A/N: The muses are doing the happy dance and tossing confetti over the reviews. Keep this up and there'll be delicious virtual treats in the near future. Warning! Female OC ahead. But she is not, under any circumstances, a Mary Sue. Trust me on that. Just wanted to clear that up so no one jumped to any conclusions. I like this OC, so be nice.

Ch. 6

Maj

John stood hidden in the shadow of a wall in an alley trying to sum up the spine to go up to one ragged, drunk, unsteady old man and ask him directions to the stargate. A freakin' old man who wouldn't have the needed coordination to deck John and add another bruise to the collection. And yet John couldn't move, and kept trying to convince himself that it was because he was freezing his butt off and every muscle throbbed with every movement.

Two and a half days, that's how long he'd been wandering around, asking directions and getting his ass kicked for it. The first guy he asked had spit on him and smashed his fist into the side of John's head. The second guy skipped the spitting and got John in the jaw, though John got a good retaliation kick right in the guy's groin. The third guy he asked hadn't done anything. Actually, he had run after John got a blow to the center of his back that had knocked him flat on his chest. He never saw his attacker's face, even when the guy or whoever had given him a vicious kick to the ribs.

So John had every reason to be wary. Except it said something when his wariness had him hesitant about confronting a drunk old man. It said he'd overstayed his welcome on this crap heap of a planet.

Yet the bruises (and possibly cracked bones) would be worth it if he could finally dredge some directions out of someone. That was his motivation. And now that his clothes were dirty and ragged enough to conceal the fact that he was an off-worlder, this next attempt would probably – hopefully – go off less violently.

John still didn't move. He watched the drunk stumble without going anywhere, interchanging mutterings with what had to be Iothian curses. If John was wrong in his thinking, and the skinny old man decided to get violent, that skinny old man could very well beat John down. John's second beating had been the product of someone thinking him a drunk thanks to his legs not keeping to a straight line. It was also the second reason he didn't want to move. It had taken him twenty minutes just to get back to his feet this morning. There were plenty of places that offered shelter – abandoned buildings, open crawl spaces beneath buildings – but if there was a difference in temperature between being outside on the muddy streets and being inside a dilapidated heap, he couldn't tell.

John was sick of this crap. Motivation number two, or more motivation number one really. With a sigh and grudging acquiesce, he pushed away from his shaded concealment to drag his sorry carcass across the street toward the old man. John shoved his hands into the pockets of his BDUs, going for a casual, as well as somewhat timid appearance, to basically come off as being non-threatening as possible.

" Hey there," John called out, his voice hoarse and cracked as though he'd been screaming for hours. Which he hadn't. Even when he was still loopy from the drug, he recalled enough to know he hadn't been screaming.

The drunk man stopped his direction-less ambling and turned his blood-shot eyes on John. The old man's squint-eyed suspicion was almost laughable. John kept his jaw clamped shut but ended up snorting. Fighting the laughter was proving a lot harder than it should have been. John wasn't surprised. He knew he was delirious.

The old man gestured with a gloved hand holding the clay bottle that sloshed. " Wha' you want, boy? I got nothin'."

John shrugged. " I don't want anything. Except to know how to get to the 'gate... I mean Great Ring from here. I... uh... need to make a little trip but kind of got turned around."

The old man slouched and huffed out a breath. " How should I know? Never used the cursed thing. Never needed to. I'm not an idiot. It brings the bad, that thing." The man's body lurched in a belch. " Brings the monsters. Everyone knows that. But do they listen? No! They just keep usin' and usin' and usin' it. It'll bring the monsters back!"

" Somehow I doubt that."

John's words seemed to snap the old man back to realizing that there was another person present. He eyed John over critically. " What do you know? You even from around here? You dress strange. Go, get lost you skinny brat! I don't know where the ring is and I wouldn't tell you even if I did. So go away! Go, now! Get!"

John removed his hands from his pockets to hold them up in placation as he backed away. The old man continued to shriek at John, even when he turned to go. John hadn't gotten that far when something hard struck his shouldered and the sound of shattering echoed sharp. John's hand shot to his shoulder, and he glanced over it to see the remains of the clay bottle on the ground. When he pulled his hand away too look at it, his fingers were smeared with blood.

" Great," he muttered. The old man kept shrieking. John turned, raised his hand, and gave the old man the one fingered salute. " Thanks for nothing you senile son of a bitch!"

The old man just shrieked louder while flailing his arms like someone trying to chase off a flock of annoying pigeons. John shook his head, turned, and left the old man to his drunken insanity.

John wandered the rest of the day and made it a point to avoid people on the streets. He decided to risk testing a theory, and entered the first building that had the appearance of a shop, with a display window full of what to appeared to be electric-powered devices, such as lamps, and another one of those old-fashioned type writers. John stepped into the plain looking store with the sales counter on the left and shelves of more devices on the right. The store-keep was a somewhat plump, blading man that gave John a brief, indifferent glance. The lack of immediate hostility bolstered John enough ask his question.

Still no violence, and still no luck. The man was making it a point to ignore John. Rising frustration made John want to pull out his 9-mil, or to a lesser extent start cussing, ranting, and making threats until the man talked. Instead, John did one better – he went for being annoyingly persistent, which normally worked on McKay.

" Come on, pal. I can pretty much stay here all day, stinking up the place and scaring away your customers. All you have to do is just tell me how to get to the damn ring. Seriously, why the hell is that so freakin' hard?"

The man's response was to crouch behind the counter to reemerge laying a rifle on the counter-top. John took an immediate step back.

" You showing me an item or trying to tell me something?"

The man's eyes flicked to John, then back to the counter he was wiping down.

John set his mouth in a straight line and nodded. " Right, hint taken, I'm gone." He backed out of the shop rather than risk the chance of getting a bullet to the shoulder instead of another bottle. He tried two more shabby little shops after that, one for clothing and another for what passed as food, and pretty much got the same response. He could positively say he was getting no where fast, and feeling increasingly like hell while doing it. High tolerance for pain and otherwise crappy conditions could only take a man so far, and the drug – though out of his system – had sped up his body's loss of steam. His head throbbed as though his skull were trying to crack open, and his stomach felt more like a gaping bottomless pit. Then there was the lead-weight feeling in his limbs making his walking progress slow and uncoordinated. Water from public drinking fountains that were more like spigots for hoses, located right next to the doors leading into gas-station style public restrooms, satisfied his thirst. But he needed food, warmth, a freakin' doctor, and for the locals to stop adding to his need for medical attention.

The day went fast, and the sky deepened into darker grays until it reached pitch black. Electric lamps buzzed and flickered on but were muted by the growing mist veiling the streets. John kept wandering until he came upon a hole in a wall leading into a small storage room, and crawled inside. He hunkered down between some crates, and pulled a tangled, stinking heap of a fishnet over his back to at least create the illusion that he was warm. Sort of like positive thinking – or absolute delusion – in that if he thought about it long enough, he might actually believe it. And he needed to trick himself if he was going to get any sleep.

John set his head against a crate, and gave his mind free rein to wandered. And it wandered to Atlantis, what was going on there, what might be going on, then how the hell he ended up in this mess in the first place. This world seemed quite set on keeping him around, just so it could kill him off. It wouldn't if he could help it, and he was going to help it even if he had to stick a gun to someone's head and demand they escort him to the 'gate, which would probably end in him being the one to get shot by the enforcers.

John attempted to focus on some sort of game plan tomorrow. Instead, his mind went straight to thoughts of his mother. He had hoped the situation to never reach the point of having it reduce him to a frighten little child longing for mommy. Making it even more pathetic was the fact that she was dead, so even if some fairy-godmother or genie popped in to grant John this childish need, it still wouldn't happen. She had died when John was thirteen – unlucky age indeed. Thinking back on it, John never recalled crying over the loss. It had been as though he'd been unable to; too numb, too hollow, too confused and empty to even think straight, actually. Even when the lack of tears drove a spike of guilt into his gut, he still hadn't cried. Shed a tear, maybe that much, but no all out, pain filled, wracking sobs.

John realized in mild, weary surprise that he wasn't longing for mom, he was simply reminiscing. He always had a feeling that his father had had something to do with John taking his mom's death 'like a man'. Those exact words had never once spilled from his father's mouth, but they'd registered just fine in the old man's attitude. John's father hadn't been a cruel man, just... cold, intimidating. Not so much before mom's death – he'd been more a regular dad then, if a little rough during playtime – but afterward, John had become nervous around him, hardly talked to him. The man supported John, fed him and clothed him, but was more of a silent entity hovering around home, speaking only when John asked a question, which was usually a request to go somewhere or to do something. John had his friends to talk to, an aunt and an uncle he liked to visit who gave John weeks and even months of illusionary bliss that he was a part of one big happy family. Then dad would come home from overseas or where ever, and the illusion would shatter like glass. It had hurt, physically hurt, when that happened.

John didn't hate his dad, or blame him. What the senior Sheppard had done – exist but never really live – that had hurt John. Thinking back on it, John still felt the pang of it. John had needed a mother, his father had needed his wife, and though John had wanted to blame his mom for what life had become after her death, he couldn't. She hadn't chosen to die. Some drunk in a pick-up had made that choice for her.

The harsh truth was that it had been his father's fault for choosing to shut down. John still didn't hate him. If anything, he felt sorry for him.

John couldn't afford to feel sorry for himself.

John shivered beneath the mound of netting that wasn't doing squat to stop the cold. He peeled his sticky eyelids from his sore, dry eyes and saw light filtering gray through the chinks between the wall paneling. Time moved fast when one wasn't paying attention to it.

John moved his stiff, hurting body little by little, reaching out to the top-most crate for support as he hauled himself to his feet. He dragged himself to the hole, and went to his chest to slip his slender body through. Outside, the air was crisp and dry, making it painful to breathe. Hauling himself back to his feet, John wrapped his arms around himself and made a mental note to find some kind of large cloth or rag to use as covering before he finally froze to death. The fact that he hadn't was a miracle he was extremely grateful for.

The dry, frigid air seemed to rub his lungs raw as he wandered, and his body convulsed in coughs that nearly brought him to his knees. He staggered through the streets, and flat out avoided everyone - street wanderers and store owners alike.

Until a body darted from out of an alley, veering in a sharp, scrambling turn to bolt in Sheppard's direction. The figure was short, and the face looked young – a kid, probably in his mid-teens, with greasy, stringy brown hair and a cut on his face oozing blood, his stick-thin arms clutching a brown-wrapped package to his chest. The boy's ragged coat and shirt fluttered out behind him as he tore over the cobblestones. He did not slow when he passed Sheppard, and John soon saw why. A group of older boys, twenty and up, four in all, came bursting from the alley, shouting profanities and promises involving a lot of pain. They also rushed passed John without a glance. John turned to watch in dazed curiosity as the boy skidded to a stop at a dead end – namely a tall fence between two buildings. The boy leaped with the intent to climb, only to have his pursuers catch up and pull him down, then shove him to the ground.

" Give us the meat you little brat!" Said the tall, round faced young man with the close-cropped blond hair.

" No!" the kid spat, defiant but trembling as he slowly backed away, still on the ground. " I-I bought it. You hear me! I bought it fair and square so it's mine!" The kid hugged the package to him tighter. The blond reached down to take it, and the kid bit him.

The blond boy howled, snatching his hand back, then kicked the kid hard in the hip. The kid seemed not to notice and rolled himself into a tight ball to protect his prize. So the boys began kicking, punching, and attempting to pull the boy apart.

The shock of the violence sparked in John reaction without thought. He ignored his aches and pains to go striding over to the dirty thugs, focusing on the blond instigator. He grabbed the punks arm and in a single fluid motion twisted it behind the guy's back while gripping his collar. He swung the young punk around, bringing the kid's arm up further until he yelped out a cry of pain.

" I think the kid said that was his," John growled, pulling the arm further. " So why don't you respect that and move on, pal." He chanced a glance over his shoulder at the boy slowly uncurling himself then rising cautiously to his feet. " You okay kid?"

The kid was clutching his side, but nodded all the same.

" Good, then you'd better get out of here."

The kid nodded again, turned, and leaped up to snag the top of the fence and climb over.

" Hey!" The blond barked. John lifted his arm further up.

" Did I say you could talk? Now get out of here before I..."

John was interrupted by a blow to his head that sent him lurching sideways, clutching the back of his skull.

" Thanks Myls," he heard the blond say through the ringing in his ears. John saw the punk out of the corner of his eye moving toward him and readying his fist. John caught the fist as it flew, holding it back as he struck out himself, landing a cracking blow to the kid's jaw. An arm snaked around his throat and tightened trying to pull John back. John tangled his feet with that of his attacker so that they both went down with John on top. At the same time he kicked out at a third man rushing toward him, sending the man staggering back. John elbowed the guy beneath him, pulled the arm away, and scrabbled to his feet. The fourth guy immediately plowed into him to smash him against the wooden fence. The collision shoved the breath from John's lungs. Dazed, dizzy, he slid to the ground and crumpled where kicks and blows rained down on him over and over...

Something told him he was going to be with his mom very soon.

SGA

Maj unconsciously picked at the brush end of her waist-length braid of winter-gray hair as she stared through the display window at the little contingent of heavy bodied young men in thick coats get their rear-ends handed to them by a scrawny, ragged, dirty, dark haired man who was proving the more adept fighter. Where as the boys lunged without thought, the man reacted as though with thought. He had technique, like someone trained to fight, and that made the old woman arch an eyebrow curiously.

" They'd best not draw any weapons," said the twiggy store-keep as he loaded the packaged food items into Maj's basket. " Had one just last week that kept people away for three days."

Maj wasn't really listening. She was engrossed in the fight, and an internal debate as to whether or not she should interfere. So far, the skinny man was acting very capable of handling himself. Then he was slammed into the fence by one of the charging brats. The man crumpled, and the over-sized brats began pummeling him with fists and feet.

Now that she would not allow. Most folk of the city were blinded enough by indifference to turn a blind eye and a cold shoulder, but that scrappy young man was getting pounded in consequence of his kindness. Maj had seem him come to the boy's aid, and hold the older boys off to let the younger boy flee. A selfless act of such nature required a reward, and Maj was just the woman to give it.

She stomped to the door while whipping her rifle from off her shoulder. Once outside, she aimed it at an angle toward the ground and fired. The crack of gunfire pulsated sharply all around, with the bullet pinging off the stone streets to embed harmlessly into the wall of the building across the way. The four men halted their attack and whirled around to face Maj. Maj lifted her rifle to rest it against her shoulder.

" Wisdom would dictate that you clear off," she said, loud and calm as a summer breeze, " before my aim finds a mark involving less wood and more flesh."

The blond brat spat on the ground. " Why don't you clear off, you crone!"

Maj lifted her brow. " Crone!" She might have been mid-sixty, but folks were always complimenting that she didn't look a day over forty. Most of her wrinkles were situated at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Truthfully, she didn't feel a day beyond thirty. " Oh, I won't be having that kind of disrespect. Gidel!"

Gidel stepped out of the tack and supply shop next to the food shop with his own rifle in hand. He was a man of medium height, with light brown hair cut so close to his scalp it made his head look like a prickly ball, and he was far more heavily built than the four unarmed and suddenly nervous boys before Maj. Gidel jerked his shoulders to adjust his fur-lined beige coat, and sniffed.

" Situation, aunt Maj?" Gidel's voice was deep, appropriate for his size and baring.

" Stupidity of youth. Seems these young sirs are incapable of listening to their elders. I told them to clear off," she grinned coldly, " and yet here they stand."

Gidel sniffed again. " You don't say." He swung his rifle around to point at the boys. " We can do this quick or hard. And by quick I mean I can end your life with a shot, or savor the moment by breaking your necks one at a time."

Gidel wasn't a violent man, but like these boys knew that, and they never would with Gidel's ability to keep such a straight face no matter the stories he weaved. The boys took the hint, and in so doing took off running back up the street. Maj quickly slung her rifle back onto her shoulder and took wide strides to the unmoving form on the ground.

" The wagon, Gidel. Bring it around. And grab the food basket along the way. I left it in the shop," she said. She heard a grunt of a reply, then Gidel's thumping footsteps as he took off to do his aunt's bidding.

Maj adjusted her maroon skirt in order to kneel beside the man. Her old knees were spared the cold of the stone ground thanks to her brown breeches beneath. Always wise to dress in layers this time of year. She placed her hand on the young, dark-haired man's sharp shoulder, but got no reaction. She yanked her leather gloves from her hand then pressed two fingers to the pulse-point on the man's neck.

The life beat thrummed rapid and fluttery against her fingertips. He was alive, but not in a good way. She stared at his pale, dirty, bruised and blood-smeared face half covered by the thickening black prickle of a beard. It was a gaunt face, with sunken eyes surrounded by shadow, and the skin under her fingers was clammy with sweat and hot with fever. Her eyes passed over his body, along with her hand. taking him and his current condition in. The long-sleeved black shirt was smeared in dirt, and something darker that she was certain was blood. She saw through the small tears and holes of the shirt, and felt beneath her hand, the curved bars of the man's ribcage. Yet he was in no wise a wasted, emaciated fellow. Muscle remained, which she could also feel in the man's flank and along his arm, pulled taunt with tension to be solid as a rock, twitching and shuddering. Skin, bone, and muscle - that's what he was.

Which meant that he was no vagabond, wandering the streets without a home. This young man had been healthy, perhaps not that long ago. And he was an off-worlder by his strange clothes – maybe an enforcer in his world, or some sort of soldier. Maj held no prejudices against off-worlders since she might as well be one herself with the way she traveled. She'd come across plenty of societies to know that it was usually the warriors – soldiers, keepers of the law – trained to fight using brains rather than only brawn.

Her assumptions were proving themselves to be accurate. While feeling out broken bones (ribs, for the most part) her hand collided with something hard beneath the man's shirt at his waistband. She pulled the shirt up to find a rather fancy looking projectile weapon tucked into his pants. Pulling it out, it felt light and easy to handle in her hands. She tucked it away into the pocket of her coat, just to play it safe, then continued her search for broken bones all the way down the man's long legs.

So far, mostly the ribs seemed to be affected, but the man's clothes could be hiding more injuries. She returned her sights back to his face. She was good when it came to guessing ages, and her guess for this man was somewhere in his late thirties, maybe early forties. But in her advanced years, no matter how deep the man was into adulthood, he was still just a kid in her old eyes. A kid in a lot of pain made evident in the tight lines of his face. And with the pain was a nasty bout of illness making his breath shallow, rapid and raspy.

It pricked her heart to see it. Maj was a good enough judge of people to yet be proved wrong in her assessments. She didn't even need to talk to the man. The fact that this off-worlder had risked his life to save a young boy said plenty for there not to be words. She reached out and brushed the mussed, black, spiked hair away from the pale, burning forehead. It was an action that had worked well on her own son, Fiel, when he was little, so used it with the same intent on this man.

The clatter of clawed feet and wheels on the bumpy streets pulled her attention around to her wagon trundling toward her. The black, six-legged Lyret snorted out a puff of cloudy breath that obscured its reptilian face. When the wagon was close enough, Gidel pulled back on the reins with a loud 'whoa' until the Lyret stopped with a snort and a shake of its head that jangled the reins. Gidel set the leads aside and hopped from the wagon to stride casually over to his aunt.

" We're taking him with us then?" he said.

Maj pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her hands then tugging on her gloves. " Yes," she said in the tone that usually brokered no more questions.

But Gidel never had been a good listener. " You sure?"

" Quite. Now be gentle when gathering him up. He's injured and ill."

Gidel nodded and crouched beside the still figure. He gathered the slender, dark haired man into his arms like he was a child, and carried him to the wagon. The Lyret snaked its head around in order to get a sniff, only to snap back when Maj swatted the curious beast on the nose. Gidel set the unconscious man in the wagon bed, and Maj climbed in after. She dragged the basket of blankets to her, and pulled out the colorfully woven cloths to drape over the man. The man, less curled, was quite tall, as though someone had taken him by the ears and stretched him out. She tucked the blankets around him until he was cocooned, except for the feet so she could remove his boots.

Gidel climbed back into the wagon at the front and took up the reins. With a snap, he got the Lyret moving, steering it in a U-turn to head back up the street. The wagon rocked and trundled noisily until it came to the branch in the road. Gidel steered the beast right. Maj untied the laces of the man's boots and methodically tugged them off, then his socks. Just as she had suspected, his clothes were hiding injuries. His left ankle was swollen and splotchy with purple bruises. Nothing to do for it now, so she tucked the blankets around the man's feet. Next, she grabbed the first-aid sack and pulled out a white, clean cloth. Taking the canteen next, she soaked the rag in water and proceeded to clean the cuts on the man's face while simultaneously cool his forehead. Although in this weather, he probably wouldn't need much cooling off.

" It's a two day journey home," Gidel said. " Think he'll make it?"

Maj moistened the cloth some more. " We've got the herbs for reducing fever. I'll make a tea next time we stop." She paused in her administrations to brush another strand of hair away, and a small smile played at her lips. " And something tells me he'll fight through. Just don't ask me what that something is yet."

Gidel chuckled. " If you say so, I don't need to know that something."

SGA

A/N: Now we are really getting into things. And not that anyone cares, but Maj's name is also my initials. I was having a hard time coming up with a name.