A/N: Just ignore the culinary goings-on of the muses and bunnies. It's not... pleasant. But the reviews are a delight.

Ch. 11

Control, Alt, Delete

Rodney's return to consciousness was about as theatrical as expected. He jack-knifed up-right with a gasp, struggling against unseen assailants that became real assailants when the medics tried to calm him down. But it was Teyla's familiar, soft voice that did the trick.

"Rodney! It is all right, Rodney. You are free from the game, now."

Rodney shoved a medic trying to take his pulse aside and attempted to slide from the chair. "Like hell it's all right! Sheppard's still in there!" He managed to get to his feet, only for his knees to buckle. Ronon caught him and hauled him to a nearby bench, pushing him into it. Rodney stood up, only to get pushed back again, then again.

When Rodney tried a fourth time, Ronon shoved him back down by the shoulder with a snarled, "Sit!"

Rodney obeyed with a glare that was rather quite menacing on his pale face with sunken, shadowed eyes. Medics swarmed around him, taking his pulse, checking his heart, etc. "Just for the record, every minute you're dealing with me is another minute Sheppard doesn't have." He turned his bullet-spitting glare on Zelenka, coupling it with a stiff pointing finger. "And you! What the hell was that!" he squawked. "A worm! You thought you could hit him with a pretty, shiny worm?"

Radek sighed. As much as he was glad to have Rodney back, he hadn't missed everything that came with it. "Rodney, the visual worm was a distraction. The real one is still in there, hidden. I thought you would have realized this."

"I was a little under duress at the time," Rodney snarled. Radek was a little taken back. He had developed quite the callous when it came to McKay's barbs, but the man's pallor had taken the condescending to a whole new level. "Hidden how, exactly?"

"As what would be most useful to you. A weapon or a..."

Rodney stiffened, and it really was possible for the man to go a shade paler, going completely white. "A bomb."

"Well, yes, if that is something useful..."

Rodney shook his head. "No, you don't understand. Atar – virtual-environment dude – he was having us replay our most painful memories and we were just on our most recent. And the most recent being..."

Radek felt his heart nose-dive into his stomach acid. "Dr. Beckett's death."

"And how did Carson die? Oh, yeah, an explosion!"

Dr. Cole's eyes flickered back and forth between both men. "Hold on, wait a minute. What does that mean for Colonel Sheppard? What'll it do to him if a bomb goes off in a virtual world?"

"If he gets away from it," Rodney said, "then nothing. But if not... I have no freakin' clue. However, considering how crappy I feel just from what we've been through, I can guarantee it won't be good, especially should Atar cease to exist and not be around to bring Sheppard back."

Enough said. The medics separated into two bodies with the second body swarming around John, slapping on a BP cuff and opening up his vest and jacket to get to his shirt and cut it open, just in case. The colonel looked even thinner under his clothes; all protruding bones and sharp angles. Combined with the lack of color in his skin... it was scary, like a sneak preview to the corpse that was about to be if Sheppard didn't make it out of this alive.

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Pseudo-Carson patted the exam table, giving Sheppard a bright, cheery smile. "Hop on up, colonel, and let's have a look at you. Seems you haven't been taking good care of yourself. Not eating right, not sleeping..." he sighed heavily and shook his head like a father reprimanding a three-year-old. "Look at you. I can't even lie dead for a few months without you going bloody anorexic on me."

John shook, could feel his heart hammering whether it was real or just in his head. He couldn't believe the amount of pain, the temptation to – just for a moment – give into the hallucination and play along with the "just another routine post-mission check" game. It was the stupidest temptation he'd ever been dealt, the most obvious ploy, theatrics at its worst... and he wanted to believe it.

"Come, now, Sheppard, just a quick check. Not particularly considerate, letting yourself go like this after all the work I put into piecing you back together and all. I died keeping someone else alive. Who are you killing yourself for, John? Huh? Maybe you should have been the one to die since you seem so eager. Bit unfair otherwise, don't you think? All that avoiding off-world missions just because I thought they'd be the death of me, and here I end up snuffing it in the safety of me own bloody infirmary. Blown to bloody bits..." Beckett's chest huffed in a dry, unstable chuckle. "Literally!"

John's fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm. "Shut up."

Pseudo Carson placed a hand to his chest, over his pseudo-heart. "Colonel! Is that the way you always talked to the man who put your sorry, scrawny hide back together? Bloody ungrateful, just bloody-ungrateful. Good thing I'm dead. It would be rather hard continuing to exist among such ingratitude..."

"Shut. Up."

"Oh, please, Colonel, I'm just getting warmed up, here. Did you even cry for me at my funeral? Shed one bloody tear? Did you even mourn me in any way? Or has it still not hit you yet?"

John's fists shook and he gritted his teeth. "Shut. Up!"

"Or what, colonel?" Fake Carson simpered. "You'll kill me?"

John's gaze moved past Carson to a machine toward the back of the fake infirmary, a machine that didn't belong. Big, bulky, blackened and dirty among the pristine metal of infirmary equipment – the bomb disposal unit, looking as though it had been recently used. He could feel his insides dry up and shrivel into ash. Play it out... to its end.

"Yeah, Atar, I will," and he lunged, taking Atar completely by surprise because, since he was wearing Carson's face, the colonel should have been too frozen in shock and pining to attack. Atar's shock was enough to get the man near the machine that didn't belong. A brief contact, seconds long, and then Atar passed through Sheppard, inverting to face him when John whirled around.

Pseudo-Carson wagged a finger at him, tsking. "I commend the effort, but it was a dumb move, because," he spread his arms, "here I am. I knew you couldn't do it. I knew you wouldn't be able to hurt your dear, departed friend. I mean, you did let him die once already. Did you honestly think you could do it again?"

John shook but not for the same reasons as before. He was struck by a monumental epiphany of epic proportions. He'd been having vulnerability and helplessness shoved down his throat over and over and over. Some of it he could change, some he could not...

And that was life. Some things you fought to change, some you fought not to change. Sometimes you succeeded, sometimes you didn't, and sometimes it was enough that you had at least tried.

He forgot that sometimes... more than sometimes.

"I didn't let him die," he said, his voice thick, his throat trying to close off. He could feel moisture in his eyes hot and biting, gathering to pool and blur his vision. "And you're not Carson. I'm not killing him, I'm not."

For the first time since this whole stupid game began, Atar frowned. "What do you..." then his eyes went wide.

John shook his head. "I'm not killing Carson... I'm killing you, you asshole! So stop wearing his damn face!" And he slugged that face, wanting to knock it clean off.

Carson's visage shimmered, shattered, and reconfigured into Atar's twisted, horrified expression. "But... but... I can't die. Too many memories. Too many possibilities. Too many..." His image bulged, fake-flesh bubbling like flesh-colored soup, expanding like that gum-chewing brat on that Chocolate Factory movie. "Too many..." he rasped. Cracks appeared shedding shafts of piercing light that flared into a single mass like the center of the sun. The world rumbled and heat seared John's flesh, boiling his insides and turning his bones to ash. The pain was indescribable.

Then darkness relieved him of it, becoming all he knew, and he didn't think it so bad.

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Alarms blared and the medics reacted like birds fluttering at bread crumbs.

"No pulse! Power up the defib!" Dr. Cole yelled.

Rodney stood holding tight to the blanket that had been set around his shoulders. He craned his neck to see over the hunched bodies of the medics. He heard a whine, someone shouting clear, then maneuvered his head just right to see Sheppard's colorless body arch off the chair. The monitor continued whining.

"Try again, clear!" A thump, an arch, and still, there was a whole lot of shrieking from that stupid monitor. They tried again, then again: clear, thump, arch, whine. Air was being pumped into John's lungs, and a big-ass needle was shoved between his ribs right into his heart.

Rodney dropped back down on the bench and fought not to be sick. It was a game, a virtual environment. Not real, none of it real. People weren't supposed to die in games! Games weren't real. Sheppard shouldn't be dead.

With a will of its own, Rodney's gaze traveled over to the weasel Pondo and something in him snapped. With a roar more like a squawking bellow, he dove at the little man and pummeled him. "You little bastard, son of a bitch, he's dead! He's dead! You let him die you sick freak! Your stupid master killed him you ass-hole! I'll kill you; I'll kill you!"

Pondo shrieked, curling into a sobbing, moaning, whimpering ball as he covered his head and other such poor attempts to protect himself. Rodney felt hands trying to pull him away and voices yelling to lay off, that it wasn't this guy's fault, that he probably hadn't even known what would happen. All gibberish, like white noise when the TV didn't work, annoying but easy to ignore. Rodney beat and beat to his heart's content.

"We've got a pulse!"

Then he stopped, freezing like a deer in the headlights. "What?" He snapped his head around at the rhythmic beep of the monitor and Sheppard's body being prepped for transfer to the gurney. Rodney's body crumpled, melting with relief. Ronon caught him and helped him to his feet, keeping him upright. McKay wasn't all that aware with all his attention kept occupied by Sheppard's pale body being wheeled from the room. When had the colonel gotten so damn skinny? Rodney knew Sheppard had been losing non-existent pounds, but the way the man's ribs stuck out was just ridiculous. He'd been spending a lot of quality time with Sheppard what with all the repairs needing to be done. He should have noticed things were getting bad. He should have been paying attention. He should have...

Should have realized Rodney wasn't the only friend in Carson's life.

Rodney let Ronon help keep him up as he stumbled after his incapacitated friend. He was hit by a rather unnerving thought that had him pausing and turning to face Ronon. He looked the Satedan up and down, and then poked him the arm.

"We're real, McKay," Ronon said. "Everything is real."

McKay nodded. "Good." Then he passed out, safe in the knowledge that Ronon would catch him. At least he hoped Ronon caught him.

TBC...