A/N: Okies, this story is – unfortunately – AU. I wasn't happy with some of the events at the end of season 1, so I decided to 'fix' it. Spoiler-wise, all of season 1 is a possibility, with definite ones for 'the Siege' – all parts – and 'Trinity'. There're also some general season 2 spoilers, mostly in terms of character appearances. No pairings.

Couple of disclaimers: Firstly, I don't own anyone, 'cept for names and characters that don't appear in the show, and similarities between this and any other fanfiction are coincidental. Secondly, the name for Sgt Canada belongs to NenyaVilyaNenya; she was kind enough to let me use it.

Anyway! The teaser took us off from between the first present day siege of Atlantis and the impending next one, and that's the timeline this chapter continues with.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN…

Movement.

A hand spasmed across the hard floor, splaying palm-down on the sandy surface beside a tanned face as Peter's eyes flickered open. Blearily he gazed past it towards the entwined pillars on the opposite wall, tiny round lights dimly illuminating the blue-toned chamber. Murmurs wisped in his ears, whispers in hissing voices that he couldn't make out, accompanied by the surreal sound of hurried boots.

His brow furrowed momentarily, his breath stirring up the dirt on the floor as he realized he didn't recognise his surroundings – or more importantly, recognised the architecture for what it was.

Wraith. He jerked with a surge of adrenaline to his elbows, his heart suddenly thundering in his chest as his breath caught fearfully in his throat. The too-quick movement made his head pound, dizziness and nausea sweeping momentarily over him, and Peter took a deep breath, closing his eyes as his belly scraped against the chilly floor. The cold seeped through the fabric of his red jumpsuit and made a shiver crawl down his back, his fingers clenching momentarily on the ground as he sat up. Weak light gleamed over his smooth features and dark hair as his hand brushed automatically at his cheek, where he could still feel the sand pressing into his skin.

Rodney, Miller… the nausea didn't abate, not at all helped by the fact he hadn't eaten in far too long, and he swallowed, leaning over his knees until it passed. God, what happened? He closed his eyes and patched together the fragments of images floating in his memory, ignoring the sight of freedom into a mist-wreathed corridor just ahead, beyond a fragile-looking spider web lattice of thin metal.

He wanted to come back for me. Yes, that was it. Rodney had wanted to come back for him… and probably would have gotten all of them killed. But I'm not dead. The obviousness of that comment made him chuckle, imagining what Rodney's reply would be before a throb seared behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of one palm to his forehead as though it would erase the ache behind it, gritting his teeth against the pain. The culling beam.

The damned bastards transported him aboard one of their cruisers. And then… he remembered being knocked around in his cell for what seemed like an eternity, a blessed eternity, even though his head pounded under the force of a thousand angry telepathic whispers. Because it meant that Atlantis was battling. It meant the city still lived. Who else would the Wraith be fighting?

And then we left. We left, but the Wraith couldn't have won… they'd have taken Atlantis if they could. He clutched onto the thought with all his might, knowing that if Atlantis had self-destructed there would be nothing for the Wraith to take.

After that… after sitting grief-stricken and terrified for his friends in the cell for an interminable amount of time… they'd come out of hyperspace. And he'd been moved from the cruiser to the cell of a hiveship, knowing all the while what his ultimate fate would be. First they'll find out what they can about Earth. And then they'll feed.

Oh, dear. He worked to take deep, shaky breaths, struggling to still his heart as panic clenched a heavy fist around it. He could accept death – had accepted death, waited for it even, in the satellite – but to be fed upon, eaten… There's still a chance. I don't know what it is, but there is one. As long as I'm alive, there is one.

He counted to ten, hands balled into trembling fists that rested on his legs, and the next lungful of air he took was calmer. Don't worry about where you are. Think about what you know. You're on a Wraith ship. You know they're not at Atlantis. You're in a cell, which means they may want you for more than just feeding purposes… Slowly, slowly, the terror eased in the face of his logical, steady litany. As long as he knew what was happening, he could keep it at bay; it was when he didn't know things that he became perturbed. And he knew very well what his likely doom would be – just like he'd thought he'd known on the satellite and been able to accept it.

He swallowed through the lump still clogging his throat, the adrenaline beginning to fade and leaving him feeling weak – that is until heavy footsteps sounded from down the arched corridor. Peter's eyes snapped open and his head jerked up in time to see a Wraith turning the distant corner, framed against the cylindrical yellow lights on a stasis capsule as mist swirled around his ankles and his long coat billowed with the movement. He tracked the fog down the hall, passing beneath the circular arches enmeshed into organic-seeming walls and the twisted pillars stretching from ceiling to floor, covered in something akin to cobwebs.

Automatically Peter scrambled to his feet, wiping the grime off his hands onto his bright clothes. His fingers tingled with ready tension, his eyes widened at the sight of the Wraith bearing down on him with the sinister purpose of a superior being. The Wraith's long white hair was lit up in the dim light, the twin braids of his beard bobbing with each step. His teeth were bared in an eternal leer set within a translucently pale face, aside from the twin, shadowed ducts that arrowed outwards on either side of his nose. Two of the burly militia marched behind him, the light flickering over the bone-like masks which obscured their faces. To their armoured chests they each clutched a streamlined Wraith stunner rifle, the cartilage which was embedded into the skin of their knuckles framed by the power modules in the dull, bronze-coloured weapons.

The lead Wraith stepped up to the web-like door and it opened, the fibres folding into each other and withdrawing into the glowing, transparent membrane of the wall as the Wraith cast a leering eye over Peter. Before he could stop himself the physicist took an involuntary step back, fingers twitching with terrified reflex. Don't. There is always a controllable part of every situation. You can't change your fate. You can decide how you accept it. He remembered back to the satellite, to that near-consuming fear when he'd realized that the hatch wouldn't open, struggling desperately to find a way around it… before realizing there was no other way, and that there was only one thing he could do – one thing he could control

He set his jaw grimly, glaring with shaky defiance at the alien.

The Wraith cocked his head, wisps of hair trailing down the black leather of his overcoat as his grin widened. "You are Atlantean," he stated with a guttural hiss, his sunken eyes fixed upon Peter.

"I – don't know what you're talking about," Peter managed to answer through a suddenly dry mouth, his toned voice sounding almost as smooth as it ever had, showing nothing but his trademark composure. The Wraith growled and took several steps, suddenly right in the human's face. A startled grunt escaped Peter's lips as he instinctively jerked back to escape the Wraith's unpleasantly musk-like smell and the intensity of his stare, catching himself on the wall; but he was unable to tear himself away from the Wraith's unblinking, skull-like visage. Don't let me tell him anything!

"Atlantean," the Wraith hissed, the sound resonating in the air, scrambling Peter's thoughts until all he could hear was the single word vibrating over and over in his mind. His skin prickled with goosebumps, his teeth gritting against the weight crushing down on his pounding head, making it difficult to breathe under its force.

His brow drew together in effort, teeth clamped down on the word which forced its way out of him despite his best efforts. "Yes."

"You have Atlantean knowledge." The Wraith's cat-like eyes raked his pale face, gleaming with predatory satisfaction.

Atlantis isn't destroyed! The flash of insight hit him like a blow, the force of the Wraith's reverberating whisper intensifying to the point that he couldn't even breathe for several heartbeats, the burden of all his technological knowledge suddenly constricting his chest painfully in the form of panicked desperation.

No. He responded to the whispers crashing around him, fixing the images of his friends in his mind – Rodney and Radek, Bates, Carson, Elizabeth – I will not betray them. If they don't know then they can't make me… His face was twisted against the press of voices, teeth gritted even as his eyes were held by the expectant, grinning face of the Wraith, shaking in effort.

Slowly the Wraith's expression faded, relaxing into wary disbelief and then angry frustration. "Defiance!" With a guttural snarl he thrust his hand forward, catching the scientist harshly in the chest with his open palm. The force threw Peter back against the wall once again, sharp edges of rock and metal jabbing into his back as the Wraith's claws dug through his jumpsuit and blue shirt into his flesh, scraping bloody tracks in his skin. Pain stabbed through his chest and reached for his heart, sucking the breath out of him in a wrench of burning muscles and a choked gasp. His hands tingled, limbs throbbing, the hand a flame that spread over his body, making him struggle for air and sending his thoughts into a whirl of scattered, revealing images.

In less than a moment the Wraith yanked his hand away with a triumphant hiss and Peter's shaking legs collapsed on him, allowing him to take in huge, ragged breaths as he shuddered, the bloody wound aching with sharp twinges. His numb hands clenched on the sand as he stared at the ground, eyes wide in a shocked, sweaty face. Just breathe. He told himself, his heart pounding somewhere in his ribs and his mind a racing babble of ideas that he couldn't hope to decipher. Just… he centred on that one thing, rising above his cluttered thoughts until one hit him with guarded, bittersweet relief. He didn't feed for very long.

"Bring him," The Wraith's sibilant voice sounded overhead and Peter flinched, the feeling flooding back into his fingers with a prickle carried upon pure adrenaline. His head jerked up to find the Wraith looking down on him with superciliously half-closed eyes, hand flexing slowly in the air. His grin widened upon seeing Peter's wild, desperate expression, revealing pointed teeth before finishing his sentence. "To the Keeper."

That would be why. Peter swallowed shakily, his heart-rate finally slowing down to something more comfortable as the guards moved forward to take him, their boots crunching on the sand. He scrambled to his feet before they could touch him, sparing himself the indignity of being dragged – and the feel of their cold, clammy hands.

The Wraith sneered and turned on his heel, exiting the cell with a swirl of his buttoned overcoat. Casting a tense glance at each of the burly guards as they flanked him, Peter took a deep breath and followed on unsteady legs. The lattice contracted once again with a swoosh, cutting them off from the cell; but rather than being comforting, it made a sense of impending doom work its way into Peter's mind, his arms prickling with frightened goosebumps as a sick tremor ran down his spine. He knew what had happened at Colonel Sumner's interrogation. He knew Sheppard wasn't here to gift him with an alternative end. God help me.

The Wraith whispers seemed to intensify, the chilly mist swirling around his legs and seeping into his skin until his tan had paled to ashy grey and a shiver not entirely borne of the fog had set into his bones. The footsteps that had seemed distant from the isolated cell were now much closer and his nerves jumped every time one echoed especially near. Then as they rounded a corner into a mainstream corridor he came face-to-face with a scarred Wraith who towered over him, one eye blinded by a thick, twisted wound long-since healed. Peter flinched back in surprise, making the handprint on his chest ache as his heart struck up another mantra on his ribs, but the Wraith just snarled at him and stalked past, stained hair whipping in the air.

Peter's wide eyes followed him, shoulders prickling with expectation of an attack, before a hard shove reminded him of where he was and he stumbled forward, following the Wraith not far ahead. They coursed through the mainstream of Wraith passages, Peter's horrified gaze turning time and again to the shattered hatches of the stasis capsules, spilling their crumpled occupants in slews of brittle limbs and moist, cobwebby preservatives. It made bile rise in his throat and he found himself dimly thankful the Wraith didn't let him stop to stare, transfixed, at the constant, hideously mesmerizing sight.

When they passed one intersection Peter saw a Wraith plunge his hand into the chest of a victim as the poor woman screamed. He turned away quickly, the sound echoing in his mind as he swallowed the nausea which threatened to surpass his rattled control, but as though it had been a forerunner the shriek made him suddenly aware of the similar noises which echoed through the Wraiths' interminable whisper and he found it far too easy to imagine someone he knew at the receiving end of those Wraith hands. Don't. Don't give in to them.

The jagged ceiling hung in too close and he had the sense of being suffocated, surrounded on all sides by enemies as they passed from the main hallway to an offshoot that apparently led to what was the Keeper's hall during the majority of the Wraiths' hibernation. The closer they got, the more it seemed like the whispers pressed in on all sides, squeezing a fist around his lungs, clenched cruelly around his body so that his mind was scattered and his breathing was too fast. Don't. They're trying to scare you. Don't listen. Don't. The one thing you can control is you.

Abruptly the hiveship pitched violently, quaking with the distant sound of a rushing explosion. Peter was flung aside, against the clammy cobwebs of the corridor, and one of his guards staggered towards him. The Englishman's frayed nerves shattered and he instinctively threw a punch towards the guard's semi-exposed neck. Distantly he felt a rush of gratitude towards the boxing hobby he'd taken up during university, even as his knuckles scraped on the rough edge of the mask and connected with the soft tissue of the Wraith's throat.

It didn't do much, but it took the Wraith by surprise and sent him stumbling back as Peter wrenched the stunner from his grasp, ignoring the sting of the scrapes. Peter's hands fumbled with weapon, highlighted against the glowing modules as he fired point-blank into the Wraith, the crackle of blue energy thinning over the Wraith's body and dissipating into his armour even as he fell, lifeless. The other guard brought his stunner to bear as the corridor rocked with another blast, making him lurch as he fired. Peter flinched away from the spray of light that lashed through the thick air, humming into the pillars nearby, but he was steadied against the sticky wall and his shot did not miss.

One more. His feverish, desperate mind promised, and he swung around to find the lead Wraith balancing himself against the pitch of the ship using one of the glistening pillars, his white hair trailing down his back in a thin sheet that rippled with the tremble of the ship. The alien hissed angrily and lunged at Peter before the physicist's blast sent him cart-wheeling down the hall and into oblivion.

Go. Go. Peter tried to tell himself, telling him that his path was clear, that the situation had changed and he didn't have to accept death as the only answer – but still his body refused to listen for several paralysed seconds, clutching the stunner so strongly that his knuckles were white, before another explosion sent him staggering and brought him back to himself. Idiot. Get out of here!

He ripped desperately through his memory, searching for an image of the schematic of a hiveship they'd managed to draw using data from the first mission and the infiltration with the Genii as the whispers intensified into furious snarls around him. He heard the sound of quick footsteps approaching and fled down a nearby corridor, one he was sure wouldn't lead back to the main hallway.

The dart bay. He ducked automatically as he passed beneath a low-slung arch, his mind processing the images that flashed by as he tracked his position. Soon enough the weight of the stunner dragged him down, but he couldn't afford to toss it aside in the event he came across a Wraith who cared more about an escaped prisoner than the explosions that periodically shook the hiveship.

The vessel was taking enough hits that the mist seemed to engulf the hallways, smoke and sparks from the damaged systems filling the corridors and providing Peter with enough of a distraction to slip past the enraged Wraith he saw. His thoughts remained at the feverishly racing pace, but with one goal set in his mind he overrode the fear that had threatened to overcome him – for now, at least. He ignored the stitch in his side and the catch in his breath that told him he was driving his body too hard, the metallic taste of blood predominant in the back of his mouth.

I have to reach the dart bay before they open the hangar doors. The thought played over and over in his mind, stifling the coughs which beat at his throat, induced by the smoke and mist as he ran. His shoes scraped on the dirt as he darted around a corner, but he'd barely managed two steps before he hit something solid and frighteningly alive. Unprepared, he was flung harshly to the ground with a blow that winded him, his neck and head pounding with whiplash as the stunner slipped from his hands. What…?

The 'what' was answered instantly as the surprised visage of a Wraith coalesced in Peter's vision, but that expression lasted only seconds before he grinned lasciviously, dark lips stretching widely over yellowed teeth. Oh, God – Peter prayed, scrambling backwards for the stunner, grazing his hands and elbows as his terrified eyes flickered from the Wraith to the weapon. His hands grasped it, clutched it, and scuffing up dust he whirled about on his back as the Wraith leapt for the rifle with a sibilant howl. Peter's fingers pumped the trigger mindlessly, blasting net after desperate net of glittering energy at the Wraith as the alien tumbled in the air and slewed across the mist-wreathed path nearby.

For a second Peter was still, aside from his heaving chest and shaking hands, before he forced his tired muscles to work and staggered to his feet, skin crawling as he scraped against the motionless Wraith. Not far now. Go. The corridor rumbled, the dim lights wavering in accompaniment to a distant shock, and he lurched unsteadily, but with as much speed as his exhausted body could muster, towards the nearby dart bay.

The corridor widened, spilling out into a multi-floored room held up by massive, wire-twined pillars, their tripods spreading out like thick, sturdy legs. A multitude of darts hung in rows, on thin docks extending over the central platform of each level, while the occasional walkway stretched horizontally from one side to the other. Dozens of the sharp, bone-carved vessels were already screaming around the pillars, circling like buzzards as they waited for the pilots still scrambling for their cockpits.

The shrill noise made Peter want to cringe, the sheer openness and magnitude of the hangar demanding that he look around in awe. The Wraith were too busy hurrying to their posts, too occupied with the quaking of the ship to notice a single human emerging from the smoke-choked corridor.

Don't let me miss. Peter took a deep, trembling breath, recalling all of Sheppard and Ford's tutorials as he raised the stunner and aimed at the nearest Wraith, only just climbing into the cockpit before a bolt of the sizzling energy catapulted him over the dart and sent him flailing and shrieking furiously down several levels, vanishing into the shadowed bowels of the hangar. Peter sprinted for the dart, tossing away the rifle as he went, where it clattered unheeded to the sandy floor. He ducked and almost fell as a dart screeched overhead, whirling up dirt and lashing Peter's skin with residual heat before he clambered into the cockpit of the anchored ship.

He slipped easily into the half-lying seat, trying desperately not to think of how much it looked like bone, or how the bleached-out, blue-toned structure felt cold and dry, the sharp points of the stubby wings and the needle-like bow reminding him very much of the darts for which the vessels were named.

The firm seat depressed beneath his weight and a darkened bubble sheeted over the cockpit, the dart humming to life in response to his mere presence, the sensation prickling his skin. Let's hope Rodney was right. Peter prayed with a pang of remembrance, recalling the physicist's theory that as distant evolutions of the Ancients, the Wraiths' technology would also be based partly on mental commands – because he hardly had any idea how to pilot a puddlejumper, let alone a Wraith dart.

The docking clamp disconnected with a clunk, leave the ship hovering with tiny vibrations as a rumble swept throughout the hangar. The covey of darts swooped towards the warren of rounded outlets in the thickly-twined outer wall, hundreds of burrows leading to the star-littered orbit. Here we go. Peter took a deep, calming breath and flexed his fingers, studying the strange, dimly-illuminated controls before cautiously placing his hands on each of the slightly concave panels that took up the console's space, separated by a ridge of bone. They immediately lit up with a yellow glow under his touch.

Splaying his fingers over the warm controls, Peter pressed down on the panels, making them bend momentarily as he focussed all of his mental pleading to the movement of the dart. He still wasn't prepared when the ship rocketed forward with a scream towards a looming wall, the force throwing him back in the seat as the less sophisticated inertial dampeners of Wraith technology struggled to compensate. A second later they kicked in and Peter's hands flashed forward to the panels, pushing frantically down on the controls as his mind shrieked – turn, turn, TURN!

Instantly the dart corkscrewed tightly around a thick pillar at the far end of the hangar, scraping the top of the bone-like armour with a flash of sparks and a jolt that sent Peter's heart leaping into his mouth. I've got to get out of the hangar, or I'll end up being a smear on the wall!

No sooner had he thought it that the dart careened towards the outer hatches, spinning out of control through the alarmingly narrow passage until he burst into the wide, star-speckled space around the hiveship. The first thing he saw was another of the ominous vessels, set against the stars twinkling in the distance. It looked heavy with thick, creeper-like designs, crossing and melding in eerily elegant curves that ultimately made the ship resemble a bleached-out, elongated skull. The shadows hung around the cambers, changing the hue until the ship was a blend of light-deprived blues and greys.

The next thing he saw was a streaking line of projectiles slewing in his direction and he flinched to the side, fingers pressed so hard to the console his arms were aching. The dart followed his unintentional, instinctive command, but had leaned only slightly away before the stream of bullets ripped through the starboard side with a shuddering jerk that tossed Peter back in the seat, the small area and the bone-like planes adding a surprising amount of cushioning.

Sparks exploded all around him and Peter gritted his teeth, his fingers jerking on the panels with the friction burning the tips of his fingers. It sent the dart into a barely-controlled spin beneath the nearest hiveship, hoping for safety around the semi-hollow, draping curves of the hull. He knew that his ship was damaged and was desperate for time and space to think. Who could be fighting the Wraith out in space like this?

And then he came out from under the looming hiveship to lay eyes upon the answer to his question, the most beautiful sight he'd ever encountered. She was framed against the streaking blue lights of the Wraith ships, her rail guns slewing through the vacuum and her shield lighting up with cerulean ripples at every blast. Her long bow widened to a sloping, almost turtle-like shell upon which were the communication spires vital to any ship, which was flanked by two flattened hexagonal engines thrusting forward. Peter had never seen her in the process of being built but had viewed the schematics while working with the stargate program, and there could be no doubt in his mind.

It was the Daedalus.

An elated grin crawled tentatively over Peter's lips, his tension momentarily forgotten against the surge of pride any engineer would feel after seeing such a ship in action, before it faded just as suddenly with the undeniable truth of his position. Radio. I need a radio.

The rail gun fired a stream of bullets in his direction, towards the hiveship fast receding behind him, and Peter pounded on the controls to bank out of the way; but the dart responded only sluggishly, the projectiles streaking close enough to rock the ship.

Oh, dear… Peter's stomach lurched and he swallowed, stabbing with ignorant precision at the controls. He knew what he wanted, he just didn't know how. His thoughts were divided, trying to concentrate on opening a link to the Daedalus and avoiding destruction at the same time as his dart wheeled around a flat cruiser, the softened curves of the larger ship's stubby wings passing by in a flash while the dart tilted worryingly to the starboard. The planet rose up in his rounded, tinted viewscreen, the glow of the atmosphere dimmed by the partition, and the Daedalus was just visible to the portside as another cruiser came down above it like a bird of prey.

The culling beam! Peter's heart leapt to his throat, knowing that if the cruiser was allowed to get much closer they would either board or simply transport everyone off –

But then the Daedalus's engines engaged, propelling them out from under the encompassing grasp of the cruiser and beneath the wire-lit underside of a massive hiveship. They streaked across Peter's viewscreen, curving away from another vessel that moved to flank them and vanishing into the wide, writhing light of a hyperspace window.

Peter didn't get time to lament the fact they left without him, because the dart's tilt turned into a dangerous veer and he scraped the stern of a nearby vessel. With an alarmed jolt Peter pressed his hands to the panels as though he could provide more power to the failing systems, but the light flickered and heat momentarily seared his palms before dying. Peter looked up with widening, horror-struck eyes at the globe which filled his vision, debris bouncing off the dart's blue-toned surface and sending him into a smoke-twirled, spiralling nose-dive towards the planet.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Slowly Peter came aware of the blistering heat which pressed down on his shoulders, his face gritty with sand and sweat, and of the ache which had settled into his body. His muscles complained further as he levered himself up from the hard contours of the bone protecting the console, gritting his teeth against sharp pain stabbing into his head behind his temples.

He wasn't helped by the too-bright sun which seared into his eyes and he flinched away from it, one arm raised automatically against the dazzle to cast a paltry shadow over his face. The scab which had encrusted over the handprint on his chest broke with a sharp sting as he moved, but compared with the dull, constant ache of his limbs and the pounding of his head, he hardly noticed.

Distantly he heard a high rumble, but that was dismissed as he peeked over the dashboard of the dart, absently brushing off the dust which had swept up onto the crumbled nose in the crash. Ahead of him stretched endless sand and rock, rippling in the heat of the day. Peter swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of his dry mouth and of the warmth his red clothes soaked up, hammering down on him from the cloudless sky. Every breath was hot and arid, sapping his strength as his numb gaze swept the horizon until –

What?

In the distance, fluctuating beyond the waves of heat, he thought he saw a row of tumbledown buildings, crumbled by age and almost faded into the wasteland of the desert. For a moment he hesitated; it could have been a mirage, but if he stayed where he was he was going to die anyway. What choice did he have?

Still, he shifted in the sweat-sticky chair to his other side, hoping desperately for other options –

And was faced an impending wall of sand, roaring distantly but growing closer, writhing and shifting in an impenetrable barrier of what he knew would be certain doom.

Sounds like a plan. Peter decided instantly, gripping the warm sides of the dart and jumping out, shoes skidding on the pile of sand kicked up by the dart's crash-landing. The world spun around him, his vision searing white beneath his pounding head as he staggered for balance. Don't do this. Not now. He took a deep breath that made him choke on its very dryness and coughed, his mind anxiously cajoling him to hurry it up, because he didn't know how far away the ruins were –

Getting a grip on himself, leaning over his knees, Peter took a shallower breath to steady his swaying head before straightening and locking eyes on the ruins in the distance. Time to go.

His shoulders prickled constantly with the presence of the great, swirling mass of dust he knew was behind him as he moved, stumbling frequently over the loose red sand and only occasionally meeting with flat plains of cracked rock. Soon it faded into nothing but a heat-shimmered blur, one he felt he'd lived his entire life, and he found himself staggering more often than not. His arms hung limply by his sides and his lungs complained, his jumpsuit clinging stickily to his back, but he was too weary to do anything but stare at the sight in the distance and put one foot in front of the next. The thought of Atlantis was but a distant dream; a city floating on an ocean can't have ever existed, because there was only sand and heat.

But that was before the sharp, slatted pieces of rock which littered the flat mesa began trembling, the ground shivering beneath the force of the storm. Peter felt the tremor beneath his feet and paused, turning about with a sick feeling in his gut – though not from the pounding of his head. The wind lashed sand in his eyes and he flinched back, raising a protective arm, but not before he caught a glimpse of a wall that encompassed the entire horizon, churning with what seemed like malicious intent.

Run! His mind shrieked, but his legs agreed only reluctantly as he stumbled towards the ruins, the stitch in his side jabbing spitefully at his quick, ragged breaths. Please let it be close, he begged, sticky fists clenching as he continued in his lurching sprint, dismissing the possibility that the ruins might not be real, that they might only be a mirage, because if it was true then he might as well just give up now and let the storm take him.

Can't let Rodney and Radek think they've got the Daedalus all to themselves – it'll go to their heads… the thought was frantic but wry, a babble of words in a part of his mind that remembered that he'd even had a life before the endless sea of sand, the constant boom of the storm behind him.

The gale lifted dust up from around him, lashing in his sweat-stained hair, getting in his clothes and mouth. He ducked his head, eyes squinting shut against the sheets which whirled around him, the familiar taste of blood once again predominant in his throat. It scoured at his skin, abrading it away with vicious stings until it began a constant throb on the flesh beneath.

And then, quite suddenly, he was staggering over crumbling bricks, weather-beaten walls rising up out of the wasteland around him as the sky darkened with the sand and howling wind.

It was difficult to breathe without inhaling dust and his body was wracked with constant coughs before he drew the ragged neck of his blue shirt over his mouth, filtering the majority of the sand as he forced his rubbery legs onward, passing by looming shadows of useless, broken buildings. One hand flailed before him, searching desperately for walls in case he ran into them, before his tender fingers scraped on hard rock. Leaning into the wind, turning his head away from the sand that bit at his scraped and raw face, he followed the sturdy barrier until he reached an opening. Without hesitation he lurched into it, out of the wind that continued to shriek through the door and pound on the semi-existing roof as dust sprinkled down from above.

Exhausted, hurting, Peter curled up in the safest corner he could find, listening to the storm battering his temporary fortress and blearily watching the sand swirling across the flagstones. All thought of the Wraith, and the Daedalus, and even Atlantis was evaporated by the unending gale, replaced by his utter exhaustion, by his pulse beating loudly in his ears through the thump in his head, the strained ache of his body, his parched throat…

Peter let it all go and slept.