Work Text:
Most people, if they gave it any thought at all would say that someplace like McMurdo, population 1100 in summer would be a great place to stash a military sentinel. Smallish tribe to 'defend', relatively constrained area and 'quiet'. Not so much. It was more like being taken away from your family, your home, the climate you were accustomed to and turned upside down and having your pockets rifled through while being forced to say thank you very much for the trouble. There wasn't enough to listen to. Not enough of the right things. The aircraft sang differently here. Instead of Apache with sand-screens there were C-130s running fuel with de-icers. German, Russian dialects and Spanish instead of Pashto, Urdo and well, a lot of gutter Spanish cussing. The hum of air-conditioners replaced with the crackle of carhartts and rubber boots on ice.
But John Sheppard, regardless of what his superiors in rank might think, was a good airman and a good officer, so he stayed and carried out his duties as assigned. He'd given up his gunships, his fast-tracked rank, his unit but he still had the sky and the knowledge that he'd done the best he knew how. Soldiers were still dead. That's how it worked. 'Our' side or 'their' side.
He grinned up into the bright sunshine and let the sound of snow hissing over the ground turn into the memory of sand across tarmac. Aliens, stargates, duty. Who knew what kinds of things he'd hear at NORAD and the SGC. Maybe they'd even let him stay long enough to find people to care about again.