Sorry for the wait. Accessorial Dilemma Part Two will probably take a similar, if not longer amount of time. I have a wedding to attend and an art exhibit to put together and hang, all in one week. Just a reminder, I altered chapter three a bit on 4-17-09. Though not terribly big, the changes are significant. Again, thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: I still don't own Stargate Atlantis, Steve, and/or any other SGA character. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and is strictly not-for-profit. The only things I own are: Dr. Mira Sheckle, The Glove, the plot, and other OC/plot-related bits.

Chapter Four: Accessorial Dilemma – Part One

3 years, 49 weeks earlier

The ancient city-ship of Atlantis floated like a glistening jewel upon the gentle swells of the endless, rolling ocean. Early-morning sunlight glimmered on the multi-hued alloys of her spires and refracted through the stain-glass windows decorating her towers and walkways. Wisps of cloud drifted lazily across the azure sky, floating idly before the sun and dipping languidly into the infinite expanse of unbroken horizon.

A quiet, peaceful day in the recently repopulated city of ancients.

"Wow! Look at this one!"

Miles from the control tower, in an Eastern section of the city, the pleasantly warm sunlight sparkled through a hallway, glittering and twinkling across walls, laboratory equipment, and exposed control crystals. The shimmering flood of life-giving illumination streaming into one of the rooms branching off the hallway was suddenly disrupted by the excited silhouette of Lieutenant Aiden Ford.

"Hey, man. Check it out!"

Annoyed by the abrupt change in lighting, Dr. McKay spared the request a perfunctory glance. His lips curled in disbelief as he did a double take. "Ew. That's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. Put it down. Now."

Lieutenant Ford looked at the thick, rippling, 3ft. by 4ft. sheet of pulsing algae he was holding, then back at the conspicuous, slimy void on the hallway's wall, where he'd ripped it down from. Reattaching wasn't an option. He turned back to McKay, who was staring at the living curtain with disgust. "But if I put it down, it'll die."

McKay rolled his eyes. "Then maybe you should've thought of that before picking it up in the first place." The Lieutenant merely shuffled his feet and glanced at his cool but gooey burden, clearly at a loss as to what to do with it. Grimacing in revulsion, the scientist huffed in irritation. "Look. Just drop it anywhere."

"But—"

"It's already dead," Rodney snapped. "It just doesn't know it yet."

Aiden frowned skeptically. "How do you figure that?"

"Well, let's see? It's an algae bloom. It's supposed to live in seawater."

"But it didn't grow until a few weeks ago."

"That's because it finally got a look at the sun after sitting on the ocean floor for decades. It thinks it's floating, but there's not enough moisture to sustain it here indefinitely. Why do you think this place smells so bad?"

Ford's eyebrows lifted. "Because the bottom of the ocean stinks of fish?"

Rodney's eyes rolled again. "Yes, Einstein. The ocean stinks of fish. Thank you for that brilliant deduction. Do you see any fish here?"

Dangling from his hands, the green algae slick swayed and rippled as Lieutenant Ford shrugged and glanced around. "Only a few dead ones."

"Exactly! Everything's dead and rotting." Dr. McKay picked up the salt-corroded scanner he'd been examining. Brittle flakes of brown and crispy ocher crumbled at his touch, showering onto his feet. "Even the metal's decayed."

For once, the scientist's words were not a melodramatic exaggeration. The lab they were re-exploring was a putrescent den of dying sea-life. Kelp and other alien seaweeds, all in various stages of liquefaction and desiccation, framed the doorways, dripping down walls and clinging to ceilings. Silt covered the floors, a damp, slick mudpack of accumulated sand and detritus that, having been pushed and pulled by a century of tides, had drifted against walls and in corners to a depth of several feet or more. Deep-sea shellfish, trapped in the risen city and unable to survive the slowly drying environment, decomposed within, adding the stink of rotting fish flesh to the pungent aroma of festering plants, flourishing algae, and thriving mold and mildew.

With a grunt of disgust, Dr. McKay sidestepped a glistening, green-coated ancient computer consol and dropped the flaking scanner into a bin for later disassembly. Grimacing, he wiped his rubber gloves on the slimy crystal controls. "And everything that's not dead and rotting, regardless of whether it contains an ounce of moisture, is being smothered by a thin layer of opportunistic plant cells and bacteria that are Hell-bent on taking advantage of the sunlight. These rooms are a tetanus cesspool. It's a wonder you and I haven't keeled over from septic shock just from breathing."

Lieutenant Ford grinned, chuckling. "C'mon. It's not that bad."

"Yes it is." Rodney waved his hand dismissively at the still dangling algae and walked over to the silt drift he'd been sifting. "Look, just put Swamp Thing's bath towel down and come make yourself useful."

Ford looked at the muddy sludge pile, riddled with bits of shell and pockets of yellowy-orange slime, then at the tubs of water and sieves the scientist was using to filter the putrescent build-up. He shuffled his feet with obvious reluctance, making the algae sheet drip gooey blobs on his combat boots. "But I am being useful."

Dr. McKay didn't look up. "Oh, really?" he thrust his hands into the partially desiccated sludge and dumped a fistful into the nearest sieve before parroting Ford's earlier question. "How do you figure that?"

Lieutenant Ford smiled. "I'm protecting you from the dog-sized octi-crab that pinched Zelenka's butt last time."

"Oh, you mean the DEAD dog-sized octi-crab that pinched Zelenka's butt."

The Lieutenant's face fell. "You heard that message…"

"Yes." Rodney dumped a few more handfuls of silt into the sieve and began swishing it around in the tub of water. "And I also heard Radek say he was sending it to Biology for dissection. Very prudent considering the circumstances."

"I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"Nope." There was a distinct note of malicious glee in the curt reply.

Resigning himself to the tedious task of silt sifting, Lieutenant Ford awkwardly draped his algae bloom over a gutted, mystery console and joined Dr. McKay in the corner he was excavating. They worked in silence for a while. Four feet deep and three yards wide, the detritus drift was the biggest pile in the lab. Shells and fish bones abounded, as did corroded wire clumps and parts of pressure-squished metal apparatuses. Unfortunately, none of these things looked particularly useful, and none resembled, even remotely, the distinctive objects they were looking for.

A third of the way into the odiferous pile, Rodney rocked back on his heels and rolled his neck with a series of audible cracks. "I can't believe I suggested this," he complained. "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack."

Ignoring McKay's negative vibes, Lieutenant Ford looked passed him and abruptly plunged his hand into the gritty soup the scientist's careless movements had revealed. "Hey!" Aiden laughed excitedly, "I think I found a wraith bit!"

"What? Let me see that."

"No way! Finder's keepers!" Ford dunked the sloppy handful of sand he'd grabbed into the tub of water and swished it around. Dark sand and stringy unidentifiables dropped from his fingers in an inky murk-cloud, revealing a shiny expanse of silvery, and notably non-corroded, metal. Ford whistled, impressed.

Rodney peered over his shoulder. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah." Ford shook his find vigorously, rinsing away the last traces of sand as he said proudly, "It's a can-opener."

Dr. McKay stared at the wall, floored by a mixture of incredulous confusion and disbelief. "A can-opener!" he finally spluttered, "What?!"

Pulling the metal object out of the water, Ford held it up in the light. "You know. One of those finger-guard things, like Steve's got. Wraith use 'em to rip open human clothes and armor, same as prying open tins of tuna fish. So, can-openers."

Sparkling through the shards of shattered stain glass windows, the sunlight glinted evilly off the wickedly clawed shell of jointed, razor sharp metal. Rodney gulped nervously, trying not to envision the deadly weapon being employed.

Finally tearing his eyes away, he glared at Ford. "Okay, for once I agree with Sheppard on this front. You," McKay pointed rudely, "don't get to name stuff."

Ford looked hurt. "But it's a can-opener! Just, for bigger and meaner cans."

McKay snatched it away. Carefully. "Finger guard is more than adequate."

"But—"

"No buts." Rodney tossed the wraith finger guard into the bin reserved for interesting stuff. Ford watched forlornly as it clattered hollowly against the empty plastic. It was the only item in there.

"At least we know we're looking in a good place, now," McKay muttered.

Mourning his shiny loss, Lieutenant Ford frowned. "What do you mean?"

Straightening his shoulders, McKay smiled superiorly. "Where one gooey wraith bit doth lay, other bits are as like to drift."

Ford looked at him blankly.

Rodney heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Given the static nature of deep-sea currents, heavy, non-biodegradable parts of our decomposing wraith friend are likely to end up settling in the same place."

"So, if he had a second can-opener it'll probably be near the first one."

Rodney glared at Ford testily, "Yes. The FINGER GUARDS will be together."

The Lieutenant looked at the partially disassembled silt drift. "What about the lighter non-biodegradable parts?"

Thrusting his hands into the gritty sludge, Dr. McKay frowned. "Well, given the point of origin and the distance the heavy metal traveled…" He nodded at the untouched two thirds of the pile. "Hopefully they'll be a yard or two that way."

"And if they're not?"

McKay shrugged and began loading sieves with silt again. "In that case, they could be anywhere. Which, I may add, is why other teams are trawling other rooms."

Rodney's and Ford's radios sputtered to life. "Dr. McKay?"

"Huh," Dr. McKay eyed Ford suspiciously. "What a ridiculous coincidence. Maybe you should ask stupid questions more often." Dipping a glove in the tub to rinse it, Rodney tapped his earpiece. "McKay here."

"This is Dr. Zelenka, with A Team."

"Go ahead, Radek."

"We've got a bead."

Dr. McKay frowned. "Say again?"

"A bead," the Czech repeated. "One of the glowy beads from the old wraith glove. We found one in our area."

"Well, that's great," McKay exclaimed. "Where'd you find it?"

The Czech scientist muttered something barely audible. Ford snickered.

Rodney furrowed his brow. "I didn't quite catch that."

"It was Dr. Sheckle. She, em… pulled it from a pile of octi-crab poo."

Ford was chuckling outright now. McKay grimaced, "Okay, that's just gross."

"That is what I thought."

"Right. Radek, um, thanks for the heads up. We'll concentrate our efforts in your area. Back up will be there shortly. McKay out."

While Lieutenant Ford struggled to control his laughter, Dr. McKay ordered the B and C teams to relocate. Then he returned to his sieve swishing.

Watching him, Ford asked, "Aren't you going to relocate, too?"

"Nope. I am team Zero, as in ground zero." Seeing the Lieutenant's puzzled look, Rodney explained further. "Even though Radek had the first hit, this room is technically the most likely to produce results. So, I stay with the stasis pod."

Scooping an armful of silt into his sieve, Ford turned his head, craning his neck to get a view of the opposite corner of the decaying lab where the empty, kelp-coated stasis alcove dripped in solitary, fishy-smelling splendor. "Wait a minute," Ford said. "The stasis pod's here. Isn't Team A's area, like, at the far end of the flooded sector?"

Rodney nodded. "Yup."

"But that's, like, as far away from here as you can get? If it started off in this stasis pod, how'd the bead end up there?"

The scientist stopped swishing his sieve long enough to give Aiden a look that clearly said the Lieutenant was an idiot. "It's called diffusion. Here, let me illustrate." Dropping his sieve, Rodney got up, skipped to the stasis alcove, and began acting out his explanation as if explaining to a two year old. "Pod breaks. Oops. Wraith decays. Glove decays." He wiggled his fingers and tiptoed around the room. "Gooey wraith and glove bits diffuse into surrounding seawater." Still finger wiggling, he gestured to his sieve. "Heavy gooey bits sink to the floor, where they are covered by silt and detritus."

Offended, Lieutenant Ford frowned in annoyance.

"Light gooey bits," continued Rodney, "like the glove beads, get caught in currents. They float away and land wherever the currents take them. Including into hallways and other flooded rooms."

Lieutenant Ford stared at him. "Or they get eaten by fish who think they're yummy-looking, and octi-crabs who eat the fish poop the beads out in their nests."

Dr. McKay picked his sieve up again. "Yes, well, that's possible too." He swished it in the water tub. "But we're hoping it's not the case."

"Why not?"

"Because that would mean some stupid fish ate the beads and swam out of the city with them. Under those circumstances, we'll never—"

"Recover them all," Ford finished, nodding, "I get it."

McKay scooped some more silt up. "Good. Well, if you get it then, why don't you go help the B and C teams move their equipment. The octi-crab's dead, so I don't need protecting twenty-four seven." He gestured at the slowly diminishing mudpack. "I've got plenty to occupy me here, and I could use a break from distracting questions. You can come back and help me when you're done."

Gratefully setting his sieve on a nearby counter, Lieutenant Ford jumped to his feet. "Yes, Sir. Maybe if you're left alone with silent, gooey wraith bits for a while, you'll appreciate my distracting company more."

Rodney snorted, "I doubt that. Anything that prolongs this disgusting experience, even if it's company, gets a black mark in my book."

Ford rolled his eyes and carefully retrieved his algae curtain from the mystery console he'd draped it over. "See ya, Rodney."

Hearing the squelching plop of dripping plant blobs, Dr. McKay glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened in concern. "Whoa, whoa! Where are you going with that?"

Confused by the accusing tone, Lieutenant Ford stopped in the doorway. "I'm just taking it outside," he jerked his head towards the hallway. "It's still alive. Thought I'd toss it off the pier, into the water. You know. Give it a fighting chance?"

"Uh, uh. Not without squeezing it first."

"Excuse me?!"

"You want to save it that badly, you better squeeze every square centimeter of it."

Aiden stared at Rodney in disbelief. "Why?"

"Because it grew on the wall. The walls are coated with a century of gunky build-up. There's a chance, however slim, that a bead or two got caught on that gunk. If they did, it stands to reason they would've gotten caught in the algae when it bloomed. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, leaves this sector without being verifiably bead-free."

"So I have to squeeze it to save it."

"Do I hear an echo in here?"

Sighing, Lieutenant Ford draped the algae back over the mystery console. "I'll just leave this for when I get back."

Satisfied, Rodney returned his attention to his swishing. A minute or so of silence, and one half-can-opener later, the scientist's radio squawked to life.

"What if squeezing it kills it?"

McKay's reply was swiftly acerbic, "Well, tough for it, then."

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Far under the Gateroom, in the base of Atlantis's control tower, Major John Sheppard stared intently into the green, unblinking eyes that were peering out at him through the bars of Steve's holding cell. Ever watchful, the marines guarding the cage shifted their weight and exchanged meaningful glances. The battle of wills and concurrent inference of intentions, had been going on for a while now. That meant, in their experience, that today's conversation, like last week's, was important.

The mental posturing continued for another minute or two.

Eventually the human ended it.

Lifting an eyebrow, Sheppard raised a finger.

The wraith cocked his head, hissing softly. "I am your death."

Sheppard slowly nodded in approval. "You're consistent, I'll—"

A slightly louder hiss cut him off as Steve's face swayed closer to the grey, shelf-like bars. "And you, Major John Sheppard," the wraith drew the name out, huffing slightly after the last syllable. The pale lips twitched. "You are my life."

Taken aback, Sheppard leaned away from the bars and frowned. "Somehow," he said, "I don't think you meant that the way it sounded."

Snorting, Steve narrowed his eyes. "Take it however you wish. I'll only acknowledge one meaning."

Disinclined to press his luck, the Major wisely refrained from extrapolating. He leaned back towards the cage. "I'm guessing, you want something today."

The wraith's shoulders glittered in the light as he grasped the interior edge of the nearest bar. "As do you, Major."

"Something more than a comfy bed and hot shower."

"Your Dr. Beckett has been most accommodating…"

The wraith's smooth, reverberating response quietly faded as captive and captor fell into the daily pattern of mutual circling. It was unclear to the watching marines who initiated the movement, but even the greenest marked the differences in the activity. Steve paced the cell loosely, drifting close to make eye contact, then swaying away from the edges, speeding up and slowing down with inconsistent surges of lazily attentive energy that gave his motions a swooping, almost soaring feel. Following the wraith's lead, Sheppard matched his strides without the weaving, keeping close to the cell and darting glances at the walls and ceiling whenever Steve looked away.

It was a very different activity from the intense staring and predatory stalking the marines had watched the pair engage in a few weeks ago.

Realizing he was being offered the dominant role, Sheppard broke the lengthening silence. "So, Steve. What exactly is it that you want?"

The wraith turned and caught his gaze. White, blue-washed hair whispered across freshly cleaned leather during a brief, appraising silence. Then a single, solitary, implication-loaded word hissed around the holding-cell.

"Information."

Sheppard suppressed an urge to laugh. One of the marines by the alcove failed. "That, Steve, is what we humans like to call irony."

The wraith bared his translucent teeth in a dismissive grin. "I am aware of the definition."

"Then you understand that it applies to this situation."

A quick nod followed by a low, disdainful hiss. "Yes, I do."

Surveying Steve thoughtfully, Major Sheppard considered his prisoner's demeanor. 'You are my life.' A blatant, verbal acknowledgement that he was at Sheppard's mercy, followed by deliberate ignoring, and overlooking, of attempts to rile him. Either the wraith was about to give Atlantis something big, or he was preparing to ask for something mammoth. Sheppard suspected the later.

Looking away, the Major mussed his hair. "What sort of information?"

Swaying towards the edge of the cage, Steve laid his feeding hand on the bar below Sheppard's chest and trailed it along the grey metal. The thick pads covering his fingertips and palm rasped conspicuously across the cool surface as the wraith stared intently at his captor's face, clearly attempting to regain eye contact.

"This restraint I wear is not of your making."

Sheppard scratched his ear and glanced at the ceiling. "So you say."

Steve pressed closer. His pale nose almost brushed the cage. Breath misted on the bar as he spoke. "Where did you get it?"

Raising an eyebrow, Sheppard smiled nonchalantly. "Now, why would you care about that?"

The wraith expelled a chuff of air and stopped. His long hair swung past the bars, swaying dangerously close to the invisible force field. "Surely you realize the importance?" Oval-pupils dilated in the dim light. "The implications?"

Also stopping, the Major shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose they're mildly interesting…"

Cocking his head, Steve moved his gloved feeding hand to the horizontal obstruction closest to Sheppard's face. "You can't even begin to conceive the significance of this gift."

The Major studied the ceiling, "I wouldn't exactly call it a gif—"

Abruptly, the wraith hissed confrontationally, "Look at me Human!"

"Sheppard!"

"Look at me Major! John! SHEPPARD!"

Still fixed on the ceiling, Sheppard's eyes flashed. "Why should I?!"

"Because I am attempting to communicate!" Steve snarled angrily, "You have no idea the offense you imply!"

"Then let's say you enlighten me!"

"HIIISSSSSSSSSS!"

There was a pop, and Major Sheppard jumped, momentarily blinded by brilliant light. Briefly visible, the holding cell's force field flashed like a strobe lamp. Steve wheeled away, an irate, hissing flurry of whipping hair and flapping coat panels. As the wraith jerked to a stop, he cradled his feeding hand. The angry snarl gave way to an apprehensive frown. Realizing the ancient, life-giving glove had impacted against the ancient, wraith-zapping force field, Sheppard grabbed the bars and peered past them.

The beads ringing Steve's wrist were sparkling erratically.

Shit. That didn't look good. Sheppard grimaced, "Is it all right?"

Green, trepidation-filled eyes flicked towards him.

"Cause if it's not, McKay's gonna be pissed at you."

The eyes flicked back to the glove. "I do not know." Fingers rhythmically curled and stretched as the wraith flexed his feeding hand. The beads glimmered unevenly for a moment. Suddenly they flared with light. Steve lifted his chin with a gasp, nostrils flaring. Sheppard saw the sensory orifices on his cheeks widen slightly.

The holding cell echoed with a hiss of relief. "It is undamaged."

"Well then, that's good," said the Major, letting go of the bars.

Steve inclined his head, and the glove's beads faded to their usual dimly glowing amber. Then he glanced at Sheppard. Sheppard met the relieved gaze meaningfully.

"Especially considering it's the only thing keeping you alive."

The wraith narrowed his eyes and looked away, white hair swinging.

Sheppard frowned. Apparently the unexpected temper tantrum was over. "Look, Steve…" The prisoner didn't move. "We are aware of the importance of that glove you're borrowing." The Major's blue eyes stared, unwavering, at the submissively averted face. "We understand its significance." Sheppard spoke slowly and firmly, deliberately emphasizing words the wraith had used earlier, showing he'd been listening. In response, Steve's head turned, almost imperceptibly, towards him. "Its capabilities, and the implications of its existence, are perfectly clear."

The pale, light-washed visage swung to face him more fully, though the wraith didn't meet Sheppard's gaze yet. "But you don't know what it is."

The marines guarding the cell exchanged glances as their commander hesitated. A tense quiet permeated the holding cell as Sheppard debated whether it was prudent to have this conversation. Information could potentially flow both ways.

Or it might only flow one…

"No," he finally confirmed, "we don't."

The oval-pupiled eyes drifted shut.

"But we DO know that it's a hybrid of wraith and ancient technology." Sheppard rested his elbows on a horizontal bar and leaned forward, trying to exude an air of confident openness. The foot-long gaps in the cage made the posture awkward, but he managed. "We know a wraith was involved in its development. We know he entrusted his life to ancients. And, given the circumstances of the glove's discovery, and its function, we suspect he was not under duress."

It was like the angry outburst of a minute earlier never happened. The captive's eyes snapped open, fixing on Sheppard's, and Steve crossed to the cell's edge, coat swishing and fingers brushing the metal barrier. The amber beads decorating his gloved feeding hand slid past the Major's face as he swayed to a stop and sank to his human captor's eye-level. Steve cocked his head, taking in the inviting expression.

"Where is this wraith now?" he finally asked.

"He's dead." Hearing a soft hiss, Sheppard lifted a warning finger. "Before you go jumping to conclusions, the answer's no. We didn't do it."

Steve's hiss morphed into a multi-tonal sigh. "And his notes? His research?"

"Destroyed by decades of flooding."

The wraith's lips twitched in obvious disappointment. "That is unfortunate." His gaze slid meaningfully to his feeding hand. "How many of these gloves exist?"

Sheppard lifted a second finger. "Two that we know of."

"Where is the second one?"

"In a plastic box, melting into a puddle of black goo."

Frowning, Steve snapped his eyes back to Sheppard and tilted his head quizzically. "Melting into a puddle?" he spat.

The Major shrugged nonchalantly. "It was destroyed by the flooding too. We're still trying to find all the pieces. Basically, it rotted."

"So there's really only one."

"Only one that's functional," Sheppard corrected.

The wraith rolled his eyes and made a short sound of disgust.

"Yeah, I know," Sheppard smiled wryly. "Sort of puts a dampener on the whole reverse engineering thought, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does." Steve's demeanor suddenly turned serious. He pressed closer, cocking his head the other way. The pale, lichen-marbled skin of his nose and cheek brushed the cage as he shifted position, gripping the bar by the Major's face. Steve bared his translucent teeth in what was probably intended to be an amiable smile. When he spoke, his multi-toned voice was conspicuously devoid of the smallest trace of hostility. It was almost pleasant. "Major Sheppard, I would like to make a request."

Remembering the force field, Sheppard resisted the urge to pull away as the wraith's hair pooled on grey metal, scant inches from his chin. He raised an eyebrow. "Okay…" He'd been wondering how long it would take for the 'something mammoth' he'd predicted earlier to show up. "I'm listening. Request away."

Carefully maintaining eye contact, Steve breathed deeply and flexed his gloved fingers. The beads on his wrist flickered slightly as he continued, "I wish to examine the second glove. And the damaged research materials."

Yeah, that was mammoth. Sheppard pursed his lips. "Is that all?"

The green eyes boring into his face blinked. "I would also like access to a lab, and to see the scientist's, your Doctor McKay's, notes."

Repressing a laugh, Sheppard frowned. "Afraid I'll have to get back to you on that, Steve." Seeing the wraith's lips twitch in disappointment, he shook his head. "Look, I'm not saying that's a, 'No,'" Sheppard clarified. "I have to consult with people. Your cooperating with Carson has been great, but McKay's another matter entirely. And, you have to admit, Steve, letting you out of that cage is a bit of a security risk."

Steve looked away long enough to glance pointedly at the cell behind him. "There is much I could accomplish in this room." He peered at Sheppard earnestly. "Data is portable. Your scientists would benefit from my knowledge."

Grimacing, Major Sheppard pursed his lips. The wraith was serious. If they ever regained contact with Earth, honoring his request would create an awful logistical mess. The IOA would have a cow. Not that Sheppard cared, really… But the potential for disaster was enormous. Yet, the potential for mutual benefit was equally so…

Coming to a decision, the Major mussed his hair and nodded. "Look, I can't make any guarantees, but I'll take it up with Dr. Weir. That's the best I can do."

The wraith studied Sheppard silently for several long, drawn out seconds. Then he inclined his face minutely. "That is acceptable."

Sheppard resisted the urge to comment on the illusion of choice Steve's word implied. Now was when he'd find out whether the conversation would pay off. The Major's blue eyes studied Steve intently. "Anything else to add?"

Silence stretched in the holding cell once more. The movements of watchful marines shifting uneasily behind the focused pair sounded unnaturally loud.

Just when Sheppard was starting to get sick of the apparently pointless staring contest, Steve's eyes widened suddenly. "When we come for you, you'll have time to prepare. But it will do Atlantis no good." His multi-tonal voice dropped, reverberating sinisterly in the sparse chamber. "The scouts will come first. Anywhere from one to a dozen, depending on who sends them. You will have time to reflect on your demise. Then a vanguard of two to six hives and heavy battle cruisers will follow."

Sheppard interrupted, "Would you care to be more specific?"

Steve expelled his breath in a short chuff of annoyance. "I am already speculating." He looked away for a moment. The oval-pupiled eyes narrowed with thought as his ungloved fingers idly stroked the bar they were resting on. Finally he looked back. "Assuming the political status and territories of the hives occupying this sector haven't changed since my capture, I would predict three."

"Three hives?" Sheppard tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

A quick nod. "Yes. Each with a standard formation of three heavy cruisers."

Scratching his head, Sheppard had no trouble acting impressed. How could they take out three hives without a ZPM? "Twelve ships. That's a lot to send after one city."

The wraith hissed softly. "Twelve is only the beginning. More will follow." The green eyes darted away. "Anywhere from two hives to several dozen." Looking pensive, Steve glanced at Sheppard again. "I can't be more specific. The number depends on the level of Atlantis's resistance. I cannot predict that."

Sheppard frowned, "That's okay. I'd be worried if you could."

Steve's lips quirked in amusement, "You are not worried now?"

"Meh," Sheppard's shoulders rose in a noncommittal shrug, "I'll worry when it happens." And pray to God in the mean time that it doesn't. Out of the corners of his eyes, Sheppard saw marines exchanging nervous glances. He cleared his throat. "What about the third wave? We repel several dozen hives. What next?"

Steve smiled predatorily, "You think it will come to that?"

"Let's just say I'm not eliminating it from the realm of possibilities."

Blinking slowly in acknowledgment, the wraith tilted his head and echoed Sheppard's shrug while hissing, "Perpetual, unrelenting siege." As the echoes of 'seige' faded, Steve frowned in feigned regret. "Sadly, I am a scientist. Not a tactician. I am unqualified to predict what that entails. Like you Lanteans, we can be quite creative."

Sheppard raised a mocking eyebrow. "Yeah, I bet you can." Removing his elbows from the bar, he backed away a few paces. Steve straightened, following his captor with his gaze. His fingers, gloved and ungloved, gripped the cage warily.

Keeping eye contact, Sheppard tapped his radio deliberately. "Dr. Weir, this is Major Sheppard."

"Go ahead, Major."

"Our wild card paid off. Tell Sergeant Bates that he has a go."

Inside the cell, the wraith cocked his head quizzically.

"Very well, Major. I'll get right on it. Weir out."

Major Sheppard lowered his hand and loosely crossed his arms. Looking serious, he inclined his head towards the puzzled prisoner. "Congratulations, Steve. You just saved yourself from a potentially unpleasant experience."

Coat swinging, Steve huffed and retreated. "I don't understand," he hissed.

Sheppard sighed, surprised by the flicker of relief he felt. He hid the emotion carefully. "Let's hope you never do."

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Thank you for reading! Please review! If it helps, things I'm working on specifically are: 1. Maintaining a Season 1 feel in the flashback chapters. 2. Keeping the regulars in character.