. Don't go throwin' a hissy."

Rodney snorted derisively. " A hissy? Crap, Colonel... How old are you and what gender? But, fine, you wanna play the what do I look/act like game? Your turn."

Rodney plopped into his seat like a sack of potatoes and yanked the book toward him. He tore through the pages until he came to the reptile section, then shoved the book over to John. " Pick one, Colonel, I'm pretty sure anyone would do. Though I am personally leaning toward snake."

John was slightly surprised to find that the statement actually stung. He didn't outwardly react to it – he was too smart for that. It was also too small to warrant any visible emotions. But the fact that it had had an effect at all was just – shocking.

The metaphorical symbol for snakes was cold, uncaring, and dangerous. Okay, dangerous he could handle. Dangerous was a necessity, and if that was what Rodney meant, then it was all good. Dangerous was a practical job description for him.

The thought of being referred to as cold blooded actually made his internal organs squirm. He cared. He had to care. One didn't protect an entire city by being apathetic. Of course he cared. Of course he wasn't cold. Rodney was just being pissy, pushing for the rough rather than the funny.

Okay, so I know how he feels. He took it personally, I took it personally. Let's move on, shall we?

John opened his mouth in ready for an apologetic retort when Teyla cut into the moment by taking the book from McKay and turning the pages to canines – namely wolves.

" These creatures struck me as being very like John," she said. " They travel in packs, as do we. They have a leader, as do we. John is a good warrior as a wolf is a good hunter."

Rodney rolled his eyes. " Oh, yeah, give Colonel the cool animal."

Despite his understanding for Rodney's defensive attitude, John still had the need to defend his position. " What? People love chimps. They're smart, cute – like little kids..."

Rodney stared bullets at him.

Since when had Rodney ever been able to stare him down?

Because he's scented my guilt. John shrugged helplessly. " If it's any consolation, I was going to say dolphin. They're smart, chatty... but they have friendlier dispositions." He probably shouldn't have added that last part, but it was the truth. Rodney wasn't a people person, and John had to bite his tongue to keep from including Tasmanian Devil to the list of Rodney McKay animal likenesses.

Rodney clenched his jaw tight until the muscles twitched. The gears were turning, and a flush came to McKay's cheeks as a precursor to the massive insult he was gathering energy for. John waited silently. He would let Rodney have this one.

It was interrupted when Weir stepped up behind Teyla and Ronon, clasping a mug of coffee in both hands.

" What's going on?" she asked with the usual inquisitive spark in her eyes and lips quirked toward a smile.

" Sheppard called me a chimp!" Rodney blurted. So much for the preparation. Tattleing was normally his last resort.

" I compared you to a chimp, Rodney," John said with a sigh. " I didn't call you one."

Weir scrunched her brow. " What?"

" We were comparing eachother to your earth creatures," Teyla explained. " John said McKay was like a chimpanzee. Then Dr. McKay said that John was like a snake."

Weir blinked and stared at the physicist. " That was a little harsh, Rodney."

Rodney's jaw dropped. " What! Harsher than being called a chimp?"

" On the scale of favoritism – chimps are higher up," Weir replied. " Snakes... not so much. But if you ask me..." she reached down with one hand and turned the pages of the book to the section on birds. " This seems a little more John."

She was pointing at a raven.

John didn't know what to make of that. Metaphorical symbolism wise – ravens varied way too much. Wariness filled him like hot led, stiffening his muscles, sending his brain into calculation overdrive as he tried to place Elizabeth's mode of thought that had led her to this impression. Thought coalesced into a single word.

" Why?"

Weir shrugged, her lips still quirked. " I don't know. Ravens are smart birds, you know. And, of course, they can fly..."

Rodney pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. " Yeah, I can see the connection. Most Earth cultures tend to see ravens as omens of death." He turned his piercing gaze on John. John pierced back, only sharper. McKay was starting to push it now.

" And some believe the raven to be carriers of the soul," Weir shot back, her tone bitingly defensive. " It's all a matter of how you look at it, Rodney."

John smiled at that. Perception was such a precarious mode of thought; tilting one way or the other, with never a happy medium in between. But he felt safe enough now to take Weir's comment in the positive and be flattered by it. Rodney rolled his eyes and went back to shoveling food. It was safe to say that Rodney was going to be sour for the better part of the day, which meant that the day was shot to hell before even officially starting.

In consideration of where they were going and what they needed to accomplish, it had already been shot to hell since yesterday. But, hey, at least John was smiling.

SGASGASGA

A microscopic insect was finding John's ear rather attractive. He slapped at the appendage on hearing the high-pitched buzz become a whine that made his spine numbingly tingle in a not-so pleasant way. He cringed, clenching the muscles of his back to drive the tingle out, then rubbed his offended ear.

The sun was high and glaring down at them, but was offset by the periodic cool breeze that seemed timid about blowing. The temperature, give or take in Sheppard's mind, was somewhere between seventy and eighty. Eighty when the breeze died down and the air became still and stifling. Clouds of gnat-like insects were kicked up from the tall grass by trudging feet to pool around the biped bodies and lap moisture from their skin. It wasn't such a bad deal until the bugs gained the impression that nostrils and ears were caves offering endless tunnels of shade.

The team was wise enough to keep their mouths shut for the same reason, so trekked in silence.

The field of long-grass was bordered by trees ranging in heights from cottonwoods to redwoods – and in fact resembled cotton and redwoods, say for that the trunks were white like aspens. The wood itself emanated the scent of cedar. A walk through the forest might have been pleasant, but Sheppard had yet to trust the raucously loud animal cacophony that made a rain-forest sound serene.

A flock of multi-hued birds burst from the canopy in a mad flutter of wings. Sheppard noted the location of the birds' sudden departure, and watched for a secondary explosion of feathery bodies. When that didn't come, he looked away, but kept his awareness tuned to the area out of the corner of his eye.

At least the forest was still loud. Spooked birds made Sheppard wary, but sudden silence would have his heart going a mile per minute. Surroundings don't keep secrets – That's what a buddy of his had always liked to say. Actually, they were words he had lived by; his motto, mantra, his only advice to anyone willing to listen, and probably the words on his family crest for all John knew. The clatter of a pebble, the hiss of shifting sand, a spooked bird, the crunch of dirt, scent of diesel – All of it was why his pal Rick was still around, the last John had heard.

Silence was always the ultimate dead give-away that something was wrong.

No new panicked bird-clouds erupted, and the Mykote village came into sight. First Sheppard spotted the smoke coiling languidly from the clay ovens and stone chimneys. Next came the roofs of thatch and mud, then the small cottages of wood themselves. It was a good sized village of about two hundred folk, with the center of town dominated by the largest cottage that was the equivalent of a town hall. The gutteral barks of the wolf-sized, hairless, reptilian eraks had John and company slowing on approach. The wanna-be dogs slunk like rats from around and beneath buildings, thumping their thick tails and curling their thin lips from their small, sharp teeth.

Hunch-back, thick-skulled like pit-bulls, with round bulging yellow eyes – ugly wasn't saying enough in terms of description. Butt-freakin'-ugly was more appropriate. Their coloring was lacking in variations, from mud-brown to darker mud-brown. Several tore at the ground with heavy paws, gouging hooked claws into the soft dirt, as though about to charge like bulls.

All it would take was a single shrill whistle from the handler to send the butt-uglies tearing across the field to rip flesh from bone. Sheppard had been made well aware after attending a hunting trip with a few of the Mykotes. It was rather a disconcerting thing to watch a bunch of mutant mutts tear down a thick-skinned beast the size of an elephant in a matter of minutes. How they were ever domesticated to begin with, John couldn't figure. The things were rewarded with bowls of blood. No dry dog-food for them.

" I hate those things!" Rodney hissed. John glanced over his shoulder. Rodney looked pale verging on white, and had his hands splayed at his sides.

John's nerves buzzed with irritation - and urgency. " Rodney, remember what we discussed? They smell fear!" he hissed back. Eraks really did smell fear. The handler said it was why they bellowed out ear-splitting howls before hunting, to instill fear and sniff it out.

The handler himself, a thick-bodied, thick-bearded man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in brown pants and a leather smock, stepped up behind the eraks and snapped at the mutts in an odd language. Snarling, the eraks cowered and slunk away back into their dark sanctuaries. Two began going at it, tearing, roaring, and struggling for the throat. The handler beat them apart with a stout stick of what looked to be bone.

When the eraks bolted and the team was near, the Handler – a man named Culs – observed their approach indifferently. John smiled at the man and nodded a greeting.

" Culs."

Culs nodded back. " Master Sheppard." Those in position of leadership were always referred to as master. " Tryin' again, then?"

John stopped before the erak handler and shrugged. " Trying something."

Finally, Culs grinned broadly. " Somethin' Bettern' nothin'. That's want me father would say." He then slapped his thick hand onto Sheppard's slender back. The blunt force made John stagger, the air to rush from his lungs, and – it felt like – his spine to shudder. Beckett was right, it was a miracle that John wasn't a cripple. The good doctor had been rather viciously vociferous about the bruises left behind by Culs' hammer-like hand. The handler meant no harm by it, and John didn't have the heart (or the humility) to tell the big guy that his form of greeting was hazardous to John's health. Plus, of all the Mykotes in the village, Culs was the only one not prone to giving into prejudices. He was neither here nor there on any political issue, and welcomed any stranger since it was a chance to show of his skills as a handler. John wasn't going to sacrifice the established camaraderie just because of a few hand-shaped bruises on his back – well, not quite yet at any rate. A man's spine could only take so much.

Culs fell into step beside John as they made their way over packed dirt toward the Council house. Dirt and smoke-smudged faces peered out of glass-less windows or from barely open doors at the Lanteans and their 'technology'. Birds like long-necked chickens with feather crests along their heads darted and squawked. One came too close to a building, and a hairless head shot out of a wide hole and snatched the bird without a sound faster than John could blink. He shuddered.

" What'd ya hope to accomplish today?" Culs asked casually.

" Permission to explore the area. Maybe with a guide. You think your elders would go for that?"

An erak slunk toward John, snarling and sniffing at him. Culs thunked it on the nose with the bone-stick, and it took off barking. " I don't see why not. Lettin' the Cys find ya then?" Culs was also the only Mykote who referred to the Cyladrans as Cys. The big man chuckled. " Hate to dissapoint, Master Sheppard, but that goes beyond not goin' to happen."

John stopped and tilted his head back, sighing. " Culs, there's gotta be a way for us to meet these people. I can't honestly believe they're this freakin' shy since you keep insisting that they're so wickedly advanced." He dropped his head and turned to face Culs. " Considering if their techno-wizards like you say they are, and they exist, and are still around unless that technology failed them. Why the reluctance for a little get together? We'd be out of your hair for good. Isn't that what your elders want?"

Still grinning, Culs shrugged. " I can't tell ya what you wish to hear, Master Sheppard. I'm not knowin' much myself of the matter. The Cys use what's forbidden, so they're banished forever. For that reason, talk on 'em tends to be minimized. Ya don't go talkin' about the folk who go 'an do the bad. They's to be ignored."

Rodney came up beside them, mopping his face with a cloth. " Like the way we're being ignored?"

Culs chuckled. " Ya not be knowin' ignored then. The elders spoke with ya, that's not bein' ignored. They see ya as ignorant, not willfully rebellin' like the Cys."

They continued on toward the large hut as dirty faces flitted looks at them through more gaping windows. Culs went on ahead to enter the council hall and make the appropriate announcement of arrivals. John and team entered a few minutes after Culs exited and bid enter into a dimly lit and stuffy room with a long table of rickety wood at the far end. John's eyes adjusted enough to the gloom enabling him to make out the wrinkled and sag-eyed faces of the elders.

" Hey guys, gals," John said with a smile.

The middle elder, a bald man with a white beard, sighed. " Master Sheppard. We had hoped to see the last of ya. Our answer is still no. We're havin' no contact with the Cyladrans. Now nor ever."

John nodded in a show of understanding, though he still didn't fully get it. Why have the means to make contact if you never used it? And what – exactly – were their means? In all the time spent with the Mykotes in the hopes of making contact with the Cys by happenstance, John had never been able to crack that enigma.

" Well, first off," John began, " we tend to be obnoxiously persistent. However, you're in luck, because we aren't here to ask about the Cys. We're here to request your permission to explore the area, take a broader look at your world. And if we happen to run into the Cys, all the better for us, and also the better for you since you'll have had nothing to do with it."

The dusky, dusty conditions of the meeting hall made it hard to read expressions, considering if the elders ever expressed anything at all. John had to wonder if the so-called elders were actually younger than they appeared, and being stuck inside this sweat box had aged them prematurely. Even standing, the place was reforming John's weariness from this morning. He shifted his weight onto his other foot, and clenched his jaw to prevent a yawn.

The elders leaned in to mumble amongst themselves. A female elder to the right of the silver-bearded spokesman for the pack lifted her head.

" We're... needin' a moment to confer. Please step outside that we might talk in private."

John let out a relieved breath. Waits he could handle as long as it was anywhere but where he was standing now. He and the team stepped out into the musky but still tolerable air of outside, and stood milling about the door. Culs was already gone, which John didn't feel too comfortable about what with all the erak eyes flashing from their holes.

Rodney folded his arms and did a nervous glance-about. " This is a waste of time. Why do we need these people's permission just to look around? I mean it's not exactly like they have a domineering presence on this world, and it's not like there's much they could do to stop us."

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney. " Because it's polite, McKay. Besides, you really want to piss off a people with that," he jerked his head toward the nearest erak hole, " for pets? Besides, we're trying to establish at least a tolerable enough relationship so that if something goes wrong, we can turn to these people for help. You're a scientist, McKay, I thought you scientist types couldn't survive without logic?"

Rodney huffed out a breath. " Logic, Colonel, is realizing that these people wouldn't help us even if they thought us deities. Asking permission is pointless. Hell, talking to them in the first place was pointless. We have no proof saying that these Cyladrans exist, and their supposed technology could be stuff we've already got. I say we just go back while there's still daylight, grab a puddle jumper, and get this whole exploration matter over with – because I can already tell you that we're not going to find a dang thing except erak crap."

As though Rodney had said the magic word, a snarl sounded, and the physicist whirled around to find an erak hunching up as though in preparation for a pounce. Rodney stumbled back, choking out a small yelp of alarm. The erak stalked closer, slavering and sniffing.

" Son of a..." John growled, and taking the butt of his P-90 whacked the ugly cur on the nose. It yipped, and slunk off. He then turned to Teyla.

" What do you think?"

Teyla's eyes seemed to be roaming everywhere, with her head following. Reactions of people were just as much a part of the surrounding as dirt and birds, and what John observed in Teyla was cause enough to have him go rigid and alert.

" I agree with you, Colonel," Teyla said, still roving. " If we are to explore, even with a guide, it would be wise to ensure that the Mykotes remain on our side."

John turned his gaze to Ronon, and felt a jolt of alarm to see the former runner doing a glance-about similar to Teyla's, but wearing a look that was even less promising. Ronon was better than a dog at sensing something off.

" What?" John asked, then felt his heart drop. " Please tell me you don't feel like we're being watched."

" We are," he growled. Then jerked his chin toward the window of the nearest hut. Several pale faces darted out of sight.

Rodney's jaw dropped. " I could have told you that!" He snapped. " Of course we're being watched, because the locals are nuts!"

John smiled tightly at McKay. " But they're not deaf, McKay. So shut – up."

" They do act strangely," Teyla said.

" You mean they weren't already?" Rodney replied.

" Can it, McKay," John growled. " What do you mean, Teyla? At the risk of boosting McKay's self-impression of being always right, what's so different about today as opposed to when we were here the last couple of times?"

" No one is outside."

Rodney scrunched his brow. " And that's a bad thing how? Personally I find being stared at through windows more tolerable than being stared at in person."

John looked from hut to hut, catching faces and eyes before they vanished back into the interior darkness. These people were waiting for something. At least that was the impression John got. Watching and waiting, watching and waiting. His initial theory was correct, fear was rampant. It was probably why the eraks were in such a snarling tizzy. Even now two more of the curs were slinking closer only to cower back. Association – fear led to blood, and the eraks were hungry with all the fear pheromones simmering in the air like smoke from a barbecue. There was supposed to be blood – something to hunt – and the only living flesh present was standing outside the Council Hall doors.

They were just waiting for the whistle.

" People are officially avoiding us like the plague, McKay," John finally stated. " They weren't this shy when we first came, or the second time, or third. And where'd Culs go?"

The situation was sinking in for McKay, because his face went slack. " Yeah, where is the – um – demon-dog tamer?"

John's heart started frantically pulverizing itself against his ribs. Give him one of Teyla's wraith premonitions, evidence of Genii presence, or even a village full of pissed-off plow pushers charging at them with pitchforks. He was willing enough for any of it, because it was tangible, visual, and familiar. If something had to go wrong, then let it happen, even if it was a trap.

Give him something to shoot.

Until something actually happened, John didn't know what to do. Leave, they might be followed. Stay, they might be taken. And all considering if anything was going on at all to begin with. The Mykotes might simply be expressing their dislike for the techno-loving aliens that wouldn't go away, for all John knew.

An erak slunk by the group, yellow eyes flashing like lightning and saliva leaving a moist trail in the dirt. Other than that, the village was quiet enough to hear one of the chicken-things scratching.

" Maybe we should leave..." John began. The doors of the council hall groaned open, and Sheppard jumped. He whirled around to see a near-bald, liver-spotted head feathered with wispy white hairs poke out.

" M-Master Sheppard," croaked the ancient, quavering voice. John took a step toward the door, and the old man shrank back, ready to close it.

" W-w-we have come to a decision," he said. " The answer is n-n-no."

He then pulled the door shut, and John heard the creak and thunk of a bolt being shoved into place.

John allowed himself two seconds to blink in surprise, then whirled around and started marching out of the village. " That's it, we're gone."

No one argued that point. The rest of the team followed.

" Do we really need their permission?" Rodney mumbled. John didn't reply. He wanted to say no, and that they would come back in a jumper, not so much to accomplish what they came for, but to piss the Mykotes off. John hated subterfuge. If the Mykotes were afraid of the Cys, if there was some kind of repercussion in revealing their location, okay then, John could dig that. He understood. What he couldn't wrap his brain around was how long it had taken for the Mykotes to finally – literally – shut the door in their faces. Any other planet would have been 'get the hell off our rock' followed by the proverbial boot through the gate on day one. In fact, John was becoming quite used to that. Whether hatred was the reason, or because something bad would go down if the team stayed, it didn't matter. They were back home within hours of stepping through the gate.

So what did it mean when it took longer? A trap? Sounded about right to John. So where was it then? Waiting for them at the gate, for them to dial the gate? Would they come before to take them, or after to follow through? How the hell was Sheppard supposed know what to do and what not to do when he wasn't even freakin' sure there was a trap!

" Master Sheppard!"

John jerked to a stop, stumbling from being ripped from his thoughts. He turned his head to see Culs hurrying toward them from behind. John turned.

" Master Sheppard," Culs said again. " Before ya go, I'd like to call ya by for a swal."

John wrinkled his brow. " Huh?"

" Swal, grup... a drink. Would ya be up for one?"

John looked at each of his team, none of whom looked up for a 'swal', tense as they were. He returned his gaze to Culs.

" I don't think now's a good time, Culs."

Culs chuckled. " Ya not lettin' those erak hide-heads drivin ya down now, are ya? Come, good Master of the water-ring world, have a swal. It'd be brief."

Culs ended up not giving John much of a choice when the handler's heavy hand planted itself on John's shoulder. He began guiding John toward the hut that was Culs', located just outside the village on the edge of the forest.

" For a fighter, yer a spindly one, Master John, no offendin' ya."

" None offendin' taken," John murmured, wincing at the grip that seemed to be trying to push his collarbone deeper into his chest.

Culs' hut was like all the others, square and thatch-roof made of mud and grass. Eraks were everywhere, drolling rivers and turning dirt to mud with their kneading claws.

" Ya and me, Master Sheppard," Culs said. " My place isn't vast for yer folk. I'll bring 'em drinks. But ya and me, we've been on the hunt, ya've seen what my eraks can do. That calls for a toast between us."

Something about this made John's skin prickle and warnings sound in his brain like screams. He tried to pull back without seeming to, with polite 'no thank yous', but doubted Culs even noticed since John hardly even moved. The grip was worse than an iron vice, and John's shoulder was really starting to hurt.

Culs shoved the door inward and guided John inside, shutting it behind before the others could enter.

The house was small, with a bed in the left-hand corner, a table on the right, a cupboard, and small stack of crates. The walls were dotted with pegs holding whips, leashes, and muzzles dangling like dead vines. Culs released John and went to the cupboard to pull down some clay mugs and a piture.

" I'll pull the best malt I have," Culs said, and removed out several clay bottles.

It was all how Culs had said it would be, an innocent invitation for a swal.

Until John felt the cold pressure of what could only be a weapon press into the back of his neck.

SGASGASGA

A/N: Hate me yet? Don't worry, once the story is done the chapters should start coming daily. The Mykote manner of talk is to establish an accent, but the accent itself I leave up to your imagination, though I am well aware it may sound a little Scottish. You can blame Beckett for that.