The sea air nipped at the hairs on the back of his neck, drying the sweat of a day spent pacing down elegant corridors, checking with his men, checking the stores gathered from across a galaxy. Even that had ceased to be a miracle to him, anymore. Survival would be a miracle. Seeing this star-swept sky would be a miracle. Perhaps one day these constellations under which he was born and probably would die would be nothing more than long-forgotten myths.

He did not flinch when a flash of light painted the sky with the ghost of an outline in the distance - shield tests. Nor did he move when he heard the distant clang of a warning around the gate - the last of the refugees should be coming through now. He let the sea breeze calm all the concerns of the day, trying to burn the constellations of the night sky onto the back of his mind. One day it might be his duty to remember them.

With that he turned from the balcony that stared out at the many vaulting turrets of the ancient city, his home. He looked forward to her warm embrace on this day. They said there was some strange passion in lasts. He hoped to find comfort tracing the constellations onto the familiar topography of her back, her thighs, finding starlight in her bright teal eyes.

He shut the door to the balcony for the last time. Tomorrow, the murky depths of the sea would obscure even the brightest of the stars.



Major John Sheppard startled himself awake, his heart racing. Soldiers learned to sleep that way . . . to awake at any strange sound. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Where the hell am I?" he mumbled, squinting against the bright rays of the sun that just peeked over the edge of the ocean. He wasn't off-world . . . well he was off-world if that world was Earth . . . but he was back on Atlantis, he shouldn't be outside.

John groaned and pushed himself off the hard metal of the balcony. Why did he have to end up on a balcony facing the sunrise? Wait . . . he had picked a room on the side of the city facing away from the sunrise (Despite the military's attempts, he still was not a morning person). He couldn't think of anything to do by repeat his question. "How the hell did I get here?" He stood, rubbing the cricks out of his neck. The balcony floor was not soft.

"Must have been sleepwalking." But he didn't sleepwalk. "There's a first time for everything." Maybe he could casually ask Beckett about it. Probably something about magnetic fields and positions of stars or something. Positions of stars . . . something flashed through his mind, like the memory of a woman's perfume a few nights after he'd left her. He buried his head in his hands, trying to force himself to remember by putting a enough pressure on his eyelids, as though he could keep the memories of his dreams in that way.

He was standing on this balcony . . . yes, he recognized that structure in the distance. And he was looking at the stars. John wracked his brain for several more minutes, but that was all he could remember. "Oh well . . ." He sighed and walked back into the room. The bed was unmade, as though the last inhabitants had been too rushed to tidy up as they left, though the city had keep it relatively dust-free in their absence. Most of the rooms they hadn't cleaned up were in a similar state.

John sighed and walked out into the corridor. This was clearly an area they weren't using. The lights were dimmed, and there were no flimsy paper signs and maps pointing people in the right direction or equipment lying around. John was glad that he had wandered into a deserted area and avoided embarrassing himself. It wasn't long before he found one of those elevator things and transported himself back to the area where his quarters were located.

They weren't scheduled to go anywhere today, but he was almost glad the sun had woken him early. He was working with Ford to repair one of the puddlejumpers - the only one that hadn't been ready and rearing to go when they arrived. Mckay thought it was pointless when they had a dozen others that worked perfectly well, so was refusing to help. He kept murmuring something about triage and wandering off.

John had decided that he didn't need him . . . that it would be a challenge. He had always been good at repair and maintenance of his own planes, even though they had staff there to do it for him. How different could this be? They had already gotten the thing to turn on, after all. Getting it flight-worthy was another matter, but he thought he could handle it.

John smiled to himself as he stepped into the bathroom. He nearly jumped at the figure he found staring back at him from the mirror. He had dark circles underneath his eyes, and his morning stubble had somehow taken on a desperate tone - like a drunk who'd just lost his job not an Air Force pilot waking at 0530. His hair was rumpled and he definitely looked as though he hadn't gotten any sleep.

"Maybe sleepwalking takes more effort than normal walking," he told his reflection as he picked up his razor.



"Watch what you do with that!" John heard Mckay's nasal whine before he rounded the bend. He was getting a headache already. Did that guy ever sleep? "Does anyone here speak Chinese?"

John was debating whether or not he should fess-up and admit he did - back when he was deluded enough to think he would be happier in special ops. It would certainly have given him a good excuse for leaving people, as he always inevitably did. But he wasn't really cut out for the doing the government's dirty work without a single 'why?' They had determined that he asked too many questions.

The second he came around the corner and saw Mckay trying to pantomime what was either a very creative position in the Kama Sutra or two people folding something very large into a paper crane, he decided it was worth it to hold out with the Chinese skills a while longer.

"Morning, Rodney." He smiled.

Mckay frowned, clearly picking up on the current of maniacal glee John was getting from hearing the two Chinese guys -carrying a large box with a teal colored jewel in the shape of an eye on top- talk about how much of a bastard Mckay was. John smiled and nodded at them.

"What happened to you?" Mckay asked, putting down his clipboard, which the Chinese minions took as a sign they could take a break. John chose not to alert their boss to their escape.

So he hadn't really been able to get the bags and the bloodshot look from his eyes. "Nothing."

"Maybe you should have Beckett check you out. You look awful, Major."

While he was glad Mckay was showing some sort of concern for a fellow human being, John was not in the mood to be pestered. "Though I appreciate the compliment, I'm fine," he growled. "Probably just Gate-lag." What John didn't tell him was that as a pilot for the Air Force, he had flow thousands of cross-time-zone transports and he never got jet lag. A jet jockey that got jet lag was like a football player with touch phobia

"You know, the changes of light and darkness circadian rhythms, all that." He gave them what he thought was his most winning little-boy smile and strode nonchalantly into the puddlejumper hanger.

He heard Mckay's voice behind him, "Wait, didn't he used to work in Antarctica?" John chose to ignore it. The Chinese guys weren't going to rat him out.