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[ FINISHED / CLOSED ]
Who: John Sheppard & Prior Walter
What: A prophet and a soldier walk into a nightmare
When: First week of September!
Where: In the realm of sleep.
Warning(s): There's gonna be talk of violence, torture, death, and it'll probably only go downhill
John's had variations of this dream before, over the years, but the core of it is always the same. He's always too late, he's always responsible, he's always at fault in some way. No matter how many times people tell him otherwise, John has long known this is a pretty solid truth. He's got a shaky track record, he disobeys orders, he makes mistakes. Sometimes it's Ford, who's only a kid. Sometimes it's everyone. Sometimes he's shooting Elizabeth as the replicator nanites take over her body. This one, though, is an old familiar story.
In the dark corridor of the wraith compound, John stands and waits for what he knows is coming. It's cold, silent aside from the shift of him adjusting his gun, and a faint mist hangs in the air. The floors and walls are a strange, dark, twisted organic looking structure -- John knows how they make these things, now. How they grow ships. The odd, dim lights pulse and he takes a steadying breath as he slides the Atlantean scanner out of his vest. It tells him what he already knows, he's the only dot in this hall right now. He's alone.
The first scream cuts through his thought process and John looks up sharply, and he doesn't know why it still makes his heart race but it does. Sumner's voice seems to echo as he runs, and he knows he's going to be too late because that's how this works. That's how it always works.
Before, years ago, he'd gone running around the building desperately looking for a way in. He'd been on the wrong floor, and when he'd finally found a place he could see down into the Keeper's room he'd had to lay down on the floor and aim his gun through holes.
He'd still been too late.
Now, he knows the way at least. He cuts straight around the corner from the cells, along twisting paths and runs in -- shoots the two guards and circles around the table with it's oddly macabre feast. With Toran's frail, dried out dead husk propped up in one chair at the end.
The Keeper has Sumner on his knees, her claws digging into the flesh of his chest as she drags life from him. His eyes have already gone milky, his hair white. Colonel Marshall Sumner had been forty five, John knows now. He'd been forty five but in that moment he'd looked like a man in his nineties, and John hadn't even been sure if he could see or hear him. Sumner had disliked him from day one, hadn't wanted him on the expedition, hadn't approved of anything he did. It didn't matter now, of course, but it mattered to everyone who look at the decision he made.
"Major," a voice says behind him, and he knows who it is without even looking back. He knows the voice of Dilon Everett because he hears it in his head so often. Can picture the pinched disappointment on his face. Everett hadn't been there, but he'd talked to John about it. He'd let him know his opinion, even if he'd changed his mind later. It didn't matter, the original words still clung to John -- burned themselves into his memories. "I think I should tell you that Colonel Marshall Sumner was a very good friend of mine. We served together a lot of years. You know, I cannot for the life of me figure how it is that you could go as far as you did and not save him -- how you could get that close ..."
John never leaves a person behind if he can, but Sumner was close to death and sometimes -- sometimes surviving isn't a better fate. He swallows back a wave of nausea, lifts his gun and narrows his eyes at the Keeper as she hisses at him.
"Worse, you admit to firing the shot that killed him."
Yes, he thinks, yes I did. Because I believed that's what he wanted me to do. John lets out a slow breath and shoots a burst of gunfire straight through her hand and into Sumner. She yanks her hand back and he slumps over as the Keeper screams an unholy scream of rage. John shoots another burst into her --
Then he's back standing in the hallway again, and he's breathing a little harder this time as he lowers his gun and waits for Sumner to start screaming again.
What: A prophet and a soldier walk into a nightmare
When: First week of September!
Where: In the realm of sleep.
Warning(s): There's gonna be talk of violence, torture, death, and it'll probably only go downhill
John's had variations of this dream before, over the years, but the core of it is always the same. He's always too late, he's always responsible, he's always at fault in some way. No matter how many times people tell him otherwise, John has long known this is a pretty solid truth. He's got a shaky track record, he disobeys orders, he makes mistakes. Sometimes it's Ford, who's only a kid. Sometimes it's everyone. Sometimes he's shooting Elizabeth as the replicator nanites take over her body. This one, though, is an old familiar story.
In the dark corridor of the wraith compound, John stands and waits for what he knows is coming. It's cold, silent aside from the shift of him adjusting his gun, and a faint mist hangs in the air. The floors and walls are a strange, dark, twisted organic looking structure -- John knows how they make these things, now. How they grow ships. The odd, dim lights pulse and he takes a steadying breath as he slides the Atlantean scanner out of his vest. It tells him what he already knows, he's the only dot in this hall right now. He's alone.
The first scream cuts through his thought process and John looks up sharply, and he doesn't know why it still makes his heart race but it does. Sumner's voice seems to echo as he runs, and he knows he's going to be too late because that's how this works. That's how it always works.
Before, years ago, he'd gone running around the building desperately looking for a way in. He'd been on the wrong floor, and when he'd finally found a place he could see down into the Keeper's room he'd had to lay down on the floor and aim his gun through holes.
He'd still been too late.
Now, he knows the way at least. He cuts straight around the corner from the cells, along twisting paths and runs in -- shoots the two guards and circles around the table with it's oddly macabre feast. With Toran's frail, dried out dead husk propped up in one chair at the end.
The Keeper has Sumner on his knees, her claws digging into the flesh of his chest as she drags life from him. His eyes have already gone milky, his hair white. Colonel Marshall Sumner had been forty five, John knows now. He'd been forty five but in that moment he'd looked like a man in his nineties, and John hadn't even been sure if he could see or hear him. Sumner had disliked him from day one, hadn't wanted him on the expedition, hadn't approved of anything he did. It didn't matter now, of course, but it mattered to everyone who look at the decision he made.
"Major," a voice says behind him, and he knows who it is without even looking back. He knows the voice of Dilon Everett because he hears it in his head so often. Can picture the pinched disappointment on his face. Everett hadn't been there, but he'd talked to John about it. He'd let him know his opinion, even if he'd changed his mind later. It didn't matter, the original words still clung to John -- burned themselves into his memories. "I think I should tell you that Colonel Marshall Sumner was a very good friend of mine. We served together a lot of years. You know, I cannot for the life of me figure how it is that you could go as far as you did and not save him -- how you could get that close ..."
John never leaves a person behind if he can, but Sumner was close to death and sometimes -- sometimes surviving isn't a better fate. He swallows back a wave of nausea, lifts his gun and narrows his eyes at the Keeper as she hisses at him.
"Worse, you admit to firing the shot that killed him."
Yes, he thinks, yes I did. Because I believed that's what he wanted me to do. John lets out a slow breath and shoots a burst of gunfire straight through her hand and into Sumner. She yanks her hand back and he slumps over as the Keeper screams an unholy scream of rage. John shoots another burst into her --
Then he's back standing in the hallway again, and he's breathing a little harder this time as he lowers his gun and waits for Sumner to start screaming again.
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He doesn't, of course he doesn't, but he has to be. That's the problem, isn't it? John always ends up alone, he knows that. He faced things alone so people didn't have to, that's his job.
Yet Prior steps forward toward the wraith anyway, undeterred, and John feels fear grip him even though this has to be a dream. ]
Prior, don't--
[ John lurches into action, moves around to fire at the wraith. The gun's report is loud in the otherwise silent room, but as the wraith turns to hiss at him she simply vanishes in a way he knows she shouldn't.
All that's left is the skeletal, weak, barely alive man on his knees.
John hesitates, lowers his gun as he moves closer and makes an attempt to steer Prior away. ]
We should go before more come.
[ More wraith, in the dream. They never usually get a chance in this nightmare, but doesn't mean they won't -- and John wants Prior both away from Sumner and away from any danger in general.
He doesn't want to talk about this. Easier to remove everyone from the room. ]
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But Jesus, was that really necessary? He's still getting used to being half blind without being left half-deaf, too.
But, of course, his vision's 20-20 for now. And as he gets closer to Sumner, he could wish it wasn't. He looks like pain given human form. It would be easier if there weren't still something awake and aware behind the eyes. It's not hard to see why this haunts John.]
Is that how it usually works? You go and it's all over for another shitty night? Or do your eyes stay closed and you end up right back here?
[This whole play-through's familiar territory for John, and not just from his past. Not flinching over ghostly, lecturing figured from the future was enough of a clue to that.
So something needs to change or nothing will. Prior makes himself look at Sumner again.]
Oh, you really look like you could use a rest. [With some degree of will, he makes himself offer out a hand to the malformed creature that used to be a man. The offer's not taken, but the suggestion is. Prior watches as Sumner sinks from his knees to the floor.
He's dying. He's dying, but not the way he was. His bones fill out with flesh, ashy skin turns healthy pink. It's like watching one of those stop motion movies of flowers blooming, the whole process reduced to seconds.
And then he's still, and gone, but whole.
That's when Prior looks away.]
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John is looking between Prior and Sumner in confusion, gun lowered now, and something about the whole thing makes him feel queasy all over again. This -- this isn't supposed to happen, but now he has the awful hindsight of knowing it technically could.
That technically a wraith can undo what they have done, can give life back. If he'd known that, could he have made her give Sumner his life back? The way Prior somehow did yet didn't, making him whole again?
Is that how it usually works? You go and it's all over for another shitty night? ]
No.
[ John looks around warily, as if he's waiting for something else to change, but for now the nightmare seems to be suspended -- perhaps under Prior's whims. He doesn't really know. ]
This isn't how it's meant to happen. I shot him.
[ Shot, shoots, will shoot, what's a little tense confusion between friends? It's a nightmare based on a memory, and and Sumner has never slumped peacefully over like that before. John can feel that his breathing is a little quick, uneasy at the change of events -- because at least when this all sticks to the script he feels in control because he can predict what will happen. Now, now John has no idea what the hell is going on. ]
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Then that hasn't changed.
[You shot him. Then he's been gone a long time now and, from the look of the husk Prior saw, would have been gone whether he was shot or not. Prior finally pushes a hand against the floor and straightens up, turning back to John.]
And thank god you did. I'd want shooting too, given the choice. But he's not... whatever he was anymore. You let him go. So maybe you should let this let you go, too.
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John sneers in derision at that, paces a half step away. Oh, sure, like he hadn't considered that at all. ]
Great, you're full of shitty platitudes even in my dreams.
[ ... I'll take things you say when you think somebody isn't real for $100, Alex. ]
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[It's a little arch, sure, but no kind of hissy fit. And he's not trying to sweep this away like it's all so much dead-person dust. A quick look over his shoulder would show that as impossible.]
I wasn't calling it easy. But it's got to be easier than this.
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John glowers back at Prior again. It isn't even real anger, it isn't even Prior he should be directing all this at. It's nothing to do with him, but he's there and he's poking at things and John can feel the tangle of emotion boiling -- ready to lash out at anyone close. ]
It shouldn't be easy, shooting people isn't meant to be easy. It's one thing to -- compartmentalise shooting any enemy, it's another to shoot your commanding officer.
[ Who didn't like you, who didn't want you there and didn't he just prove why by fucking it all up? Just like everyone knew he would? ]
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[Prior's never been tested on the point, but there's nothing in his nature that suggest he could cope with killing anyone, no matter what colour hat they had on.]
And if you don't shove it in a box, what then? All I know is I must've walked past a hundred people with scraps of cardboard reading veteran begging for pennies on the street, and the thing I wonder is, maybe nobody's any good at putting that kind of thing in a compartment. So it fucked you up. Like it probably should. Have you talked to anyone about it? Anyone not inclined to talk to you like there was no mercy in this. Or are nights like these the payment for storing it away the rest of the time?
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[ Or maybe it wouldn't, since Prior is in his head so Prior is technically -- god, is he talking to himself? Is he trying to talk himself into letting go by dreaming about Prior telling him to let go?
John lifts a hand to his face as he prowls away again, trying to steady himself. Have you talked to anyone about it? John just imagines Kate Heightmeyer, her waves of blonde hair and her reassuring smile. She's dead now, too, and maybe he didn't directly kill her but he's still the reason she's dead -- and all the secrets he'd told her in sessions gone with her. He'd joked once that the Natha needed to start waking up psychologists and really, on some level it hadn't been a joke.
He'd trusted Heightmeyer, and now she was dead, along with all the other people he'd failed to save.
The figure of Kolya prowls a step forward, his lips twisted in an unkind smile:
You claim your purpose is to protect your people, but half the time you can't even do that. That's what drives you, isn't it? Your past failures. ]
Well, since you're dead too I think we can agree I succeeded in some areas.
[ He shifts uncomfortably, feeling trapped between Kolya and Prior, then tries to rally himself. ]
What even is this, a party to tell me how fucked up I am? You don't even belong here, and neither do you --
[ He rounds on Prior, narrowing his eyes. ]
In fact, I was pretty sure if I was gonna have dreams about you it'd be ones where you turn up naked and I feel weird about it in the morning. This is much less pleasant, for the record.
[ Things you continue to say when you think someone isn't real for $100, Alex. ]
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Really? Well let me gather the pearls I just dropped in my shock, because I am the poster child for magical cures.
[Unlike some people, who can die and wake up right as rain in the morning - Prior didn't even get the cures everyone else got coming here. All magic's ever done for him is screw things harder. So fuck that little dig. And fuck John, for thinking that's the message implied in anything he's said.]
And if your alternative to something that doesn't work like magic for you is to store all this up and torture yourself after dark then knock yourself out. Everybody's got their kinks. But I hope you know that you're the one telling yourself this bullshit now. [A gesture to the man running his mouth off back there.] You. Not him. And personally, I'm starting to think I'd have to turn up naked in your bed at home before you felt guilty enough to dream about me.
[While Prior speaks, Kolya seems to have got stuck on a loop of that same line: That's what drives you, isn't it? Your past failures. Eventually Prior's heard so much of it he turns round to snap at the half corporeal figure.]
Oh, will you give it a break? I don't know what crawled up your ass, Major Burns, but everybody fails. We fail people and we are failed. Learning from mistakes might not be current military strategy but I'm willing to bet we still teach it in elementary school. Nobody can protect everyone from everything. Shit happens, and if it doesn't hit the fan in one direction it'll crap on you from another. People who know that and keep trying? They're who you want on your side.
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It's something John would easily tell anyone else, but he can't swallow his own platitudes. John holds himself to a different standard. His failures stick, weigh him down, draw him slowly under the waves like hundreds of grasping hands.
You torture yourself every day, John. How many is it, now? Kolya prompts, and John scowls at that. ]
What, did you take villainous monologue classes for extra credit? Listen to the prophet, okay? All of you just -- leave me alone! I've been fucked without consent enough for one night, thank you.
[ He's still pacing, but at some point between blinks his gun, jacket and tactical vest have vanished off his uniform. John is, instead, just pacing in a plain black t-shirt and trousers, unarmed against the potential threads around him. ]
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Is he a villain? [Because that's the role John seems to be casting himself in, more and more.] Or just wrong?
[Is he wrong, John?]
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Remembers shouting at Kolya over the chaos of a storm as he threatened to kill Elizabeth and Rodney.
Remembers laying on the floor of the cell Kolya put him in, remembers being convinced he was going to die there -- being tortured until he was nearly as much of a husk as Sumner had been. Ordering Elizabeth to leave him there. ]
Oh, he's a villain alright.
[ There's something dark and angry in John's voice, being Kolya had crossed too many lines he couldn't forgive. John understands mercy, but not when you hurt his people. Not when you do it repeatedly.
Still, he studies Kolya a long moment before turning to Prior again and something nags. Something about Prior hasn't fit here from the beginning, but the more he dwells on it the more wrong it feels. He prowls over to him slowly, curious frown in place. ]
Why are you here?
[ He's asked it before, but he's asking again. Everything else is slowly fading, but Prior isn't. ]
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[Stepping back, he hops up onto the edge of the table, kicking his feet lightly through the misty form of Kolya, who vanishes with the evidence of his insubstantiality.]
Me? Oh, who knows. Maybe there's a part of me that thought you shouldn't be alone, too. And I've been waiting for that.
[He gestures to a door where a door wasn't a moment ago. This one looks like a bathroom door, complete with the stick figure of the gender intended to use it.]
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John watches Prior jump up onto the table warily, watches his feet kick. ]
Waiting for what?
[ His eyes follow Prior's gesture, but he doesn't know if it answers his question. Waiting for him to need company? For a bathroom door? John doesn't entirely follow. ]
For us to get locked in a bathroom together?
[ Is this turning into one of those dreams? Admittedly better than a nightmare about Sumner, but still -- a bit of a gear switch. ]
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[But it isn't, usually. He can't control most dreams this way, but on these rare occasions, if there's no way to wake from it, there's usually one to change it, instead.
Prior stands to walk across to it, a hand out for John to take.]
Are you coming? There's nothing left here, so if you're not done being abused you'll have to ask me nicely instead.
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Maybe that means he's not done being abused, maybe he'll never be done until he's driven himself into a grave of his own, but all that leaves is John hesitating a perhaps tellingly long amount of time over leaving an empty room. His fingers flex, and John can't pinpoint why but feels almost afraid of what will happen as he reaches out. As if he might be agreeing to something, silently. As if Prior might do something, sweep these memories from him entirely. ]
You better be taking me somewhere nice. I'm not a cheap date.
[ John Sheppard is absolutely the cheapest date there is. ]
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[He's holding your hand, John, but none of this has left him feeling overly romantic. It's precisely the pressure of the atmosphere that means they need to leave it.
So Prior opens a door. They're walking out of a bathroom, and if John looks back now a battered stall and selection of spattered urinals are all he'll see. If he doesn't, he'll find himself in the Central Park Boathouse long, long after dark. The lights are down inside, only the gleam in through the windows show the empty tables and abandoned bar - the door with a broken lock leading outside.
Prior takes it all in with a slight smile.]
Which is a pity, because I've brought enough very cheap dates here before.
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It looks like a place that won't be hiding something from his nightmares, which is reassuring.
John keeps his fingers loosely tangled with Prior's for a long moment, taking in the scene. Then, slowly, he lets go moves to the window.
Its the water outside that really soothes him. John likes to fly, of course, he loves flying -- but his first original love was the ocean. Atlantis had that, a deep wide expanse of blue water around it. The constant sound of waves, the rough squalls that battered windows and balconies and the perfectly calm days when you could see for miles. ]
I think I like your dreams better than mine.
[ Cheap date or not, on the scale this is a infinitely more peaceful than ninety percent of John's dreams. ]
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Mine usually come back here, in the end. Or somewhere near it. This is the very zenith of morality. Ahead of us, Bethesda Fountain and her Angel. Behind, the sinful pleasures of New York City's number one cruising spot.
[He breathes it in a moment.]
Home.
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John studies the ripples of the water a moment longer before turning from it -- pressing his back against the glass and wood. Slowly, he lets himself slide down until he's sat on the floor -- arms resting on his knees.
In the darkness like this, it's easy to let his focus go soft. To just listen to the sounds around him and imagine he's anywhere he wants. ]
This still feels like home for you?
[ He doesn't know why he's keeping his voice so hushed, as if they're discussing a secret. Maybe because it feels personal, private. Maybe it's the darkness. Maybe it's because John feels jittery, off balance, like he's somehow unwittingly bared something vulnerable to Prior here and he hasn't quite recovered yet. Even sitting like this he feels young, awkward. It's an uncomfortable thing, a role he isn't used to and doesn't like. Maybe that's okay in a dream, though. Maybe it's okay if nothing is real. Maybe he's allowed that. ]
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[Home. Here, and a hundred other scattered little spots across this city: the angel just a couple of minutes down the path more than anywhere, perhaps. This boat house is nothing holy: just a slightly warmer place horny idiots would break into on nights when the Ramble was too cold a mattress. But it's home.
Prior walks slowly across to John, kneeling beside him and finally turning to sit, shoulder to shoulder.]
And I'm it's last custodian. The only one keeping it alive. Though I guess now you'll be keeping a little bit of it, too. [Here, take this place to keep along with all the darker things you insist on maintaining.] Where's yours?
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I dunno.
[ He misses Atlantis, missing the high patterned glass windows, misses the bright natural light and the easy way it responded to his touch. That was home, in a way nothing had been for a long time, but now it's gone and it hurts too much to think of. Thinking of it only makes him think of all the people he misses, people who are dead or who are in suspended animation in Natha pods. People he's still mourning or who he can't mourn, the way they're stuck in limbo and he's stuck waiting. ]
Olympia, I guess.
[ It's a home, a place he lives. Not a place he longs to return to, though. Just something functional. ]
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[Prior doesn't ask the question again, he just leaves that in the air and lets John correct himself if he wants to.]
The difference between a house and a home: something you live inside and something you keep inside.
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You ever been inside an old church? Atlantis was built like that -- high ceilings, big spires, and lots of patterned glass everywhere. Lots of natural light, balconies, open spaces. Only it wasn't intimidating like a church --
[ Maybe it says something about him, that he finds churches intimidating. He winces a little, shakes his head as if to dismiss the thought. ]
It was just -- peaceful. It made you feel welcome. Everywhere you walked, the floors lit up to guide you. The doors opened for you. It felt like it wanted you there.
[ It felt like a home. ]
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