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Sheppard screamed as the long, chitinous pincer pierced his leg through the narrow opening in the tree trunk. The damn bug was far too big to follow him through the hole, but it still had that multitude of long segmented legs, each one as sharp as a knife. A dozen knives to stick through holes and gaps, trying to impale him.
In less dire circumstances, Sheppard might have amused himself with thoughts of Alice and falling down a rabbit hole, or more aptly, hobbits being swallowed by a great old hollow tree, but circumstances were dire, and his attention was focused solely on the monstrous insect outside, currently trying to eat him.
His leg was a blaze of pain, the pincer stuck in the meat of his calf, and he couldn’t tell if it had gone through the whole muscle, but it probably would shortly, especially the way the bug was frantically scrambling to get him.
Bracing his leg against the inner bark of the tree and keeping one eye on the opening overhead, Sheppard clenched his jaw and grabbed hold of the leg impaling his. He tugged, testing the strength of the chitin, the segmented joints. The bug outside scrambled and skittered in response, and several more legs tried to pierce through the opening, seeking flesh.
Taking a deep breath, Sheppard pulled out his k-bar, his last weapon left, and judged the best angle. He’d get one shot at this because if he got it wrong, the thing thrashing around might do more damage than good. One good deep breath and Sheppard struck, tempered metal into alien bug flesh, and he twisted the blade.
The shriek was muted but high pitched, and sure enough, the massive creature tried to scramble away. Fortunately, its own momentum and efforts to escape completed the severing cut, and Sheppard was free. He heard the bug skitter off, no doubt to recoup, plot revenge, or dial a friend. As far as aggression went, these things were pretty high on the list of ‘ornery creatures. ’ But so far, luckily, they hadn’t demonstrated any particular intelligence - so far.
Sheppard gripped the severed leg and slowly pulled it out of his calf, wincing as it slid out, making a slick wet sound as it did so. Breathing hard, a combination of adrenalin and pain, Sheppard leant back against the rotting wood of the log and reviewed his situation.
Dr Princi was still out there, somewhere, hopefully still alive. Probably oblivious to her danger, as usual, happily taking notes about alien butterflies and carnivorous moths. She’d been pretty damn excited about the flesh eating moths, so much so that she probably hadn’t noticed the impending danger, let alone the swarm of gigantic flesh eating bugs with dozens of legs and a thirst for human blood.
Ok, maybe they weren’t thirsty. And maybe he, John Sheppard, had a thing about bugs.
Regan, Fielding and Winchester were holed up in the clearing several klicks from the Gate, but as for him? Sheppard sighed. P90 in the ravine. M911 out of ammo. K-bar and bug leg as weapons. And now a bum leg. Oh, yes, and his radio was in the stomach of some oversized mutant spider.
Gathering himself, John pulled out his field med kit, dashed some antiseptic on the open wound, and slapped a dressing over it, tying it tight but not too tight. The morphine ampoule was left untouched, tucked back into the kit.
Mindful of his leg, Sheppard slowly turned around, lay down on his back, and peered out through the hole in the tree trunk. The world outside was upside down, but when your enemy is just as comfortable in the trees as on the ground, paying attention to the canopy overhead was just as needful. Leaf-covered ground, thick forest and shattered blue sky overhead swam into view – an all clear view. So far. Fortunately, his LSD was still working and the damn bugs were big enough to trigger it - hopefully.
Quickly, Sheppard scooted out of the tree trunk, like sliding out from underneath a car. He scrambled to his feet and turned 360 degrees, scanning for trouble. Sheppard tentatively tested how bad his leg was, if it could bear his weight. Eyes firmly on the dense forest, John winced as sharp pain flared up and down his leg, his whole leg shaking as he took one step and then another.
But he pushed through it, ignored the pain and took several more. Running would be possible if he shoved the agony into a box for ‘later’ but not for long or far. Swallowing, his throat dry, Sheppard checked that the bandage was still in place and straightened his jacket, re-sheathed his knife and grunted sourly.
Right, he thought to himself. Pick a likely direction, Sheppard, one that a pathologically absent-minded doctor of xeno-entomology would go. A direction gigantic bug free - hopefully. The dense forest was decidedly unhelpful in clues of where to go. There were plenty of ‘not here’ and ‘Danger! Danger!’ signs – mostly in the direction he’d come from. Broken branches, shattered remains of dead bugs and a pervading smell of bug innards. The rest of the forest, though, stared back at him as if to say, ‘Pick a direction, Colonel. Go on, I dare you!’
Sighing, Sheppard noted the pair of fluttering moths drifting off in a southerly direction, following the prevailing wind. It was as good a direction as any. Eyes primed for more scuttling mutant bugs, Sheppard headed off after the moths, hoping to find a few signs of Dr Princi – like footprints or breadcrumbs. Hell, mentally, Sheppard started composing his memo banning Dr Princi from all offworld travel.
It helped fend off the morose thoughts about how the alien bugs of Pegasus seemed to be attracted to him. In a fatal attraction sorta way.
It was not funny. No matter what Rodney said.
Not. Funny.
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As the deafening thunder of his P-90 died down, and the latest wave of over-eager insects lay in many, many, pieces, Dean Winchester, checked his ammo, reloaded and cursed that it was already his second clip. Covering the south of clearing, Dr Regan was likewise muttering curses and reloading, a similar array of destroyed bugs before him.
The clearing offered sufficient space to create a killing ground, but it was hardly a long-term defensible position.
“Oh, this is not good, not good at all!”
Nasal tones of distress echoed through the small clearing, underscored by an edge of hysteria so close to tears it was almost funny. The source of the panicked voice, Dr. Fielding, was a man ill-suited for the pressures of off-world missions. He was a nervous, mousey figure, his slight frame hunched in anxiety. His thinning hair, once a proud crown of intellect, now formed a ring around a balding scalp, with tufts sticking out in all directions like the mad scientist caricatures of old movies. His wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose, which twitched with every new perceived threat. The man’s hands, wringing together like a little old lady watching her bingo card odds go down the toilet, added to the picture of frazzled nerves.
“We should go, we should go, we should go.”
He was also huddled in a useless heap in the middle, surrounded by the team's backpacks and gear, a mini-fort of futility.
Outside said fort, Sergeant Dean Winchester gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the surrounding trees, scanning for a more real danger than the emotionally overwrought scientist behind him. Winchester was the polar opposite of Fielding in every way: tall, broad-shouldered, and solid as a rock. His military bearing was impeccable, with sharp eyes and a constant air of readiness. Winchester’s features were rugged and chiseled, his short, sandy-brown hair adding to his tough, no-nonsense demeanor. He had the presence of a man who had seen combat and come out the other side stronger for it. But even his discipline was being tested by Fielding’s incessant whining and the tension of a pending attack.
“It’s like Jurassic Park and every damn horror movie ever made. We are dead, dead, so dead. Flesh-eating bugs!”
“Shut up, Fielding!” Regan barked.
Winchester buried his smile in professional nonchalance but couldn’t help sharing a long-suffering look with Paul Regan, who was watching the other side of the clearing with his usual calm detachment. Dr. Regan was the team’s resident cynic, xeno-linguist and part-time military back-up, with a wry sense of humor that kept the group’s spirits up in even the dire-est of situations. He was tall and lean, his features sharp and intelligent, with dark hair that had a slight wave to it, reminiscent of the iconic Hawkeye from M*A*S*H*. Regan’s sharp eyes were always alive with a mixture of mischief and keen observation, and his easygoing demeanor masked a deep well of competence and bravery. He was the kind of man who could crack a joke one minute and save your life the next, all without breaking a sweat. He served for five years in Khanadar as a linguist with the various military forces deployed there, and the StarGate programme offered him a unique opportunity. Winchester was glad to have him on this mission - an extra set of practical, sensible hands was always needed on science missions.
Dr. Fielding, however, continued to gibber in terror, oblivious to the dynamic between the other men. Tapping his comm, Winchester tried to reach Colonel Sheppard again. “Colonel Sheppard, please come in.” And like the last few times, there was no response. Not static, just nothing. And that was far more worrying than the quiet of the forest or their current predicament. Regan, astute as ever, hugged his P-90 closer and muttered quietly, “Nothing, huh?”
Winchester shook his head. Colonel Sheppard should have been able to find Dr Princi quite easily, she couldn’t have wandered far. The unexpected, but hardly unprecedented discovery of hostile fauna offworld triggered the standard SOP to get the hell out of Dodge. The residents of Dodge would be back, and Dean wanted to be long gone before something scarier than dog-sized bugs appeared.
Fielding, not so out of his mind with worry that he couldn’t hear the conversation or pick up on its significance, moaned loudly and cried, “We’re doomed. Doomed!”
And Winchester, knowing Regan’s temperament, hissed, “No matter how tempting, please don’t punch him.”
Regan grinned brightly and whispered in reply, “Paperwork?”
“Paperwork,” Winchester nodded and continued his earnest study of the surroundings. Wherever Colonel Sheppard was, Winchester hoped it was the same place as Dr. Princi. And that they were both okay* and running their way, fast.
*Okay, being read here as a) alive, b) not mutated by a bug bite, or c) creating more paperwork.
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The true wonder of being a xeno-Entomologist was this – discovering not just new species of insect life, but new life entirely. The temptation to plunk any discovered specimens of insectoid life into ready-made ‘Earth’ categories was, well, categorically wrong and flawed.
Yes, the Ancients appeared to favour Earth-like worlds, or terraformed a large number of the planets in Pegasus to Earth-like standards, but this beauty of a specimen right here could not be placed in any Earth genus , family¸ or even the broad classification of Insecta . Generally, if it crawled, had more than four legs and looked like a bug, Xeno-Entomology got to study it.
This current beauty was not the first unique species Anita had found in her first few months in Pegasus, but the thrill of every find had hardly diminished; in fact, it had become an addictive high to chase on each and every exploratory mission. Finding something no one had seen before. Something that might not even be an insect.
Now, this new wonder before her, with more legs than body, a veritable millipede of the true order, but with only one thorax and tiny, tiny head, was resisting her gentle efforts to collect it and take it home for further study.
Perhaps if Atlantis wasn’t so insistent on using these ridiculous quarantines, reinforced specimen jars, and that she wore triple thick, nylon reinforced gloves – maybe it wouldn’t be such an arduous task. But they did, and between the thick jar and her gloves, the little blighter was evading her gentle, persistent attempts.
“Dr Princi!”
The deep voice and heavy hand on her shoulder startled Anita Princi so badly that she hit the branch the mili-spider was perched on and sent it flying off into the underbrush. “Noooo! What, why did…”
Anita turned to berate the inconsiderate, insensitive military neanderthal who had lost her her specimen, and instantly swallowed her words. Jill, back in Xeno, often told Anita she was too dismissive of the military presence on Atlantis. They keep you safe, Nita. Don’t scold them like errant children . Anita kept her thoughts about the brain capacity of Marines who liked to blow stuff up (and innocent bug bystanders) and Airjockeys with a thrill fixation to herself. She was not as socially inept as her mother frequently bemoaned – she just didn’t care to mollycoddle the moronic.
Colonel Sheppard, though? Well, he was not exactly in the same category as the other military personnel. A) Because he appeared to be fairly intelligent – intelligent enough to keep up with that awful Rodney McKay. B) He genuinely seemed intent on keeping scientists safe. And last C) and it was a big C, he was damn cute. C for Cute.
But he looked seriously pissed off right now.
“Colonel Sheppard?” Anita swallowed nervously, noting his bedraggled appearance, lack of firearms and … bleeding leg?
Fortunately for her, his expression was a mix of relief and frustrated anger, and she clutched onto that relief. “Remind me, Dr Princi, what are the three golden rules for off-world Gate travel?”
Paling, Anita gulped and twisted in embarrassment. It was like being hauled up in front of the class and publicly reprimanded. “Ah, listen to the Marines. Don’t go wandering off. Stay in radio contact.”
Sheppard wasn’t done. “And how many times have you attended, and apparently slept through, Major Lorne’s training and orientation classes?”
Somewhat defiantly, even if her squeak of outrage sounded more like a moan, Dr Princi pleaded, “I qualified every time, sir!”
It was indicative that Colonel Sheppard was not in a mood to quibble over technicalities because he growled, “Testing well but failing on application, Dr Princi! This is not a pass/fail situation! Once I can forgive reluctantly, twice I begin to suspect Lorne fancies you, but three times? Beyond unacceptable!”
Wilting under that glare, Anita fought back tears, angry at herself and him. “I didn’t…”
“Is your radio working?” the Colonel’s tone was sharp, unhappy and belatedly, Anita checked her radio on her belt. “Uhm?” she prevaricated and checked the signal. The light was red, indicating battery but no signal. She toggled the key and said clearly, “Sergeant Winchester, come in.”
Silence. “There’s a lot of interference on the world, something about the magnetic field, and that’s why we need to stay…” Anita blushed as she trailed off, Sheppard’s expression dark. Quoting him the terms of mission briefing where he had expressly told everyone to stay within eye shot and earshot because of the signal interference was a low point in her life. Truly.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
A dismissive handwave as if her excuses were gossamer webs on a cloudy day. “Get your stuff, give me your sidearm. We’re leaving. Now!”
Whether it was the authority behind the voice, or the expectation to be obeyed instantly, either way, Anita scrambled to comply, shoving her notepad into her pack, hauling it onto her shoulders and fumbling for her sidearm all at once.
“Shit,” Sheppard muttered as he checked the Berretta once she had handed it over, correctly, she hoped he noticed.
“What?” Anita asked, blushing at the quaver in her voice.
“Nothing, let’s go.”
And he left, fully expecting her to instantly follow. Biting her lip and hefting the heavy pack up into a more comfortable position, Anita hurried after him. “Are you limping, Colonel? I have a med kit…”
He didn’t even bother to glare at her, just upped the pace, and Anita sighed.
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Sheppard’s list of people to have a ‘serious’ talking to once he returned to Atlantis was growing longer. Lorne was at the top of the list – his 2IC should have noticed or picked up on Dr Princi’s propensity to ‘lose’ herself in the excitement of new bugs. Hell, Lorne had taken her out with the newbies first. Next was Dr Dhaver, who had selected Dr Princi for his growing department. Then it was his whole team, Keller included, for being too busy to come along. A dozen more eyeballs following the movements of the terminally absentminded would have helped. Next to last was Dr Fielding, whose histrionics about killer bugs, previously unknown germs and the wind messing up his hair had been distracting enough that he failed to notice Princi wandering off on her own. It hadn’t helped that almost immediately afterwards, Dr Fielding had disturbed a nest of said killer bugs, and a melee of P-90 vs bug carapace ensued. How Dr Princi had failed to hear that was something else to discuss. When they got back to Atlantis.
Last though, Sheppard was going to have a long talk with himself about going off-world without ‘his’ Team. It wasn’t completely without precedent, and honestly, Sheppard admitted he only had himself to blame. One Private down with violent food poisoning and he’d leapt at the chance to get offworld and avoid his paperwork. Lorne would no doubt berate him politely about avoiding said paperwork, but perhaps the bugs were punishment enough.
The gasp of dismay from Princi snapped Sheppard into high alert. Berretta pointed in front, at the ready. “What?”
They were following his winding path back to their temporary campsite, and it inevitably would take them back through the little nest of giant bugs that had waylaid him, but that wasn’t the problem. Dr Princi was pale and shaky, her eyes wide, mouth covered by one hand, the other pointing dramatically at the carnage in front of them. The carnage he had caused.
“You… you killed them all!”
Not rolling his eyes took some effort, but Sheppard managed.
It was a running trope in comedies, right? The nearsighted, oblivious professor who walked through countless dangers unaware, followed by her hapless guide who got stung, bitten, wounded and maimed by all the hazards the professor failed to see. Such was Sheppard’s lot today. Chasing after her and leaving Winchester to mop up the dog-sized bugs, he had, of course, run into the pony-sized spiders.
Princi’s pursuit of the carnivorous moths had led her past the nest of the mutant spiders, who, instead of attacking her (thankfully), went after Sheppard a few minutes later (of course).
Grimacing, Sheppard reviewed the savage scene before them and couldn’t help the spike of delighted glee at the sight of the decimated corpses of all those bugs. His trusty P90 had taken care of most of them, but the heaving swarm hadn’t paused in the attack despite the rain of bullets.
Princi whirled on him, eyes liquid with unshed tears but channeling real anger, and she cried, “How could you! Innocent, helpless, … just protecting their…”
Sheppard shut out the rest and let her ramble on about protecting alien wildlife, maintaining the sanctity of indigenous habitats, not making a negative impact on new worlds, yadda yadda. So she had paid attention to some of the orientation class – the parts she thought were relevant. Sheppard, though, was getting that prickly feeling that maybe he’d miscalculated. He’d been so intent on just getting back to the others so that they could get off this planet that he hadn’t paid as close attention to their path as he should have. It probably wasn’t a good idea to get so close to the nest again. There was no way he’d killed them all, and they were probably still hopping mad.
“Come on.” Sheppard grabbed Princi’s arm and dragged her, mid-protest, off into the jungle. It was time to go around the known bug nests and pick up the trail on the other side of the nests.
“Unconscionable. Cruel. Wantonly destructive. And just outright vindictive! What did they ever do to you?” Her voice rose in a distraught wail, and given the chance, she’d probably be pummeling his arm futilely.
It wasn’t a question, just more vitriol, so Sheppard ignored it, alert for signs of monstrous bugs.
So it came as somewhat of a surprise when something massive, but very not buglike, charged out of the trees and slammed into them.
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A high-pitched scream warbled through the air, startling a flock of birds - could be bats? - into flight. Their black silhouettes scattered against the bright blue sky like pieces of shattered night. Dr. Regan instinctively whirled in the direction of the scream, his sharp eyes scanning the treeline with urgency. Beside him, Sergeant Winchester was already on high alert, his body tense, eyes locked on the same section of the forest. His grip on his P-90 tightened, ready for any threat that might emerge.
Behind them, Dr. Anton Fielding was wailing quietly, his usual incessant chatter reduced to a pitiful murmur. For once, Regan didn’t bother checking on the annoying man. His attention was solely focused on the situation at hand.
“Sergeant?” Regan called out, his voice low but filled with concern.
Winchester didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flickered with the barely concealed desire to run off and check on Colonel Sheppard, who was perhaps (but hopefully wasn’t) the source of the scream. It was understandable; Sheppard was more than just his commanding officer—he was someone Winchester respected deeply, someone he would follow into any battle. But orders were orders, and Sheppard’s last command had been clear: Stay put. No wandering off. No one else getting lost on this “buggy” world - hold your position.
Winchester forced himself to stay rooted, despite the urge to bolt. He knew Regan was right there with him, sharing the same concern. But abandoning their post wouldn’t help Sheppard, especially with their radios down and the team separated. The forest was dense and dangerous, filled with more than just the strange bugs they had encountered earlier. For all they knew, there could be worse predators lurking in the shadows, and splitting up would only increase the chances of someone else getting hurt—or worse. He did not want to sit through Lorne’s remedial lecture on ‘Scientists are friends, not alien monster food’ – at least, not again.
But they couldn’t just wait around, hoping Sheppard would find them. They needed to do something proactive, something that would help their CO locate them. An idea sparked in Winchester’s mind—maybe there was a way to create a signal, something that would guide Sheppard and Dr. Princi back to their location.
He turned to Regan, his mind racing. “We can’t sit here and do nothing. I’m going to rig my radio to emit a signal—hopefully on a frequency that will create a ping on their radios. I can try jury-rig it into a proximity sensor.”
Regan nodded, his eyes lighting up with approval. “Smart. If we’re lucky, that thing will cut through the interference. Will it get louder the closer they are to us?”
Winchester was already kneeling on the ground, opening up his radio’s casing with practiced efficiency. “Yeah - but that’s the tricky part. If I can mimic the LSD properties a bit, it might work. Just keep an eye out. We don’t need any more surprises.”
Regan turned back to scanning the treeline, his P90 at the ready, while Winchester got to work. He stripped some wires, made a few quick connections, and adjusted the frequency settings. Now was the tricky part - getting the LSD to talk to the granted high-tech radio system and send a ping rather than detect. It was a rough hack, but it didn’t need to be pretty—just functional. He could only hope that the alterations would hold long enough for Sheppard to hear it on his radio.
First things first, getting it to ping a radio. Dean gritted his teeth, struggling a little with the ancient device. He barely understood its code, but he just needed it to accept the handshake from the radio as input…. Fielding, who had been too caught up in his own fear to notice what Winchester was doing, finally piped up. “What… what are you doing? What’s that noise?”
A high-pitched but fairly loud ping was emitting from Fielding’s radio. It wasn’t a blaring sound, but it was sharp and piercing, designed to cut through the ambient noise of the forest. He looked up at Fielding, his expression serious. “I’m trying to make sure the Colonel can find us. So shut up and watch the forest.”
Fielding blinked, seeming to finally grasp the gravity of their situation, and nodded, retreating into a nervous silence, his eyes scanning the forest.
The ping piped up on his own radio, and then Regans - and hopefully Sheppard’s and Princi’s. Winchester knew there was a chance the range was as limited as the LSD’s detection range, but it was better than waiting, hoping for the best. He shared a brief, understanding look with Regan, both of them aware that this might be their only chance to reconnect with their lost people. The Colonel may only join other Gate teams on random missions, but he was ‘their’ Zoomie Colonel. No way in hell was he going to be the one who let Sheppard be killed off-world.
He turned the volume down and stood, knees protesting a little. He was about to speak when a sharp rustle at their six o’clock brought both his and Regan’s guns up and pointed in that direction. Unseen, the ‘something’ rustled in the dense underbrush, and out of the side of his mouth, Regan hissed, “Don’t suppose your little homing beacon is attracting other things?”
“Shit,” Dean growled, flipping off the safety. “Watch the perimeter, Doc. Hopefully, it's just something gentle and soft going for a walk.”
Regan’s grin was bright. “Right, sure.”
They both watched the jungle, ready for anything.
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Generally, Sheppard loved running - even when he was trying to keep up with Ronan. Running for your life, however, was not his favourite pastime or running event. Years of life in Pegasus had taught him to run first, look later. So he pushed Princi to the side as the ‘thing’ barreled out of the forest and hit a clump of logs they had been near. Her scream of surprise and fright had scared bat-birds, the giant predator, and him, but Sheppard still ran, dragging her along with him.
The problem was, they had just run, and not necessarily in the direction they needed. After a good five minutes of hard sprinting, Dr Princi tripped and dragged them both to a halt. P-90 up, scanning the trees, Sheppard watched for the predator, but it wasn’t visible. He could hear it, but it wasn’t running.
Needing to keep moving and now heading in what he hoped was the right direction, Sheppard gritted his teeth, each step sending a jolt of pain through his injured leg. The makeshift bandage around his calf was doing little to stop the bleeding, and the rough terrain wasn’t helping. Dr. Princi was a few steps ahead, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination as she glanced back at the creature that was now clearly stalking them.
They followed a narrow path through the dense jungle forest and came to a small clearing where an old giant tree had fallen, creating a break in the canopy. Pausing for a second to catch their breath, Sheppard winced, feeling the wound on his calf protest and flare with pain. They were in trouble, for sure. Princi was muttering under her breath, and Sheppard half-expected her to be cursing him.
Instead, as he scanned the jungle, watching for the tiger-thing, her words become audible. “What in the hell is buzzing? Where is it?” From the corner of his periphery, John noted that she pulled out her radio from a jacket pocket and peered it. “Are you buzzing?”
The deep shadows of the foliage and undergrowth were frigging dark, and John felt a growing need to move. “Doc?” he hissed, and she glared at him. “One second,” she murmured, twisting a dial, and then a very loud, very piercing ‘beep’ blasted from the radio. It wasn’t a comms channel, but it was something. Sheppard took the radio, perhaps a bit too abruptly based on Anita’s exclamation, and he swung it north, then south. The beep was marginally louder towards the east, and Sheppard grinned. “Thank the Pope for intelligent marines. Winchester, I could kiss you.”
“What?” Anita asked, her expression dim.
“Hopefully a homing beacon, this way,” he said, waving towards the east.
“Ah, what? Homing…. are you for real?”
Her voice trailed off, her gaze fixed on the south portion of the clearing.
Cursing, John turned. The predator stalking them was on the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, half in the light. It seemed reluctant to approach quickly but was clearly gearing up for something. It was a massive, tiger-like beast, its sleek, muscular body covered in dark, mottled fur that helped it blend into the shadows of the forest. But the most striking feature was its mandibles—sharp, insect-like pincers that clicked together ominously as it watched them. The creature’s eyes, large and multifaceted, glinted with an unsettling focus..
“Oh my god,” Princi whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s incredible… terrifying, but incredible.”
Sheppard didn’t share her enthusiasm. He raised his Beretta, aiming at the creature. “I’d rather it be less incredible and further away from us.” Why had it shown itself? An ambush from the canopy would have been better.
Princi swallowed hard, torn between her scientific curiosity and the very real danger they were in. “But, Colonel, we could learn so much from it. Its physiology—”
“Doc,” Sheppard cut her off, his voice firm. “Now is not the time. If that thing gets any closer, we’re going to be the ones it learns from – how we taste, what we sound like screaming….”
She paled and nodded. Slowly, they began to back away towards the signal for their team, warily watching the creature, hoping it was cautious enough not to attack two large threats. Sheppard tried to keep the thing in his eyeline, watching for tell-tale signs of a pounce. The little radio on his hip continued to beep.
As if sensing their intention, the tiger-bug crouched low, its mandibles clicking louder. Sheppard’s finger tightened on the trigger, and in a split second, between thought of “Shit, shit!” and “Crap!”, the creature lunged. He fired, the gunshot echoing through the trees, startling bat and bird. The bullet hit its mark, striking the beast in the shoulder. The creature let out a high-pitched screech, its powerful legs skidding in the dirt as it was forced back, losing momentum, great paws ploughing up the ground.
For a moment, Sheppard thought it might fall, but the tiger-bug growled-hissed and edged back a few paces, its eyes still locked on them. Blood dripped from its wound, but the creature showed no signs of giving up. In fact, despite the bug eyes, it looked pissed off. It did not retreat at all.
Great.
But it did not leap again.
Princi gasped, her fascination giving way to fear. “Maybe shooting it wasn’t a good idea, Colonel? It looks… angry.”
“Not a lot of options, right now, Doc,” Sheppard replied grimly, his gaze never leaving the creature. “It's decided we are prey, and unless you can puff up and make yourself look bigger and scarier, loud, painful bangs are the next best thing.” She stared at him like he was growing a pair of mandibles (again), and he stared back at her in confusion. “How… what. You are joking, right?”
“What?” he groaned, eyes more on the tiger than her. He didn’t have time to explain himself. “We need to get out of here before it decides to try again.” The fact that it hadn’t run was worrying.
He took a step backward, but his injured leg chose that moment to give out - running on it earlier had been a bad idea. Pain shot through him like a lightning bolt, and he stumbled, nearly dropping his gun. Princi caught him, her hands shaking as she tried to help him stay up. Sheppard kept his eyes on the monster, who had frozen in place as he stumbled.
Oh joy, it had figured out he was hurt. Could probably smell the blood. Lovely.
“Colonel, are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with panic.
“Just peachy,” Sheppard grunted, forcing himself to stand. “Let’s move, slowly. Don’t make any sudden movements. Look big and dangerous.”
Again, she stared at him. he was an interesting bug, but together, they began to limp away from the clearing - heading East, Sheppard leaning heavily on Princi as they made their way through the thick underbrush. Princi led the way, facing forward, while Sheppard walked awkwardly, eyes to the rear, watching their stalker. Each step was agonizing, searing pain lancing up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.
The tiger-bug stalked them, keeping its distance but never losing sight of its prey. Its wounded shoulder seemed to slow it down, but its eyes were still locked on Sheppard and Princi with a cold, predatory focus. It slipped in and out of the shadows but wasn’t exactly hiding its intent. Sheppard could hear the soft rustling of leaves as it moved through the forest, a constant reminder that it was still there, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
Princi’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and Sheppard could feel her trembling under his weight. “We’re going to make it,” he said, trying to reassure her as much as himself. “Just keep moving. The others are nearby, I hope.” The beep was getting louder, right?
But with every step, they got slower, and the creature inched closer, its mandibles clicking in anticipation. Sheppard knew they couldn’t outrun it, not in his condition now - not again. They needed to find the rest of the team, and fast.
“Come on, Doc,” Sheppard urged, trying to pick up the pace despite the pain. “Faster, we neeto d back up. They can help us take this thing down.”
Princi nodded, her eyes darting between the path ahead and the creature behind them. “Okay… okay, just keep moving. Follow the beeping, right?”
They continued to stumble through the forest, the sound of the tiger-bug’s stalking presence always behind them. The creature was patient, clearly waiting for them to make a mistake. Sheppard could feel the exhaustion setting in, but he knew they couldn’t afford to stop.
At his hip, the radio continued to beep, its volume increasing, and was it his imagination, but did the tiger-bug seem fixated in particular on him?
*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga
“Incoming!” Regan’s roar and subsequent P-90 fire spun Dean around and he sought sight on a target. He expected large bugs of some sort and was not disappointed, but the hissing, advancing millipede on steroids scurrying at them was moving far faster than he liked.
He opened fire with Regan and the automatic gunfire ripped into the shell, accompanied by spurts of ichor and whatnot. Their aim was true, but it was not enough to slow the creature. Moving far faster than expected, the millipede with overly large mandibles ran right at the barricade of backpacks, and the screaming Dr Fielding. “Shit!” Dean ran forward, trying to get in front of it, and take it out with a headshot, but the millipede zigged as he zagged and swarmed the backpacks.
To his credit, Dr Fielding scuttled out of harm's way incredibly quickly, his accompanying cacophony of terror enough of signal of his continued health, and Winchester and Regan fired at the massive multi-legged creature again. It shuddered but seemed undettered and ripped through backpack material with frightening ease. Pausing for a second to regroup and plan, and frankly reload, Dean yelled, “Get behind us, Fielding. Watch the rear!”
Fielding did not move in any direction indicated, but continued to scuttle backwards, his impersonation of air-raid siren in full force. Naturally, because that was just how this day was going, it was then that a second, granted smaller, milipede launched itself from the bushes, right at Fielding. Reaching octaves hither unheard, and before Dean could react, Fielding flung his only weapon, his gun at the millipede's face, and followed that with his radio.
Ignoring the gun, the bug snatched up the radio, no - the bug crushed the radio and in a highly co-ordinated scuttle of legs, disappeared into the underbrush. Regan, who had not stopped firing at the larger anthropod, shouted in alarm, and Winchester whirled - finger already depressing the trigger. The milliped was attacking, or perhaps more accurately, was trying to eat his jury-rigged radio emitter. Its construct had been fragile at best, and it didn’t take much to scatter the parts, so in seconds, the contraption was toast - crushed by mandibe and insect feet. Once the high-pitched ‘pin’ of the emitter stopped, so did the millieped. Its antenna waved, seeking, and it trundled off, leaking ichor and other icky substances.
Stunned, Dean shared a glance at Regan. They had a speculative answer at least as why the bugs attacked, something about the radios pissed them off, but Colonel Sheppard was still out there, and who knew what else might piss the oversized bugs.
*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga
“Shit.”
Sheppard had lost sight of the damn tiger. It had slipped into a patch of shadow as they pushed through some brush, the alien jungle as irritating as any earth jungle. Cursing under his breath, he hissed, “Which way?”
Princi shrugged but pointed in a rough east direction. Fearing that a large tiger-bug was about to leap out at them at any second, Sheppard risked picking up the pace. It was of course at that moment he heard two things. Ok, to be more accurate, he heard the crunch of underbrush, and he very clearly did not hear a radio ping.
Unable to risk looking at the radio, eyes constantly scanning the forest, Sheppard whispered, “Check the radio.”
Shaking, her hands trembling, Princi nodded, and fumbled the radio off his belt. She turned a few dials, and whispered in return, “It's like before. It's on, but no signal.”
“Shit.” Sheppard risked a glance upwards, trying to spot anything familiar. Jungle looked like jungle, and he had no idea how far away the camp clearing was. The crunch of underbrush rustled again, and before either of them could react, an oversized milipede scuttled past. It was staggering a bit and looked shot to hell, and disappeared into the foliage. “Too wounded to care about being seen?” Anita whispered, aghast.
The tiger was completely out of sight, and Sheppard did not dare hope it had given up. He bit his lip in indecision, but figured, what the hell? Maybe there was a chance they were close by. He whistled sharply, using the pre-arranged bird call for teams separated on hostile worlds and unable to use comms. He paused, counted to three, and whistled again. A final pause, and a third final whistle.
The answering silence was painful, only the insistent buzz of local midges in response.
Then… faintly, to their east, he heard Winchter’s reply. Finally.
Then whistle repeated, and without saying anything, suddenly fearful that noise would alert the predator, Sheppard indicated that Princi should take the lead. Her face was pale, frightened but she nodded. The underbrush was thick and full of all sorts of unpleasant webs and things, but she tried to go straight.
Sheppard stopped to whistle one more time, and the answering call was now more north east. The danger that would following sound was that it could be deceiving on exact direction. Hence the three whistles.
Sheppard could feel his strength flagging, and figured his calf wound was bleeding again. He kept stumbling, and the constant tension of watching for a tiger in dense jungle was exhausting.
Pushing through a particularly thick cluster of purple ferns he did not remember seeing the first time, Colonel Sheppard and Dr. Princi abruptly emerged from the underbrush, looking worse for wear but alive. He’d never been so glad to see Dr Fielding before as the man shrieked, not surprising but thank goodness, Winchester and Regan were running over.
Sheppard leaned heavily on Princi, his leg screaming with pain, but the sight of Winchester and Regan and their weapons brought a small, weary smile to his face.
Winchester hurried over, his concern barely hidden. He quickly slung Sheppard’s arm over his shoulder to relieve some of the weight from Princi. “Glad you found us, sir.”
“Did you jury-rig a proximity beacon?” Sheppard asked, his voice strained but curious. Man, he loved this marine. Winchester snorted, “Kind of, but the damn bugs don’t like radios it seems.”
“Ohh,” Sheppard grunted, a few pieces falling together, “great. Either way, nice work, Sergeant.”
Regan grinned, lowering his weapon now that their CO was safe. He reached Dr Princi and helped her to the mess of backpacks. It was time to leave, and the quicker the better. “I’ll take a look at your leg, Colonel,” Winchester started, planning on lowering Sheppard onto the ground.
A low growl rumbled through the trees, arresting that movement. Rolling his eyes, Sheppard growled, “Ok, here’s the sitrep. Tiger-bug is on our tail. Big, tiger-like, obviously, claws, mandibles, pissed off I shot it.”
Winchester and Regan nodded, eyes on the jungle. “I applied a field med kit post piercing injury so, it can wait until we get back, because we are bugging out.” His order brooked no argument, and there was none. Not even from Dr Princi who seemed deflated but relieved. Dr Fielding was already at the edge of the clearing, ready to run to the Gate.
“Yes, sir,” Winchester murmured, still scanning for threats. “Just the one tiger-bug?”
“So far,” Sheppard replied. Winchester and Regan quickly grabbed what backpacks they could, shoved a bag at Dr Fielding. Anita Princi stared forlornly at her many sample bags, and chose the one she would not abandon. To their credit, the ragtag Gate Team was ready for ex-fil in minutes.
Motioning for Winchester to stick with him, he directed Regan to protect the scientists. “Take my P-90,” Regan said, handing it over. Sheppard grunted, and after checking that they had left nothing important behind, slowly and deliberately, he began guiding the group in the direction of the StarGate. With Winchester supporting Sheppard occasionally, Regan took point, eyes scanning for any sign of ambush, while Fielding flailed and whined nervously, much to Princi’s frustration.
“Keep it together, Fielding,” Princi hissed, her voice low but urgent as she wrangled the panicking scientist. “We’re almost there.” The Gate wasn’t too far, maybe a klick or two, but it was through dense jungle.
Fielding’s eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded frantically, allowing Princi to guide him as they moved. To Sheppard’s dismay, and Winchester’s low hiss, they spotted the stalking predator within a few minutes. It had been crouched in a pool of shadow and seemed to sense their attention. It hissed and withdrew, but they could still see its shape in the foliage. Both men grimaced and marched on, and t he tiger-bug followed at a distance, periodically visible.
“Any idea why it's following us? Not the typical behaviour of predators, sir.” Winchester asked, focusing on the surroundings.
Sheppard shrugged, “You’re not wrong, it's unusual. Maybe it's the scent of blood, or the radios, or its territorial. No idea, but it's not really a bug or a cat - so who knows, Winchester.”
A grunt was his only reply, and they walked on, Sheppard's limp growing worse with each step. The group continued their slow, cautious retreat, inching closer to the Stargate. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate, as they tried to avoid provoking the creature into a full attack. “See, we aren’t running. We’re not prey,” Sheppard hissed under his breath, and Winchester grinned.
As they finally reached the Stargate, Regan quickly dialed Atlantis, his fingers flying over the DHD. The Stargate roared to life, its event horizon bursting forth with a flash of blue light. The sudden appearance of the wormhole startled the creature, a broken growl and lashing tail visible in the undergrowth. The wounded one wasn’t visible, but Sheppard felt its strange insect-eyes on him, and that feeling of being hunted persisted.
“Go, go, go!” Regan shouted, gesturing for the team to enter the gate.
One by one, they stepped through the event horizon, their hearts pounding with adrenaline. As was his want, Sheppard went last, and he winked cheekily as he stepped through, flipping the tiger-bug the bird as the wormhole wrapped around him. As the cold of the wormhole enveloped him, he thought, “I really hate bugs.”
As Sheppard stepped out of the wormhole, his injured leg finally gave out, the pain too much to bear. He collapsed, his grip on the P90 loosening. Winchester, quick to react, barely managed to catch Sheppard before he hit the ground. They tumbled onto the gate room floor in Atlantis, in a pile and the Stargate shut down behind them.
Sheppard lay on the cool floor, staring up at the familiar ceiling of Atlantis. He was safe, but the adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain in his leg was becoming unbearable. "Medical team to the gate room!" Dr. Beckett’s voice echoed through the room, laced with urgency. The next few moments were a blur as medics swarmed around Sheppard, lifting him onto a stretcher.
Princi hovered nearby, her face pale and drawn. "I’m sorry, Colonel. I promise…"
"Don’t," Sheppard rasped, his voice weak but firm. "We’ll debrief later." He didn’t say it, but she knew it anyway. Her off-world travel permit was going to be yanked. She wasn’t going to walk away from her obsessive wandering scott-free. She nodded, tears brimming in her eyes.
Sheppard pointed at Winchester as the medics wheeled him away, and yelled, “Make sure they do decon properly!” The Sergeant nodded, and sighed.
*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga
Hours later, Sheppard lay in the infirmary, staring at the ceiling. The painkillers had dulled the worst of the pain, but his mind was still racing. The mission had been too close, too dangerous. He knew that the Pegasus Galaxy was full of unknown threats, but this one had nearly cost him and Princi their lives.
Dr. Weir visited him, her expression serious. "Colonel, I’ve read the reports. That was a close call."
Sheppard nodded, his eyes distant. "Too close."
"We’ll have to reassess our protocols for off-world missions," Weir continued. "Especially with scientists like Dr. Princi. Curiosity is important, but not at the expense of safety."
"Yeah," Sheppard agreed, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He needed to talk to Lorne about their screening and training… and find an effective way to drum offworld safety into over-enthusiastic scientists.
Weir smiled at him, and she rested a hand on his shoulder. "You did well, John. You brought her back alive - all of them alive. That’s what counts."
He forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah," he repeated. "That’s what counts."
As Weir left him to rest, Sheppard closed his eyes, trying to let sleep take him. A hesitant cough broke his train of thought and he looked up to see Winchester hovering at the door. Sheppard motioned him in, wondering why the Sergeant looked a little flustered. “Sergeant?”
“You all patched up, sir?” his voice was deep, resonating, but still…. nervous.
“Fine,” Sheppard confirmed, gesturing at his bandaged, elevated leg. “Keller’s got me on the good stuff. And I’ve assigned myself to light duty for a few days.” Winchester shorted, genuine amusement in his eyes. “Sounds about right, sir.”
Silence between them like an unpleasant thought, Winchester hesitating for some reason. “Spill it, Sergeant.”
Winchester bit his lip, irritation now evident. “Sir, Dr McKay has expressly requested my presence on a mission – the one to PX-9285. Major Lorne has declined my request to be reassigned, I…”
Sheppard started laughing, “I’m also declining that request. I’m not having Rodney whine at me for a week because I pulled you off the team.”
“But sir, he keeps ambushing me and throwing random equations and questions at me!” Winchester sounded petulant, knew he sounded petulant and didn’t care. “He says my proof for the Riemann Hypothesis is flawed but interesting. I don’t even know what that is!”
Sheppard laughed, “Winchester, I have no idea what that is either. Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. I won’t tell Rodney about your homing beacon, and if you go on the mission to PX-92 whatever with McKay, I’ll make sure you are off McKay rotation for six months.”
Winchester rolled his eyes, realised he was rolling his eyes at his CO, and stiffened. Surprisingly, though, he countered with, “A year.”
Snorting, Sheppard shook his head. “Eight months. One mission is not…”
“Can I threaten to shoot him?”
“No.”
“Stun him?”
Sheppard paused, grin on his face, “Threaten to stun him or actually stun him?”
“Both?”
“Threaten to stun him, and eight months.”
“Deal.”
Not happy, Winchester chewed his lip for a long second. “You ok, sir?”
Smiling, Sheppard nodded, “Sure. Leg will heal just fine.” Winchester looked like he wanted to say more, but instead bobbed his head and said, “Sir, can I just say? Missions would be a hell of a lot easier without scientists.”
Laughing a little, Sheppard nodded. “Boring sure, but easier. Dismissed Sergeant.”
WInchester departed with a not quite correct salute, and a smirk.
Sheppard was half-tempted to join the mission to PX whatever. Watching Rodney tangle with Winchester was always fun.
And he, was clearly a sucker for punishment.
*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga*sga
Fin