A/N: Look at the muses and bunnies clap. Hear their happy giggles. The feed-back has pleased them.

Warning: Graphic violence.

Ch. 3

I'm Sorry but Haven't we Met Before?

The post mission check was a little disconcerting. John felt phantom pains but his bones showed up on the scanner white and whole. There was a mark on his hip, small and innocuous, as though he had run into a table rather than a bumper.

"Simply your body's reaction to what your mind went through," Carson explained. "It's not uncommon for symptoms to manifest if the mind believes the body has been injured."

Sometimes John couldn't help agreeing with Rodney's assessment of anything medical being voodoo. He suffered through another spearing by a penlight, the cold metal of a stethoscope, and blood being siphoned from his arm. The prognosis was that Sheppard's heart-rate and blood-pressure were still high, but nothing a little downtime and some food couldn't fix. Although the downtime was going to have to wait.

Beckett shooed the team off with instructions to eat, drink, but not make too much merry since they had another mission ahead. They didn't even divest of their gear when they dropped themselves into the first available seat with trays in hand, digging in without much consideration for matters. Sheppard tossed Lorne a bone in the form of further details of their little VR adventure in exchange for tid-bits on Lorne's adventure.

Bay Watch

and Silk Stockings. What the freaking hell! Either the major had a closet dirty mind or Sheppard and McKay really had no imagination what so ever. But then John had always enjoyed the classics over the less-than-classics. Plus Magnum and Crockett would always remain pretty damn cool in his book. Mr. T too.

Two hot dogs, coleslaw, and potato salad later and Sheppard was still feeling a might peckish. Getting hit by a car and nuked could do that to a guy, or so John assumed. Grabbing their weapons from the armory since the chefs frowned on dirty tools of destruction in their clean mess, he and his team headed through the gate on another whirlwind adventure Sheppard wasn't looking forward to. The game had left him shaken and wired on too much adrenaline that had yet to burn out of his body. The moment his feet crunched the grass on the other side of the gate, he flinched, thinking the sound unnaturally loud.

They trudged through a wide-open field in a lush green valley surrounded by snow-capped mountains. Dragonflies with multi-colored wings flitted around wildflowers that perfumed the crisp, sweet tasting air. Combine that with the warm weather and, despite the initial adrenaline, Sheppard started feeling a little drowsy.

Damn poppies.

If nuns and little Swedish girls came spinning and singing from over the rise, John was out of here.

"So what was Major Winchester's mission again?" He totally forgot to ask before leaving. Or did he? Sheppard was feeling strangely detached, but not because he was drowsy. This was different. The name Winchester was obnoxiously familiar yet he couldn't get an image of the guy's face to form in his head. It also wasn't like him to not get the details of missions that had gone sour. John really should have consumed more hotdogs and coleslaw. Rodney and Carson were right, he didn't take his appetite seriously enough.

"I do not know," Teyla said, sounding perplexed.

"Probably just another meet and greet," said Rodney, "followed by the usual accidental pissing off of the natives leading to imprisonment and possible sacrificing to some fire god... or tree god. Maybe flower god..."

John whipped out his aviator sun glasses and slipped them onto his face. "Goody."

The field inclined gently, then less gently dropping into a large gully just outside a wall of red-wood type trees of literal red wood where the village sat clustered. John squinted at it. Grass huts with thatch roofing and the people half-naked with their private parts barely concealed under ragged cloth or grass skirts. Their bodies were painted, their armor wooden, their weapons spears, and yet somehow these people had over-powered Major Winchester's team. Sheppard was pretty sure he saw a movie like this, once. It had been pretty far-fetched how the dinky bows and arrows crushed so easily the might that was automatic weaponry. Life was supposed to be stranger than fiction, not a cliché of it.

"Teyla," John said. "Have you ever seen these people before?"

Teyla shook her head. "No, Colonel. I have come across primitive cultures, but not as primitive as this."

John glanced around hoping to spot what passed as the prison hut, but all the huts looked pretty-much the same.

"Well," John said. "Let's see if we can't find our missing people. We'll come in from behind, try to go in unnoticed. If all else fails, we'll use Teyla's laser to start a tiny fire and scare the hell out of them with our magic."

"Why do I get the feeling that won't work," Rodney said as they started moving.

"Because if the world – any world – didn't suck, we'd all fall off."

John and team gave the village wide berth on heading to the trees where they crouched and darted from trunk to bush to trunk. They kept their tread light to stifle as much needle and leaf crunching as possible. Rodney cringed from a vine sporting three-pronged leaves fluttering menacingly at him. A hut with a guard or two was their goal, and Sheppard found it on the other side of the village a few huts in: one large hut with two natives in grass skirts guarding the entrance.

The set-up couldn't have worked better. It was an area with very little traffic. The back of the hut could be easily reached by keeping low and darting like rabbits from hut to hut. John motioned his hand in the appropriate signals to convey that very plan to his team. He went first, followed by Ronon, Rodney, then Teyla on their six. Hut to hut to hut they scurried, freezing whenever a native passed by, then snapping into motion.

When Sheppard finally reached the intended hut, he peered through the gaps into shadowy gloom. His eyes adjusted enough for him to discern the lumpiness of tac-vests and standard issue boots.

Sheppard hissed. "Winchester?"

There was shuffling and John's view was eclipsed by a marine's bulky form.

"Here, sir." The voice sounded painfully familiar. John's mind flashed to hot deserts and chopper-blades pattering the air like a rapid heart beat. Screaming, shouting. John twitched his head to clear it.

"Glad to hear your voice, sir," Winchester said. "Although, we'll be a lot happier once we're out of here."

"Understood, Major. Just give us a sec." Sheppard nodded to Ronon. Dex whipped a handy blade that would have made Rambo stomp his foot in girlish jealousy, and handed it over handle out. John took the knife to begin sawing through the flimsy walling. "Why didn't you just kick your way out?"

"Tried, sir," Winchester said. "Got kind of noisy. They were on us before I could get my foot through and they stuck us in another hut."

The knife was serrated, sharp, so only minutely loud. It sliced through what looked remarkably like bamboo as though it were spaghetti until a good-sized hole was formed for Winchester and his men to crawl through. Winchester first, his broad build and sandy hair setting off spasming flashes of images in John's brain. Deserts, choppers, yelling, going down, crashing, insurgents, running, man wounded, have to save him.

Holland, this guy looked a hell of a lot like Holland. Maybe not as tall, but John could have been wrong. The similarity and images sent a sliver of sharp pain through John's skull, but he shook it off. Now wasn't the time to cave to a little late post traumatic stress. He had to wonder if that stupid VR had fried his brain in some subtle fashion after all, because he couldn't shove the memories from his mind.

"Sheppard?" Ronon said. He, Teyla, and Rodney were looking at him funny.

"I'm fine," John said. "Probably side-affects from that game. Let's blow this joint," he held up a finger when Ronon perked. "Not literally."

They did their hut-hopping again, straight back to the woods for more creeping around, putting as much space between them and the village as possible. When space was achieved, they made a mad dash for the hill, clamoring up.

John snapped his head around when he thought he heard the rapid-heart patter of chopper blades. Instead, what he saw was an entire battalion dressed in gray and armed with rifles pouring out of the woods. More gray bodies spilled from the huts like clowns from a Volkswagen, and wasn't that a creepy analogy that was freaking John out of his logical mind. Sheppard's heart tried to crawl to safety into his throat. "Who the hell are they?!"

"The real bad guys, sir," Winchester said, apologetic. "The village is just a front to underestimate them."

"That would have been nice to know ten minutes ago!" John barked, shoving Winchester ahead into a run. Their leisurely dash turned frantic as they charged back to the gate. There was moment enough for Sheppard to realize the unnatural fallacy of Winchester's slip up that would be earning the man a serious chewing out. The oddity of it was that John had yet to encounter a marine who didn't give the details of a situation right down to what the bogies were having for breakfast. Winchester's not enlightening John to the situation was just such a screw-up thing to do that it was practically unheard of.

Then came the distraction of bullets thudding into the ground, kicking up grass and dirt clumps like shrapnel. John ducked just as another bullet buzzed past his ear. "Keep going! Don't stop!"

One of Winchester's men was the first to reach the DHD to start dialing. The gate surged to life and John's heart surged with it. He skidded to a stop by the ring and waved everyone through, counting heads.

Rodney stumbled to a gasping halt next to John. "Is it just me or is this a seriously screwed up day!"

"Just proves my point about the world sucking, McKay," John said. "Now get your ass through the gate!"

Rodney was usually a good little scientist about obeying orders, but that was only when he felt like being a good little scientist. Today was not one of those days when he turned his head to peer over his shoulder at the advancing horde.

"You know, it may be just me but something about all this feels incredibly messed up... more so than usual I me -" his intended yammering was cut short when the back of his head exploded, spraying John in the face and chest with an unhealthy mix of blood, bone, and brain matter. Rodney stiffened, pitched backwards, and would have hit the ground if John's shocked brain hadn't reverted to back-up systems. He caught Rodney and dragged him backwards through the safety of the gate.

Once on the other side he shouted for the shield to be raised and for a med team to get their asses in here. He lowered Rodney to the ground, kneeling at his head, staring into wide-open and unseeing eyes. Blood pooled in a perfect crimson puddle that soaked into John's knee.

Fight, flight, and adrenaline ceased to exist. John just stared. His brain screamed at him to start shouting, crying, yelling at Rodney to get up because the man wasn't really dead. Couldn't be dead. Wasn't possible. Too many close calls for it to be possible. John felt the muscles of his throat contract but nothing came out. He was shoved aside then pulled away, dragged across the floor by Ronon as Carson and his team surrounded the cooling body.

"Sheppard!" Ronon's voice resonated so deep it was a wonder Sheppard's ear drums didn't pop.

"Rodney." John's voice was no more than a tiny croak.

He was aware of Ronon wrapping his arms around his chest and pulling him to his feet. The rest was nothing but a dream as he was supported down the corridors to the infirmary and deposited on the edge of a bed. He sat there in his own personal dilation field where time didn't exist. Someone had removed his vest and jacket. Someone else wiped the organic detritus from his face. But he could still feel it, hot and stinging. Bone, there had been bone, shards of it that had probably cut up his face.

Carson floated into John's sight with his stethoscope in his ears. Sheppard's shirt was lifted, the bell of the scope placed to his chest. Carson spoke but the words were echoing incoherence and, for some reason, John could help thinking: Not again, not again, oh crap please not again! He didn't get it, because no where had Rodney died before, except in the game. But John had also died.

Too many deaths, too much dying, that's all John knew – more like felt, actually. Death everywhere, blood, organic bits and pieces everywhere, dripping like meat sauce.

"Colonel Sheppard, lad, you all right? You injured anywhere?"

John's gut tightened into a tiny little ball. "No, Carson I am not. All. Right." Then the inevitable. John doubled over and heaved and heaved, hot dogs and coleslaw chunks splattering onto the floor, then nothing but air. The world merry-go-rounded and everything faded to black with Carson's voice reverberating into the distance.

TBC...