Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in uploading. I was traveling in a remote location and didn't have internet access but hopefully can update more regularly now. The story is finished, I'm just posting as I edit now. Please enjoy and write a review if you have a moment!

Sheppard woke back in his cell, confused and feeling hungover. His head pounded and his body was feeling stiffer and more sore. What the hell had happened?

He touched the back of his neck and felt cool metal imbedded into skin along his spine. Did it knock him out? He had felt no real pain afterwards, but he had experienced strange alien devices before and did not want to experience them again.

Pawing at his spine, he couldn't get any leverage nor did he have the flexibility to try and remove the device.

What did these guys want? Why keep him alive?

At least the device didn't seem to be doing anything to him. It didn't hurt him, and besides the loss of memory from before, it didn't seem to be affecting anything else. Although he did feel slightly sick and a little shaky.

Perplexed, he waited, biding his time and trying to plan how to escape from hulking seven foot, 300 pound aliens.

Over the days that followed, Sheppard grew more and more confused, but the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was slowly fading away, as were the bruises from his first day on the planet. He was allowed freedom within what he started to call 'the barracks.' He was locked in his cell each night, but every morning he was escorted to what he dubbed the 'mess hall,' where he ate tasteless food with the aliens.

Afterwards, they herded him silently to various locations within the barracks where it appeared the aliens trained. They had places set up outside the barracks where they practiced sharpshooting with their strange guns. Sheppard found they were terrible shots, which explained why no one had managed to hit him in their initial attack.

When they shoved a gun in his hand and pointed wordlessly at the target across the black gravel, Sheppard momentarily thought about turning the gun on the aliens. But then he thought that perhaps it would be better to earn their trust.

Aiming, closing his bad eye and sighting, he pulled the trigger and blasted the target straight down the middle. He had served briefly as a sharpshooter in the Black Ops and knew his way around any weapons. He also knew that the aliens had a pretty good idea of how good of a shot he was. The only way he was able to take out his initial attackers had been with a gun. There was no way he could take these guys out with muscle or hand to hand combat. They were almost double his bodyweight, and although he was tall, these guys were head and shoulders taller. Even Ronon would look short next to one of them.

Nodding approvingly, another weapon was shoved in his hand by the first alien. This one was larger and bulkier. Sheppard had a hard time propping it up, so dropped to one knee, nestled his elbow on his thigh, gripped the handle, braced, and fired. The target disappeared, and Sheppard was knocked backwards from the force of the blast.

The gun was hastily taken from him, but now he knew which weapon to look for when he wanted to make his escape.

After the shooting range, they went back to the mess hall for a silent meal of tasteless food, and then dispersed to various rooms within the bunkers. Sheppard was shoved along a corridor to a large open room, similar to the one where he had first been taken.

It was empty, but aliens were there practicing drills. They stood in rows, methodically going through hand to hand combat drills. Sheppard hoped they didn't want him to join in, but he was prodded towards a group which immediately incorporated him into their training.

Thankfully, there was no actual touching, otherwise Sheppard knew he would have been thrown halfway across the room on the first block. He carefully shadowed the drills he was shown, but there was no real correction, and no one really seemed to care whether he was getting it right. There was always someone there to make sure that he kept moving, though. There was to be no slacking here.

After a few hours of drills that left Sheppard dripping in sweat, he was escorted back to the mess hall for another tasteless meal, then back to his cell.

"Do you guys believe in showers?" he called out after one of his leaving captors.

When the door clanged shut and locked, he shrugged. "Guess not."

He was sure he looked like a wreck. He was covered in black dust, blood, and sweat. He hadn't washed in at least three days, and was glad his team wasn't there to see - or smell - him.

Exhausted, he stretched out on the floor, trying to get comfortable on the hard surface. He wondered if the other aliens had similar quarters, and if they were prisoners like him. Did everyone have to do this, or was he the only one forced to train like this?

He suspected that the band of lights on his back had something to do with the barracks, otherwise why would every single alien he saw be wearing them? Was it a rite of passage, something to keep them under control, a badge, a rank insignia? He touched it uncomfortably. It felt warmer than his skin and he wondered what was powering it. Rodney would have a field day with it and probably would have figured out what it was for by now.

He also suspected it might be pumping chemicals into his system. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was slowly starting to abate, like his body was adjusting to whatever it was doing to him. But otherwise he was beginning to barely notice it at all. All he knew was that no one had seemed to use it, and he had just had a loss of memory from between when they had first put it on and he had found himself back in the cell. There was definitely some sort of neural link if he had no memory of what had happened then.

If it was a neural link, that was worrisome. Could he have lost more time than he thought?

Days melted into weeks. Sheppard had moments of unease in the first few days when he wondered what had happened to his team. Had they any idea what had happened to him?

But without him realizing it, there came a day when he didn't think about Atlantis, and when he didn't think about his team. Sometimes he had flashes of memory, especially when he was training in hand to hand combat. He would remember fighting with Teyla or Ronon. Sometimes he would remember Afghanistan when he was on the shooting range.

Slowly, over time, he began to forget his home on Atlantis. The barracks were home.

He wanted the food he was served. It was nourishment and replenished him when he was exhausted from training.

He looked forward to his cell at night. He could sleep and rest and wake rejuvenated for the next day of training.

He wanted to train. There was a goal. There was a higher purpose. No one spoke of it, but they all knew there was a reason for training. There was a reason they needed to be in peak condition.

Every day they wanted it to be the day. The day they would go through the Stargate and fulfill their purpose. To fulfill their mission.

To take the Ancients home. To take Atlantis back.