A/N: Yus! This is an update! I'm sorry for taking so long, but I tend to have bouts of extreme procrastination – and some all-round laziness. Plus there's the fact the chappie just went on and on, much longer than my usual.

Anyway! Thanks to everyone for reviewing, it's a real bonus to posting. Although, c'mon, there has to be something wrong! But don't worry, fififolle, I'll take care of Peter… I'll just take him out for a whump or two first. (evil grin) This chappie is probably where the real whumpage starts… so he's not gonna catch a break just yet. Although he does get one in this chappie… yeah, I'd call that a break…

Moving on…

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III

WHAT HELL LOOKS LIKE

Mist.

It swirled over the quiet, rippling surface of the swamp, writhing around the tangled roots plunging deep into the murky water and the twisted trunks arising from the damp ground. It wisped with cold fingers around Peter's faded red-and-blue clothes, bathing them in pearly grey fog as it clung to the material. The humidity caught thickly in his throat as he struggled to breathe in the rot-cloying air.

Before him the gloomy water parted softly, the haze shifting around him with an eerie chill that made him shiver, his skin pricked with goosebumps beneath his drenched and now foul-smelling clothes. He could feel the silt beneath his shoes, thick clouds of sand and dirt churning around his legs as he waded towards the fog-wisped foliage of land ahead.

The cold seeped into his quivering skin, stinging at his cuts even as the pull of his muscles elicited the semi-dull ache of his back. Before long his feet discovered firmer ground, sending him staggering over stones and roots as he struggled up the steep, yielding bank. Even as his fingers scrabbled in the dirt, searching for easily accessible rocks and debris, Peter wondered whether it was wise to have left the stargate.

There was nothing else you could do, he reassured himself yet again, even though his stomach clenched with doubt against the truth of the statement, hands tugging one fist-sized stone from the festering mire. He didn't have any addresses he could safely gate to aside from Atlantis, and the only way he could think of to signal them was to throw objects through in a pattern – Morse Code came to mind. And to do that, he needed something he could send. The stargate's cloud-shaded clearing had been mostly comprised of murky water, lapping at the crumbling edge of the cracked stone podium and separating the ring from the rolling, misty hillocks rising from the outer banks.

The gate was behind him now, standing silently in familiar watchfulness over the towering trees and deepened shadows of the swamp in the traditional company of the lake-wallowing DHD, waiting for his return with supplies.

He'd already discovered that most of the rubble close at hand was either too small or had a tendency to crumble; otherwise he'd never have ventured so far. He needed to be ready, or he'd run out before his message was complete. As it was, he'd anticipated taking hours to get what he needed.

He'd never considered that he'd have to find them first.

Wearily Peter slogged up the bank and slumped to the damp, leaf-strewn ground beneath a lined, mottled tree nearby, resting for a moment beside the shaded stream while he surveyed his meagre collection of stones glumly, thinking almost wistfully about the hefty wreckage on the desert planet. Branches draped down around him in silent offering of false privacy as the mist continued to seep along the spongy ground, darkness shrouded beneath the cover of the thick canopy. His back tingled with the familiar sensation of pins and needles, fingers and toes numb with both cold and… something else.

Something itched, stinging his arm, and absently Peter moved to scratch, dark-circled eyes set distantly on the soggy, leaf-nestled rocks between his feet. His callused fingers met soft, bulging flesh and Peter froze with a heart-pounding moment of disgusted horror before his eyes flickered to find what was unmistakably a slimy leech suckling wetly at his skin, its body swollen with his own blood.

God. Peter shuddered, swallowing down the bile that rose in his mouth as he watched the leech with a sort of fascinated revulsion, its grey-mottled bulk undulating with working muscles. He was suddenly acutely, uncomfortably aware of all the aches and itches that afflicted his exhausted body, feeling light-headed and flushed. His hand twitched as he resisted the urge to pull the leech forcibly off of him, knowing it would do little good in the long run. The first overt sign of life he'd seen on this planet and it was eating him.

Instead he tore away from the unnerving sight, blinking rapidly against the sting of thick air and exhaustion. His hands pressed momentarily to the sodden ground as he levered himself to his feet, coming away with dirt clinging to the lines of his palms. For a moment dizziness swept over him in light that singed the edges of his vision, but then with a sigh, filthy clothes clinging wetly to his tanned skin, Peter gathered the stones and stumbled onward between the gently rippling water and the looming, shadowed interior of the swamp, eyes flickering over the ground in search of debris.

He hadn't staggered along for more than a few minutes, slipping on the muddy bank, flicking at the leaves in his face and ignoring the buzz of insects, when he felt a sharp twinge on his shoulder that was almost lost amidst the prevalent tingle of pins and needles. Feeling sick and exhausted, Peter reached up, expecting to feel the soft bulge of another leech beneath his torn shirt, but instead he was met with the wooden shaft of a sap-glazed dart.

Swallowing through his suddenly dry mouth, Peter plucked it away with fumbling fingers, eyes unintentionally wide as he regarded the slim, green-tinged wood and ragged grey feathers. The tip was coated with a thick, sticky substance, staining the wood of the point an almost unnatural lime colour, and Peter's heart lurched, his chest clenching fearfully.

"Oh, dear," he whispered in a shaky voice, dropping the slender dart as his eyes darted anxiously towards the dark foliage, his skin prickling with the sudden paranoia of attack. He took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heartbeat and shaking hands, cradling the almost-forgotten rocks against him, unaware of his pale face as he took an unsteady step in the direction he'd been going. Unnoticed, the leech clinging to his arm coiled tensely, releasing its tight grip and falling to the mulch with a wet plop.

The scientist didn't get far before his fear-heightened senses heard the quiet zip of another dart, followed by the vanishing prick of the sharpened tip on his thigh. Peter snatched it up and tossed it aside jerkily, smearing the thick substance over his muddy jumpsuit and fingers. Barely a second later his foot caught on an upturned root, sending the world careening around him in blurs of green, grey and brown as he fell, the stones tumbling from his grasp. He landed with a blow that forced a pained grunt from his lips, sprawled face down on the marshy ground.

For a stunned moment he lay on the damp mulch, breathing in the mouldy scent of the decaying leaves pressed into his face. His hands dug into the soggy dirt as he lifted himself up onto his elbows with a hiss of pain, his head and back pounding in complaint. For a moment he didn't notice that the pins and needles had stopped, leaving only the throb between his shoulder blades he knew was the original wound.

Then he made to get up, leaning heavily on the creeper-twined tree nearby. Dizziness spun the looming, vine-like foliage in a whirl of colour before smouldering his vision into white flashes of light. Unseeingly he sank against the rough-textured tree, his breath quickening as he fought the pull of heavy darkness, swirling around his greying sight.

And just as quickly as it had come, it subsided. The dizziness wisped away into the steady curves and lines of motionless green foliage, leaving behind a light-headedness borne of exhaustion and hunger. Struggling for breath, Peter slipped weakly down to the root-twisted base of the tree, resting wearily against it with his darkly-bearded cheek pressed against the rough bark. What the bloody hell is going on? He wondered tiredly, eyes flickering shut as he focussed only on his deep breaths. Whatever had been on that dart was quick-acting, but why hadn't it worked?

I'm sorry, that matters, why? You're alive, aren't you? A voice sounding remarkably like Rodney McKay snapped, and despite himself Peter found energy for a silent chuckle. He knew he hadn't found the most ideal spot for a rest but at that moment he didn't care; he'd been kidnapped, cooked, waterlogged and shot, and all he wanted was sleep.

The owners of the menacing green darts disagreed. Peter had already begun to drift, sagged against the vine-woven tree, when they dropped softly from the thick layers of the canopy. The squelching thump of multiple bare feet hitting muddy ground was enough to rouse Peter reluctantly from his almost-sleep, but when the sound didn't come again he dismissed it with the dispassionate rationalization of the weary.

That is until something jabbed him cruelly on the shoulder.

Instantly Peter's eyes snapped open with a shocked gasp, his arm automatically slapping one pale, muddied hand away. He heard a hiss of surprise and several shocked exclamations before his eyes focussed on the scrawny, bare-chested man regarding him warily, a stone-tipped spear pointed unshakably at Peter. His grey hair was cropped so short it was almost fuzz, his stained trousers patched with thick string, and behind him was a restless party of similarly clad men, whispering apprehensively to one another whilst fixing him with uneasy glances.

Oh, damn. A chill prickled down Peter's neck as he considered the spears and dart-pipes the men carried, tied with leather strings of ragged, decorative feathers. Most of them were pointed at him, but it was the distrusting glare in the varying green and grey eyes behind those weapons that unnerved him the most. He had no doubt that they were the ones who had just shot him – but their intentions, he could only guess.

Whatever those intentions, they weren't friendly. He got that point just by looking at the scowling, confused faces and listening to the hurried whispers.

"Cursed," they repeated over and over in hushed, fearful tones. "The sleep did not come, he's cursed..."

I don't like the sound of that. He flinched away as the leader brandished his spear, the sharpened stone dark beneath the dappled shadow of the trees. His free hand spasmed in the air, jerking back hard enough that his elbow cracked against the hard, lined flesh of the tree. Pain sparked momentarily down his arm, causing nausea to sweep momentarily over him in a dizzying whirl, but it faded so quickly it didn't even leave a numb residual ache in the joint. Peter swallowed hard against the queasiness, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. It let him sag against the mottled, veined trunk, hands pressed to the cool surface.

Something scraped gently on his chest and his eyes snapped open, his every muscle instantly tense even as he kept himself still. The mud-streaked face of the leader lined in a frown, the rough tip of the spear pushing aside the frayed edge of Peter's shirt, fully revealing the shiny arc of scars that had been left by the Wraith. Peter shuddered involuntarily, hardly breathing as his eyes rested on the threatening spear-point. He noted the surge of whispers only vaguely, the natives pointing with shaking fingers and craning their heads in curiosity only to look away with expressions of disgust.

I get the feeling that Wraith markings aren't a good thing, Peter registered, jaw clenched as he stared back at the chief's furrowed brow, wishing he could wipe the sweat and grime off his own forehead; but he didn't dare move. The spearhead hovered in his face and the scientist flinched back automatically, but it merely gestured curtly in the humid air, the inference clear.

Reluctantly Peter clambered to his feet, his movements slow with caution to avoid any confusion as to his intentions and the dizziness that seemed attached to the headache thrumming behind his eyes. The natives watched him warily nonetheless, hunched in gestures of timidity and shifting with nervous movements behind trees. The leader was the only one who stood up straight, piercing eyes of green regarding Peter grimly as a younger man with blue-black hair visible in tufts under mud and leaves came to his side, head turning about skittishly. "What do you plan to do with him?" the youth demanded in sharp, rasping tones, his stormy grey eyes sliding around Peter as though afraid to look at him directly.

Peter found himself holding his breath as he waited for the leader's answer, feet set firmly apart in the mulch to keep himself upright. His head spun and he wanted nothing more than sleep, food and security. Why did all the people he came across have to be hostile? Of course, it could be simply because of the scar…

In the desert he had been confronted with it day after day, needing to take care of the wound so it didn't get infected in the heat and sand. It brought to mind all of Carson's research on the Wraith feeding process, constantly reminding him exactly what it had felt like from a personal point of view. In his dreams he had revisited it again and again, feeling it not from his own point of view but as Sumner had, as all the Wraith's victims had. As all the Wraith's potential victims could. It had become a legacy of the Wraith dominion, a tangible burden of the cullings, one he had learned to bear over time until he barely noticed its weight.

Twice, now, it had come back more heavily than before; a symbol of the Wraith disease. He was a leper, an outcast. Cursed.

"All pariahs go to Morag," the leader answered in a low voice without taking his piercing eyes from Peter, and the scientist's breath caught in his chest. He knew enough about mythology to know Morag wasn't someone… something… that he wanted to meet.

The problem was, he wasn't going to be given much of a choice.

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Peter staggered, the mulch twisting beneath his scruffy, muddy shoes and almost sending him sprawling to the grubby forest carpet. The long fingers encircled tightly around his upper arm prevented it, his own hands twisted and tied uncomfortably behind his back with thick, vine-like rope. Dappled shadows passed over them, accenting the dark circles around the scientist's brown eyes.

His only companion was the steely, grey-haired native who all but dragged him through the marsh, yanking on him impatiently whenever his tired feet caught on the damp, soil-laden roots peeking above the ground. The rest of the party had vanished into the trees upon hearing their leader's decision, casting worried glances back at him until the semi-dry mud slathering their skin had faded them into the grey-and-green dappled background. He knew their concern wasn't for him, either.

How did it come to this? Peter found himself wondering through the numb cloud that had settled over his mind, wrenching his foot absently from the grasp of thinly netted tendrils coiled across the nonexistent path. I was supposed to be Atlantis-based, not an offworlder. The gateroom was my place, my kingdom. We agreed. Not in words, but we agreed.

And he considered whether or not it would be easier to just give in to fate.

Wrapped in a thick blanket of mental fog, he forgot where he was and that he was still stumbling along at the behest of his captor, leaves and vines lashing in his face. He left it all behind, giving in to the weariness of the mind, letting some of the thoughts he'd been keeping at bay trickle through.

What if Atlantis was destroyed? He reflected despairingly, feeling the tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with fatigue. What if they're all gone and I'm the last Atlantean? I've come across nothing but enemies, why am I still fighting? I can't – he almost choked on the lump in his throat. He didn't notice the crumbling, moss-covered branch until he'd tripped over it, splintering the soggy wood with a crack.

The weight of the native at his side stopped him from crashing to the leaf-strewn ground, but instead he careened into a nearby tree with a jarring blow that forced the breath from his lungs, making his head pound and neck twinge painfully. Irritably his captor yanked him upright, causing the world to spin around him.

Stop. Peter pleaded inwardly, though the only thing that made it to his lips was a moan. He desperately wanted to collapse, rest, but instead he found himself straightening up and locking his knees so he didn't fall.

It was a familiar feeling, one that brought back memories from a time long before even Atlantis; that of bright lights, bruised fists, and stubborn resolve. He never gave up. He couldn't. He wouldn't. That was tantamount to letting the Wraith win.

So he set his jaw grimly, pushing away his dizziness and nausea, focussing on those long-distant memories, the pride he felt whenever he won out over exhaustion. Now, like then, he couldn't stop what was happening to him, but he could go along with it. He could find a way to turn it around. He hadn't given up when the hiveship had been screeching around his ears, the handprint still fresh on his chest, not when he'd been surrounded by foes, knowing what they'd do to him but ignorant of Atlantis's fate.

Compared to then, now was a lawn party.

The throb between his shoulder blades served to cut through the fog that threatened to wrap around his mind, the recollections reminding him that, by nature, he persevered.

When the native tugged impatiently on his arm again he followed the man's lead, fixing his determined gaze on the swaying ground and banishing any thought of surrender. There's still a chance.

He lost all sense of time, his concentration set on keeping his unsteady feet. The crowding foliage thinned, the dim sun beaming momentarily through the green-tinged canopy in intermittent dapples of light before grey clouds covered it again. It only highlighted the sickly browns and reds of the increasingly marshy ground, sucking at Peter's boots and splattering the grubby hems of his weathered jumpsuit.

Peter refocussed on the path ahead as the trees opened up, spreading their tangled curtains of red-tinged leaves to either side to frame a mist-layered tarn shaded by the overcast sky. Extending into the gently rippling water was a crumbled dais of stone, its brick-lined edge stained green by algae. The land-based edge had vanished beneath a soft carpet of yellow-green moss, the curve of the rim cradled by gnarled roots the dipped thirstily into the murky lake.

In the centre of the podium was a weathered chain, laying in coiled links and secured to the stone with a scratched and rusty loop of metal. Attached to that was a heavy, engraved iron collar that drew Peter's alarmed attention, but as he stiffened beneath the native's hard grasp another hand encircled his other arm. Together the two warriors steered him brusquely towards the dais, his once-black shoes slipping on forest mulch in a futile attempt to resist. A third was already picking up the collar with the jingle of a well-made chain, unlatching the smooth hook clasping the two halves of the nicked ring together.

Chips flaked into the fog-wisped moat with sprinkles of dust as they moved from the soggy bank to the ancient dais, the hunter with cropped, blue-black hair raising the collar to snap around Peter's neck. The scientist flinched as the chilly weight settled uncomfortably close around his throat, made clammy by the fog and damp, the chain clinking gently against his mud-crusted arm. The natives backed away, the gazes of the two younger, dark-haired warriors slipping around him uneasily. The grey-haired man's piercing green eyes narrowed, meeting Peter's bleakly harrowed stare before he turned and walked, straight-backed, after his companions into the concealing trees.

Peter watched after them somewhat blankly for a moment, past the point of caring where they'd gone or why they'd left him. Then he gave himself a mental shake and turned his gaze to the bilge-filled cracks of the flagstones, absently testing the wiry ropes with a slow twist that pinched his skin. That was when a blinking, glittering light on the lakeside arc of the dais caught his attention, glowing starkly against the dull greys of the drifting mist that writhed its tenuous fingers around it. That looks like a beacon – Peter's brow furrowed in thought and he took an unconscious step towards it, the chain clinking heavily with the movement.

"Got yourself in a little trouble there, Doc?"

The sound of the cheerful, utterly familiar voice made Peter's head snap towards the high, loose bank on the opposite side of the lake, his eyes widening in disbelief. His breath caught as the dark-skinned owner emerged from the limp and shadowed foliage like a ghost, a bronze Wraith stunner resting comfortably on his shoulder, his black fatigues fading him into the dull background.

"Lieutenant?" Peter's tone was incredulous, his chest clenching with relief and exultation.

Ford grinned, one slender hand rising to the black bandanna tight across his forehead in a fleeting salute. He skidded down the slippery shore, taking leaves and dirt with him as he splashed carelessly into the waist-deep water. He swathed a trail through the fog and water, and within moments he'd reached the dais and hauled himself, dripping, out of the shallow lagoon, laying his damp weapon on the stone. Peter's wide eyes flashed over the familiar black and grey uniform, the bulky Kevlar vest that hung about the young man's shoulders, drinking in the sight of a friend.

Ford tugged an army-issue blade from his belt with a scrape, moving to saw through the twisted and tough rope binding Peter's wrists. Numbly grateful, Peter shook the cord to the ground with a light slap as Ford sheathed the knife and unlatched the chipped collar. The hinge creaked in complaint as he removed it and tossed it to the softening blanket of moss, vanishing into the thick layer of plant life. "C'mon, Doc, we gotta hustle." Without hesitation Ford picked up the faintly glowing stunner, jumping back into the mist and water with a scrape of his boots on crumbling stone. Rubbing his chafed wrists, Peter followed suite, the back of his aching shoulders prickling with uncertain anticipation against the eerie watchfulness of the forest behind him.

The cold hit him like a shock, making his breath catch and his skin prickle with goosebumps as he followed the damp back of the mist-shrouded lieutenant in front of him. They soon reached the bank, scrambling up the slope and ignoring the muck that clung to them, though Peter shuddered as he forced away thoughts of leeches. "Hurry, Doc," Ford urged, all levity gone from his smooth features, his dark eyes raking the opposite shoreline with unnerving caution. His gaze centred, narrowed, one hand reaching out to grasp Peter's faded sleeve as he tugged the scientist forcefully behind a tree.

Ford raised a warning finger against the question on Peter's lips, the stunner nestled in the soldier's lap as he leaned against the soggy, fungus-thick bark. When the lieutenant turned his head to peer around the thick tendrils of a parasite tree, clinging to the side of the host under which they crouched, Peter copied him, shifting carefully until he could peek cautiously beneath the slope of a branch. His heart skipped a beat, his body tensing, his stomach twisting with fear.

Wraith.

Two of them prowled the other bank, drawing closer to the mist-veiled dais. Their translucent skin and armour made them look like ghosts themselves, gliding supernaturally through the trees and vines. Their stunners were levelled from the waist, the cartridges glowing yellow beneath the shadowed sky, the faceless ridged masks giving them their frightening air of dispassion and inscrutability.

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, then had to make himself take the next, tracking the two Wraith with wide eyes set in a pale, sweaty face. Unnoticed, his knuckles whitened as he gripped the bark, the wood disintegrating under his hands. The device must signal to a ship, telling them to come when a sacrifice is ready. The detached part of his mind realized, but the rest of him was clutched with dread as he watched and waited.

Finally the Wraith discontinued their search, having wandered up and down the lapping banks and into the shadowed forest behind, but apparently not thinking it worth the effort or not considering that their quarry could have escaped across the channel. One had kicked momentarily at the cut rope, looped around the rusty pin chaining the collar to the dais, but other than that they didn't seem to care overly much that a prisoner had escaped.

But then, with masks like that, who could tell?

Fleetingly Peter wondered whether or not the natives would find themselves attacked, punished, for this unintentional slight, but then Ford gestured towards the tree line without looking at him and the two Atlanteans vanished into the looming safety of the marsh.

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Ten minutes later Peter all but collapsed into the comforting curve of a tree's mottled roots, his limbs clutched with a deeply inset weariness that left him feeling vaguely numb. His chest heaved with deep, ragged breaths as he leaned over his knees, worn out by Ford's quick march. As his heartbeat slowed he rested his elbows on his knees, the soggy, rolled up sleeves of his tattered shirt like thick bracelets encircling his arms. His back twinged as the muscles stretched with the movement but he ignored it, instead glancing upwards towards Ford. The lieutenant was shifting uneasily, long fingers flexing restlessly on the stunner's trigger, his eyes flickering grimly over the leafy, draping vines reaching to the ground and the patches of grey sky to be seen through the otherwise thick canopy.

How did you get here, where are the others, is Atlantis still intact – all the questions Peter wanted to ask whirled in his mind, his chest now tight with apprehension and uncertainty instead of fatigue; but there were no words to express how relieved he was to see Ford, to know that, no matter what, something of Atlantis had survived. And the words came out before he'd even thought them, the underlying thought barely formed before they sounded. "I don't suppose you have anything to eat?" Peter winced inwardly at his hoarse voice and the question both; after all this time and that was the first thing he had to say?

Mind you, he hadn't eaten in a long while – the hollow rumble of his belly could attest to that – and the last time he had eaten, it'd been a string of tough, barely-edible roots and a handful of sour nuts. He needed food or he'd probably pass out before they'd gone more than another ten minutes.

Ford glanced at him, appearing to pay only partial attention to the scientist. The rest of his focus was on surveying the sheets of concealing leaves and twisted, mottled forms of the forest. As far as Peter could see there was nothing around; no animals that he'd seen, nothing but the sound of distant birds. But then, after being in the seemingly-lifeless desert, he'd learned that just because he couldn't see them didn't mean they weren't there.

One hand unzipped one of the many pockets of Ford's black Kevlar vest as the soldier withdrew a power bar and turning to hand it to Peter. Gratefully Peter accepted it, ripping open the shiny orange wrapper and grimacing as his numb fingers fumbled.

Casting one last, wary appraisal over the curved, soft-seeming shapes of the forest, Ford crouched beside him, his slender weapon settled snugly into his shoulder. "You look like hell, Doc," the young man observed seriously as he watched Peter breaking off small pieces from the bar, restraining his ravenous urge to gulp it down in a couple of bites. It was the closest approximation to real food he'd had in months; he wanted to savour it.

Peter laughed quietly, bobbing his head in tactile agreement as he worked another titbit from the end of the bar. It felt good to laugh; he'd had so little reason to do so, lately. But now he did; Ford's presence could only mean that the others were near, that Atlantis was safe, that he would soon be able to go home… Really? What evidence do you have for that? The thought was shocking and utterly unwelcome, simply because it was right. Ford was there, but… Look again. He doesn't look as though he's been living in luxury, does he?

His gaze flickered to examine Ford's haggard appearance as he raised the food to his lips, the lieutenant's head moving in a strangely bird-like manner to study the unvarying green-and-grey surroundings. One side of the soldier's face was sunken and stretched, his pupil so dilated that his eye looked black. Gone was the boyish enthusiasm Peter remembered, replaced by a paranoia that kept his eyes flashing constantly over their surroundings, never once remaining on something for more than a second. The black bandanna covering the young man's short, fluffy hair made him seem more in place with the wilderness, more of a guerrilla, a scavenger, than a soldier.

Damn. Peter felt a pang, the potential euphoria fading before it could even take proper hold. Something happened. He turned his attention back to the power bar, suddenly realizing he'd been fiddling with it instead of eating it. He was hungry, knew he had to keep up his strength, but suddenly lost his appetite. "To be honest, you don't look much better," he put forth with a trace of a smile to cover the sudden chill of apprehension that prickled his arms, raising another unwanted piece of the power bar to maintain a guise of nonchalance.

A sudden movement to his side proved to be Ford, staring at him with an expression of paranoid accusation. "What's that supposed to mean?" the lieutenant demanded, looking Peter up and down with an almost hostile air, his grip on the stunner tightening.

Peter tensed, prayed that Ford didn't notice, and instead raised his eyebrows in surprise, the hand with the morsel of food drooping in the air as he met Ford's eyes squarely. "You look like you've been out here for a while." The admission made his stomach clench, a tiny, dispassionate voice in the back of his mind running through of list of the possible whys. Atlantis is destroyed. Atlantis has been captured by the Wraith. The next words came out before he could stop them, his tone unintentionally bitter as he turned from Ford's smoothing expression to cast a critical gaze out at the muggy forest around them. "I know what that feels like."

All too well. For so long he'd had no one to talk to, no one to review his experience with. He'd wanted to set it aside, pretend that he could ignore it and it would go away; but he knew it wouldn't, and Peter had never been one to disillusion himself. To survive, even to survive in hope as he had, had required him to accept his situation to a certain extent, accept it and learn from it – even as he strove to change it. The past was determined. The future was not.

He suddenly remembered he still had some food in his hand but unable to find it in himself to eat it. Instead he tossed it away into the drifting fog with a tiny jerk, folding the crinkly wrapper over the end of the bar to finish later.

"Sounds like you've been through some heavy stuff, Doc," Ford's voice cut through his thoughts and Peter looked up to find the lieutenant fixing him with a concerned stare, but his eyes glittered with some unrecognisable emotion that countered the worry. "How'd you manage to survive that explosion, anyway?"

Peter shook his head unconsciously in answer, fingers turning the half-eaten power bar over and over in the humid air. "It doesn't matter." Yes, it did, but suddenly he couldn't take the time to tell his story; he wanted to know… he had to know… "What about you – and Atlantis? What happened?" He pleaded Ford with his eyes, demanding to know why Ford was wandering alone on random planets, why he looked so haggard. He had to have been alone; he would've contacted someone by now, one of his team, if they'd been there too.

"Atlantis is okay," Ford said dismissively, breaking off the intent look he'd been giving Peter and returning to a guarded inspection of the marsh. "Sheppard and the others, too." A wave of relief swept over Peter, so intense that he found a lump in his throat restricting him from speaking, and he bowed his head over his knees with a small, accepting nod, his hands interlaced before him. The tenseness he hadn't even noticed was there had vanished, leaving his body weak with after-adrenaline.

When he looked up again it was to find Ford glaring angrily into the distant, creeper-like trees, his jaw set accusingly at someone only he could see; yet somehow his eyes looked lost, uncertain. "What about you?" Peter asked with a slight gesture of his chin. "Why are you out here," Again his gaze flickered up and over the draping red-tinged leaves, sheeting down from the wide-reaching boughs of the tree cradling him. "…and alone, at that."

Ford jabbed at the soggy marsh vehemently with the spear-like point of the stunner, throwing up small tufts of mulch and making the fog swirl, coating the smooth exterior in a thin layer of condensation. "They're afraid of me." he ground out, stabbing the dirt viciously as though it had done him a wrong. "Afraid of what I've become." His blows grew stilted, violent, increasing in power. He never noticed Peter's raised eyebrows, nor that the Brit was watching him worriedly through his hairline. Finally with one last fierce thrust into the earth the soldier desisted, glancing elsewhere with a scowl. "I've changed." He hardly seemed to be speaking to Peter now, but the scientist couldn't guess who he might've thought he was addressing in any case. "Become stronger." His fist tightened around the thin barrel of the stunner, fingers flexing in tense readiness. "They don't understand what it's like." He made a sound that could have been either a chuckle or a snort, but wasn't amusing at all. "To be out here, all alone. Having your friends turn on you. No one to trust you. Have everyone think you're nuts, ready to go off at any time."

Peter remained silent, both fascinated and horrified by the strength of Ford's misguided passion. Having his friends turn on him? Not even acerbic-seeming McKay would do that. Still, it explained what Ford was doing… it sounded like he'd run away.

That was when Ford turned on him, his face shining with utter fervour. "But you know what it's like. You've been out here, all alone, surviving." Peter met Ford's fanatical gaze squarely, his stomach twisting with uncertainty, nonplussed by the focus glittering in the lieutenant's eyes. "I mean, I saved you, right? You can tell them. I can be trusted. I proved that."

"I don't even know what happened, Lieutenant," Peter answered softly, honestly. "But right now, I don't have any way to get back to Atlantis, or I would have done it a long time ago." It was a hint, an opening for Ford to fulfil Peter's tentative hopes or confirm his resigned expectations.

Instead the lieutenant studied him as though he'd never seen a human being before and had found the species lacking, a slight, almost disbelieving twist to his lips. "They all think you're dead."

The words hit Peter harder than he ever expected they would, since he'd known from the beginning that was the most probable outcome. Even if they had seen the culling beam… a rescue attempt to reach one man would have been suicide.

Still he jerked his otherwise calm gaze from Ford to hide the pain reflecting in his brown eyes, the muscles of his jaw working in silent acknowledgment.

I'm sorry.

He'd said that to Rodney, not knowing exactly what he'd been apologising for, not at first. Over time he'd decided it was because he had had to make a decision for Rodney, one that too many of Rodney's team had already made for him. A decision that Rodney could never have made, never have accepted – one that, no matter the outcome, no matter who had made it, he would bear the responsibility for anyway.

"That's what happens," the scientist said at last, and looked back to Ford, managing a faltering smile that didn't reach his darkened eyes. "When the satellite you're on explodes." A bad attempt at humour, but all he could manage at the time. Peter found himself unable to keep Ford's steady gaze, glancing back down to his entwined fingers, still clutching the power bar.

"Don't worry, Doc," Ford followed Peter's movements, eyes showing nothing but utter, almost desperate, sincerity. "I'll get you back." Peter's eyes flickered up in slight surprise at his words and Ford ducked his head to see his expression properly, nodding faintly to assure him of his certainty. "That way you'll be back, and…" He shifted a little, tilting one shoulder in a small shrug, lips twitching vaguely in a humourless smile. "…and you can tell them I'm okay."

Seeing at the young soldier's earnestness, Peter couldn't help but smile back in acceptance of his loyalty, his dedication, and felt his own hopes rising enough to make light of his next words. "You're just forgetting one thing," he pointed out with a light dip of his stiff shoulders, leaning over his knees in a broad nod. "I assume you don't have a GDO."

It was a valid guess; Ford seemed reluctant to return to Atlantis, eager to prove himself, and in his single-minded state of mind Peter doubted he would have prepared for such an eventuality.

That was confirmed by Ford's look of uncertain confusion, drawing back to study the physicist doubtfully. "What, can't you just… build one?"

Peter hung his head with a sigh, his bearded chin touching his chest and his eyes fluttering shut in momentary despair. And to think I had all that technology at my fingertips. But he didn't make any mention of that to Ford, hiding his own dejection from the apprehensive young man. "With the right equipment, perhaps." Peter acknowledged, his head coming up to look around the shade-dappled foliage before him. "But GDOs are remarkably intricate pieces of equipment, especially the versions we use here in the Pegasus Galaxy. The most I was hoping for was to build a beacon to pique their interest. Doctor Weir would never leave a distress beacon uninvestigated."

He turned towards Ford unseeingly, not looking at him, but sightlessly at the swirl of dampened leaves circling the end of the stiff root nearby. "But, last I noticed, this place isn't exactly advanced." He had considered the blinking device on the dais, but knew that it would take a great deal of time and effort to pry it loose, if that was even possible. Considering the fact that Wraith were prowling the shadowed planet like, well, wraith, it was a risk he preferred not to take.

The only other alternative was his original idea – to throw rocks through until someone answered. But with the natives, and now the Wraith, around, he doubted they'd have enough time to collect enough of anything to do so. Here, at least… perhaps another planet would be safer and still give them time for a little bit of treasure hunting…

Lost for a moment in his own thoughts, it was to his surprise when Ford grinned widely, whacking him affectionately on the arm with the back of his hand. "Not a problem, Doc."

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"A Wraith hiveship?" Peter echoed, aghast, as he struggled through the wet mulch, ignoring the chilly fog clutching at the damp folds of his grubby jumpsuit. His former lassitude was completely forgotten in the face of this new information; after all, there was a distinct difference between being chained to face danger and walking willingly into it. Ford strode easily over the uneven ground, disregarding the torpid water that splashed over his boots as he stepped through the shallow creek trickling softly through the twisted roots to a deeper lake just off the gently sloping hill. The lieutenant didn't even look around, pausing at the top of the knoll and surveying the close-standing trees past the leafy creepers draping by his coffee-coloured cheek. "You can't be serious!"

The soldier cast an inattentive glance towards the scientist even as Peter cursed his petulant tone of voice, but Ford didn't seem to notice. "Sure, Doc," he answered easily, looking about at the pearly-grey, shifting surface of the lake, marred only by the soft ripple induced by insects and vines, dipping into the wisping shroud of fog. "It'll be easy. Most of them are still hibernating anyway; that's why I chose this ship." At the last words Ford turned momentarily towards Peter with a confident lilt and a flashing grin, as though things couldn't work out any other way than what he was imagining.

Ford started off again, along the spongy edge of the cloud-shaded lagoon, his eyes darting around cautiously over the creeping foliage as Peter, standing at the base of the mound with his scratched hands on his hips, shook his head with a slight, humourless chuckle.

He knew firsthand how quickly things could go wrong.

Still, watching after the enthusiastic young soldier, he couldn't help the tiny smile that played on his lips and heaved a light-hearted sigh. His jocularity faded almost instantly, his eyes darkening, and he reluctantly followed Ford as the lieutenant was partially swallowed by the thin mist, forcing a jog out of his weary legs to catch up.

The lieutenant was still talking when the scientist reached him, the sprawling trees reaching out to embrace them into the shrouded depths of the fens as the open-aired lake was left behind. "We just walk in, I get the enzyme, you get your gadgets, and we leave."

He is serious. Peter realized, his stomach clenching fearfully, his body already tense. He really wants to go in there. A flash of memory swept through his mind: the cold fog, the ethereal voices, the beams and webs pressing down on him… Peter shivered involuntarily, speeding up into a quick gait bordering on a jog to draw near Ford's side, the soldier maintaining his uncompromising march. "No offence, Lieutenant, but I've been on a hiveship." The physicist's voice was stilted with his uneven steps and his eyes flickered to Ford warily, but the dark-skinned young man gave no sign he'd heard him. "It's not an experience I particularly care to repeat." Far from it.

Ford halted so abruptly that Peter almost banged into him, turning around with a scathing, accusing expression sparking in his eyes. "Here I am busting my ass to get you back to Atlantis and you're standing around complaining," the soldier growled angrily, his mismatched eyes boring into Peter. Peter rested his hands on his hips a second time, studying the leaf-strewn ground guiltily to avoid meeting Ford's reproachful gaze. His head dipped slightly in unconscious acknowledgement, but Ford wasn't done. "I figured you, of all people, would understand." Peter's jaw clenched regretfully and he looked up through his hairline to find Ford looking hurt, pleading, like a scolded puppy. "What's it gonna be?"

A Wraith hiveship is the last place I want to go. It had been the site of his nightmares for far too long, made worse by the fact he knew it was real. But it was also his best chance of getting back to Atlantis; he knew technology, and it would be a hell of a lot easier – well, more preferable – for him to build something than to slog around collecting rocks, no matter what planet he was on. Besides, this time, he wasn't alone; he wasn't walking ignorantly into danger. Ford was right, he realized shamefully. Avoiding the hiveship wouldn't change the fact it was there; wouldn't change the fact that he knew it, either. Eyes examining the mulch-strewn ground in thought, his chin bobbing slightly to emphasise his words, he asked, "You're certain most of them are hibernating?"

"Positive." Ford answered with a slightly wounded expression, eyeing Peter uncertainly.

This time Peter nodded resolutely, letting out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. "Alright."

Instantly an eager grin crawled over the lieutenant's features and he bobbed his head enthusiastically. "Awright, Doc." One brown hand came up and pointed fleetingly in a seemingly random direction, the other bracing the bronze stunner against Ford's shoulder. "This way."

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The corridors were just as he remembered them: the smoothed, creeper-like pillars and walls draped in gowns of membranous cobwebs, the dirt-strewn floor wreathed with chilly mist, dimly lit by blue-tinged orbs and cylindrical yellow stasis modules. But it was more than that; the soft, concurrent murmur that he wasn't sure he actually heard or merely remembered, the menacing closeness of the halls, the echoing sounds that pretended there was distant, ominous life.

Nervously Peter rubbed a sweaty hand on his still-damp jumpsuit, only succeeding in smudging mud over the lines of his palm. He fingered the rubber grip of the handgun Ford had given him, eyes darting around anxiously, his every muscle tense. The lieutenant was in the lead, the Wraith stunner levelled readily from his shoulder, its yellow power cells glowing faintly in the dank air.

The soldier peered cautiously into every shadow, mismatched eyes scanning the shrouded corridors with grim coldness. It was a sight – one of utter efficiency – that had Peter revising his decision. Ford wasn't in the most stable of dispositions, and after having heard his story… Peter didn't like the idea of being in a slumbering hiveship with an addicted Lieutenant Ford.

But he didn't have much choice; he couldn't find the technology alone. If he could contact Atlantis then perhaps he could also convince Ford to return with him. The soldier was starved for understanding and acceptance, and that might be something Peter could give him. He hated this, though. He wasn't a soldier. Give him a technological problem and he was mostly fine; throw him into a skirmish and his lack of knowledge, lack of control, beat at him mercilessly.

They were already deep within the bowels of the hiveship and Peter's nerves were stretched thin. He had to work to keep his breathing calm, but it still sounded uncomfortably loud in the near-silence, interrupted only by the sound of their footsteps and the soft whisper of dreaming Wraith. His shoulders ached with tension, a soft burn spread across his back that was just this side of painful, one that he'd been too occupied to notice much beforehand. Once or twice the physicist found himself wishing he hadn't finished the power bar earlier, the strain making him feel nauseous.

All that was swept away when a third, echoing trail of footfalls reverberated through the thick air. Instantly the two hugged the shadowed wall in the lee of a pitted column, Peter flexing his shaking hands apprehensively and Ford daring quick glances around the cambers of the twisted pillar marking the turn into a new hallway. Abruptly the lieutenant stepped out into the dirt-strewn hallway, the stunner humming as he fired a crackling blue charge towards an unseen target. There was the scrape of booted feet slipping on the loose sand, the heavy thump of a muscular body hitting the ground. Ford paced forward cautiously, the slim stunner held ready, his eyes sparkling with unsettling triumph.

Peter let out a tense breath, still as wound up as a coiled spring, uncomfortably aware of the open space of the looming corridor behind him even as he followed the lieutenant, sweat-laden face turned towards the whispering shroud of darkness. The sudden whine of another lightning-like blast made the physicist jerk, startled, and he spun around before realizing that Ford had merely pumped another, precautionary round into the bleached-out bone of the motionless Wraith's armour. The alien's white hair was fanned out on the thin carpet of soil, the heavily ridged mask veiling the Wraith's face over translucently pale, green-toned skin that bordered on flabby. His arms were outflung, taken by surprise, the stunner lying almost forgotten in blue-tinged shadows lit only by the dim yellow light of the glowing cartridges.

Ford kneeled by the still Wraith, casting an emotionlessly critical, almost scornful, eye over the pale form bathed in pearly fog. Peter barely had time to register the shiver of remembered fear that chilled his skin before it turned to a sick flush as Ford drew a serrated knife with a dull shriek, slashing the Wraith across the throat. The body bucked once, swiftly, limbs spasming over the topsoil in tiny clouds of dust as a plume of pink blood gurgled from the jagged wound, welling in gleaming rivulets that seeped in an opaque cascade down the pallid flesh.

Peter jolted around, his skin prickling with nauseous heat as his wide eyes travelled unseeingly over the curves and gloom of the walls, avoiding the sight which begged his vision. He took in deep, shaky breaths to avoid throwing up, the coppery smell of blood heavy in the air. It wasn't that he hadn't seen injuries before – especially considering that he had occupied the veritable nub of Atlantis, through which he'd seen everything from burns to shattered bones to bullet wounds come through the gate – it was just that, in his tired, hungry state, he hadn't expected the action, hadn't expected the utter callousness with which Ford had killed an unconscious and helpless creature, Wraith or not.

Time stretched and gradually Peter became aware of the mist clutching his stiff clothing, the cold seeping like a living, whispering entity through the corridor, freezing on his flushed skin. The nausea slipped away but left a dull twist in his stomach and he refused to turn around lest he catch sight of the Wraith corpse. Ford's movements, whatever they had been, had gone unheard and unheeded, and for that the scientist was grateful.

"Here, Doc," Ford nudged his arm, making him jump in surprise and whirl about to face the lieutenant. He was sure his sweaty face was pale, his eyes wide, and his gaze swept quickly over the still, green-tinged form swathed in fog lying just beyond. "You okay?" the soldier asked with a tiny furrow of his brow.

Peter's stomach coiled harshly again. He doesn't see what he did wrong. The scientist nodded bleakly, jaw clenching, and took the weathered wrist-guard that Ford held out to him. The cold metal was damp with condensation and the inset rainbow surface of the beacon dull, inoperative, in the light.

It wasn't even the fact it was a Wraith – it was Ford. It scared him, seeing that grim expression on the face of the good-natured, boyish young man he'd once known.

Peter stared blindly at the fractured-looking circle cast into the armband, thumb smoothing over the raised edge of the setting, before Ford gestured vaguely over his shoulder, dark eyes still fixed almost worriedly on the scientist. "We should keep moving," he said, his tone authoritative but soft, like he was speaking to a distraught team member.

Peter took another, steadier, breath, tapping the folded underside of the wrist-guard absently against the knuckles of his other hand. "Perhaps we should leave." he suggested cautiously, gazing at Ford to avoid looking at the half-hidden corpse he knew was just out of sight out of the corner of his eye.

Ford looked him up and down suspiciously, as though he were crazy, his features tightening into the semi-hostile expression of accusation. "C'mon, Doc, you're not chickening out on me now." It wasn't hardly a question; more of an order. "Don't you need other stuff? You know, like tools?"

Perhaps, Peter conceded mentally with a quick sigh, his stare moving to the wreathing mist in thought. Probable, even.

"Besides," Ford added, shifting restlessly, his eyes flickering over the chilly, darkened corridor behind Peter, illuminated only by the soft glow of orange or blue lights. "I only got one serving of the enzyme." His mismatched eyes blinked back to Peter expectantly, almost accusingly. "It'd be stupid to leave now." And with a final look bordering on an outright, challenging glare, he stalked past the fog-cloaked body of the Wraith, ignorant of the worried, appraising gaze that followed him.

For a moment Peter remained, a tower of faded colour in an ocean of pearly mist, bouncing the armband absently in one hand as though weighing down its advantages compared to the peace of mind that leaving would bring. I can't leave him in here alone. He's not in the best of minds. Peter's jaw tightened miserably and he tucked the wrist-guard into the looping, knotted arms of his red jumpsuit, still pushed to his waist, before retrieving the polished stunner wrapped in shadows at the edge of the hallway, turning away from the bulk lying motionlessly in the centre of the veiled floor.

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Two Wraith later, Peter huddled gingerly against the damp wall, the stunner cradled in his hands and the yellow glow of the modules illuminating his surroundings dimly through his fingers. The mist coalesced around his thighs but he ignored it, peering through the rippling lines of a shadowed, creeper-twined pillar and into the closed space of the passage ahead. Beside him, Ford was just tucking away two fluid-slick enzyme sacs into one of his many vest pockets, zipping the opening shut with a tug that almost sent his stunner tumbling from his lap to the dirt floor.

"Shouldn't we leave now?" Peter asked cautiously, head turned far enough to the side that he could see the lieutenant's crouched form out of the corner of his eye, back against the slimy wall as though he'd been moulded to the darkness. He heard the slap of Ford's hand on metal as the soldier lifted his own weapon, caught the slight, irritable glare that Ford cast him out of his normal eye. For goodness' sake. Peter craned his head to meet Ford's glower evenly, distantly aware of the unnerving washes of murmurs that swept through his mind. "I would think you've gathered enough of the enzyme for now."

Ford shifted uneasily, eyes skittering over the navy-tinged walls, the drifting fog, and away from Peter. "I was kinda hoping you could see me in action a little more." His gaze jerked back to the suddenly dismayed scientist, looking down at the glow of the cells in Peter's weapon. "That way you can vouch for me. For the enzyme."

"For the enzyme," Peter echoed, his dread growing, a tangible entity that clenched its tight fist around him.

Ford looked at him squarely with an intensity that he had never before shown. Confidence, certainty, jubilation; all these and more sparkled in his mismatched eyes, his lips stretched in an eager grin. "Exactly! Can you imagine what would happen if we gave this stuff out? We could have an army that could defeat the Wraith!" His gaze never left an increasingly troubled Peter, oblivious to everything else around him, to the fact that he was clutching Peter's shoulder tightly with a previously animated hand, that he was leaning in with excitement as he spoke, even that Peter winced at the crushing grasp dragging at his aching back. "I didn't say anything about it before, I didn't want to scare you off, but I figured if you came in with me and saw how well I was doing, how much stronger I am, you'd be able to tell Weir that it works."

Peter sighed and twisted into a crouch to face the lieutenant, his stunner leaning upright on his knee. "Lieutenant –" he began regretfully, fearing the soldier's reaction to what he was about to say, because he knew, he could see, that Ford wasn't okay, that he was sick, drugged, and as good as that felt it was never better –

But he was interrupted by the sudden, piercing flash of a crackling stunner-blast, flaring blue light over the dreary corridor as it streaked past Peter's shoulder, sparking over the thin material of his shirt. The physicist jerked away with a gasped cry, collapsing against the rough wall even as the bolt exploded against the far end of the corridor. The stunner clattered from his momentarily numb hands as Ford cursed, eyes flickering between the ethereal figures in the distance and Peter's pale, sweaty face. "Doc?"

Peter couldn't answer; his breath was ripped away by the burning that swelled over his shoulders, stabbing deeper into his chest like spikes as his limbs spasmed uncontrollably with the needles that prickled over his skin. Ford's eyes widened in revolted disbelief when he saw a wire-thin lattice of black lines begin to spider-web their way up Peter's neck, looking so soft and faint he felt he could almost brush them off as he would any cobweb.

"Alright, Doc," the lieutenant said shakily as Peter caught his ragged breath, taking in uneven gulps of air, his eyes fluttering momentarily closed against renewed throb of his wound and the pound of his head. If he'd had the energy he would've thrown up. "You've convinced me. Let's get outta here."

It had taken only moments, moments in which a dawning realization gripped the trembling physicist, that whatever injury he'd sustained in the desert was much, much worse than he'd thought, in which the Wraith had approached but were not quite past the creeper-like pillars enough to get a clear shot; and Peter forced his weakened body to move, scrambling through the chilly mist in the opposite direction with a wary and readied Ford retreating after him.

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"You okay, Doc?" Ford demanded quickly without looking, hefting the bronze stunner reassuringly and his gaze raking the tree line beyond the draping gown of moss that coated the thick branch he was crouched behind. Jaw clenched tightly against his exhaustion, against his nausea and pain and the image of Ford's shocked expression imprinted in his mind, Peter unwisely shook his head. A moment later he was forced to shut his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath to avoid the whirl of searing dizziness threatening to take him into oblivion. As far as he was concerned, the cradle of spongy bark was comfortable enough to sleep in; but there were other things to consider. Like the fact that the Wraith had set off screeching alarms that had awoken the entire hiveship. And the fact that half of said hiveship were now drifting through the enclosed undergrowth of the muddy fens searching for them. Why the natives had ever decided to live on the Wraiths' back porch was beyond him.

An interesting conundrum to consider. Later.

A bolt of blue lightning whooshed past, making Peter flinch automatically back into the rotting tree and forcing a hiss of pain from his lips when his aching back complained against being pressed into the rough wood. Ford twisted, levelling out the stunner over the curve of the bough at the Wraith distant and ethereal amid the draping foliage, firing off a burst of his own flickering blasts. "C'mon." Ford pushed himself to his feet, the damp bark flaking off and sprinkling to the ground as he turned to flee. Peter levered himself up, stumbling a little over the marshy, uneven ground as he followed. The stumble turned into a stagger when his vision seared white, blinding him and making him reel dizzyingly; but then he felt a firm grip around his arm, felt it lead him strongly, almost callously, in the correct direction.

"The stargate's not too far off," Ford was saying when Peter managed to refocus his attention, but the scientist didn't try to break free of the soldier's grasp. It was practically the only thing holding him up. "I've got an address it should be safe enough to gate to." The lieutenant's grip loosened as his gaze flickered around the oppressive foliage for approaching Wraith, tugging the scientist brusquely through a shallow stream of grungy water. The dull surroundings offered nothing and soon his pace picked up again, but now Peter managed to keep time, leaning on Ford to compensate for his rubbery legs. "When we get there, you dial it up and go through. No waiting. I'll be right behind you."

They ducked beneath the reaching, smooth mottled branch of a creeper-twisted tree, clambering between the pillar-like roots stretching to the mulch-strewn ground. Ford examined the dull, enveloping horizon carefully before signalling for a halt and Peter leaned gratefully against one of columns, revelling in the coolness of the tree's flesh against his fevered, itchy skin. Absently he touched the folded metal wrist-guard and the few thin rods of hard bone-like material that he'd scavenged off a Wraith's armour to use as tools as though reassuring himself they were still tucked carefully away. "D'you remember P3M –" Ford cut off, his lips moving as he mouthed the designation under his breath uncertainly, his mind racing to get it right. "P3M-736?"

The name made Peter's tired eyes raise, sparking a memory from a time just before his 'death'.

Peter watched the shining glyphs as they scrolled down the thin, shimmering laptop screen, flashing past quickly beside a right-hand box that contained minute text describing each planet that the addresses denoted. Movement made his head lift in time to see Rodney bound up the curving, crimson-stepped stairway leading down a level, curling in a line of thin posts beside the silver wall housing the jumper bay. "What've we got?" the chief scientist demanded, seeing Peter's attention flicker from the monitor and coming to his side, hands resting easily on his hips.

Peter traced the line of gate addresses, his own gaze shifting back to his task. "These are all the newest addresses we managed to sift from the database," he explained.

"Hmn." Rodney leaned over Peter's blue-clad shoulder, one hand resting on the back of the Englishman's metal chair and the other taking his weight on the incised maroon metal of the console, fingers tapping impatiently on the dull surface. "Anything interesting?"

"I'm afraid not," Peter answered with a tiny smile crinkling his lips. He knew that when Rodney said 'interesting' he meant 'strange power sources'. "But some of the planets do have subjects worthy of notice." A single tap of the keyboard maximised a specific address, a 3D blueprint of an unexplored planet rotating on the left-hand side of the screen as the text accompanying it scrolled down beside it, framed by the customary shimmering border. "This one, for instance. The UV radiation is unusually high; too high for any wildlife to survive for very long, but the flora has thrived in spite of it."

"Wait a minute," Rodney interrupted, straightening so his hands could gesture in a punctuation of his words. "What do you mean by 'unusually high'?" Peter raised his eyebrows in slight incredulity, his dark, amused eyes turning upward to regard his superior. Rodney caught his look and his hands slapped down to his grey slacks, his expression turning defensive. "What? I didn't come all the way out here to die a slow, painful death from cancer."

Peter chuckled silently. "You'd be fine there for a day or so, more than long enough to take some samples," he reassured the Canadian, leaning on his elbows on the inset space below the humming crystals of the console, his fingers curled in the air over the smooth keyboard.

"McKay!" A familiar holler echoed from across the other side of the gateroom and Rodney looked up with a vaguely surprised expression, having forgotten about the briefing he was already late for, his lopsided mouth already parted to answer Peter's comment.

"Fine," he cut off whatever he'd been planning to say with a slight jerk of his head, his shoulders relaxing. He started to move across red-lined floor, Peter bracing one arm against the panel-lit back of the console to follow him, before he turned on his heel to finish his order, hands stabbing once again at the air. "Just – make sure we're not the ones who go there, okay? The last thing we need to worry about is me getting cancer or something."

Peter nodded once, over his shoulder, and Rodney mouthed a 'yeah' almost to himself, as if confirming that he'd just said everything he wanted to say, twisting mid-stride towards the glass-flanked bay leading across to the conference room. It was only then that Peter allowed the mirthful smile to cross his features, shaking his head a little as he turned back to the monitor to file the address away for an upcoming mission. Sergeant Bates' team could handle a little radiation…

Peter blinked and nodded shortly, swallowing through the unexpected lump in his throat. That had been just about the last time he'd had a meaningless banter with Rodney before they'd discovered the Wraith were coming… unless you wanted to count their conversations aboard the satellite. "I know the address."

The last word was almost lost in the high, familiar keen of two Wraith darts that shrieked overhead, dappled streaks of contoured blue-and-grey bone above the thickly patched canopy. "You're gonna need it," Ford replied, craning his head to follow the vessels' path, the stunner cocked automatically to aim at them. "Let's go."

It was funny what impending doom could do to you. Grimly Peter pushed off from the arcing root-pillar, shoving aside the dizziness lurking around the corners of his vision that had faded from its original intensity, and followed the lieutenant's head-jerk towards the sweeping forms of the tree line.

They fled, pressured by the screaming vessels overhead and the unearthly figures stalking inexorably closer, the shifting pall of Wraith-created 'shadows' wisping about them tauntingly. It was an almost desperate, last-ditch sprint towards the stargate, crackling nets of energy lashing around them, dissipating with arcs of blue light into the deep curves and dips of the creeper-like trees, shredding leaves and moss as they passed. The undulating white light of the darts' culling beams swept over foliage and marsh, spreading in flashing, wandering patterns, not seeming to train upon the two with any accuracy.

The stargate's misty lake swelled ahead of them, a swirl of drifting fog enshrining the square flagstone dais that rose in the centre. The elegantly rounded DHD was nestled comfortably at the base of the water-licked steps, seeming to wait in anticipation as ripples lapped its curved metal side.

A culling beam raked the edge of the mud-slick bank, over the tarn, making the water churn and thin vines whirl in spirals of whipping tendrils. Peter struggled to halt before he could run into the luminescent shaft of light, his heart pounding in his ribs, his muscles shrieking in complaint. His scuffed shoes slipped in the slimy mire, furrowing long trenches down the slope as he slithered wildly towards the surface of the lake. The beam winked out of existence as he hit the water, engulfed in a spray of droplets before he found his feet on the silted lagoon floor. Above him Ford stood upon the ridge, aiming the long stunner carefully at a streamlined dart wheeling piercingly through the overcast sky.

Dial, and go straight through. Peter kept Ford's order in mind, trusting that the lieutenant would hold off the Wraith so that Peter could do so, that he would be right behind him. The murky water dragged at him, waist-high and cold, swirled with thin mist that faded his light-coloured shirt into the background but did nothing to hide the rippling trail he made as he coursed towards the DHD.

Distantly he registered the chilly touch of the fog, the scream of the darts and electric smack of stunner blasts, focussed on keeping his feet. Then, "Doc!"

The shout came from behind him at the same time as a distorted, high-pitched whine and Peter instinctively twisted around, unaware of the whisper-thin lines moulded to his skin that moved easily with the shift of his muscles as though they belonged there. The transparent swell of a culling beam swept towards him, flowing over the shifting surface of the water.

Without thinking Peter threw himself backwards, swallowed in a lash of spray as the shaft flicked past and vanished, chased by the flashing shadow of a dart. A second later he resurfaced, spluttering, his clothes clinging to him wetly and dark hair dripping. It was a moment before his scrabbling shoes found purchase on the slippery bottom, hands slapping at the water's surface, and a second later he'd reached the round, sloping bulb of the DHD.

With little effort the familiar images of the planet's address came to mind as he reached for the rising levels of the address crystals. The smooth transparent panels depressed with familiar clunks, the lined symbols lighting up blue behind them, before his fingers straddled the unlit dome rising from the centre and pressed it to complete the sequence. The triangular chevrons of the looming gate illuminated, the wormhole activating in a whoosh of explosive light, blooming outward before withdrawing into a rippling circle of the bright event horizon.

"Go, Doc!" He heard before he could turn around, fully prepared to wait for Ford to cross the turbulent channel before vanishing through the gate, and the desperate authority in the lieutenant's voice was unmistakable.

Reluctantly he obeyed, his hand traced fleetingly over the rounded border of the DHD as he passed, the aesthetic ridges rough beneath his touch before he escaped the rancid grasp of the lake. He left wet footsteps on the damp, moss-swathed stone as he hurtled up the steps, shoulders prickling with tense anticipation and lungs complaining.

Just as he crossed the threshold he turned, catching a glimpse of the scene across the water: Ford, dark head half turned towards him, checking his progress, the bronze stunner still levelled at his shoulder; a jagged dart swooping low over the rustling trees, the culling beam flashing into a translucent tidal wave of light that cut towards him. And for just a moment, he thought Ford looked at it, saw it, and waited calmly for it to claim him before the wormhole swept the scientist away.

A second later Peter re-emerged, stumbling back to put some distance between himself and the gate across a scrubby, grass-tousled clearing. Instantly he was struck by the bright sunlight, warm though not stiflingly so like the desert; but his uncertain gaze was on the shimmering stargate, casting dappled blue light over the dry meadow. It disengaged with another whoosh, blue flames that wisped into nothingness around the edge of the device, and then it was silent.

Peter watched it disbelievingly, eyes wide, breathing heavy with fatigue, his back aching and stomach clenching with tense misery, his pounding head leaving him feeling faint. He was alone.

Again.