Freak by Kriadydragon

“Oh no...”

“By the Ancestors...”

“What the hell...?

John wanted to laugh, cry, shout 'surprise' and whimper afterwards. He barely had enough energy to open his eyes and had to settle for a rapid heartbeat as his reaction toward the painfully familiar voices. Fingers pressed into his neck and he flinched, wondering why the hell they were checking his pulse with his eye-lids fluttering for all the world to know he was alive.

Because it was dark. He'd totally forgotten about that. To further elucidate that he was indeed alive, he swallowed, adding the motion of his throat to the pulse. He heard a heavy sigh and felt warm breath tumble over his face.

“He's alive.” By the cracked whine in the voice, John easily assumed it to be Rodney speaking. “Call Beckett.”

“The place isn't secure...” Ronon, by the deep timbre.

“It's secure enough so call Beckett so he can get his ass down here, now!” A hand gripped John's shoulder lightly. “Hold on, we're going to get you out of here, take you home.”

Home. John wanted to laugh and sob again. He scrounged energy enough to shift when his side started to ache. The weight of unnatural appendages pulled at his back, above the shoulder blades and shoulders. He shuddered and stilled until the sensation passed.

“Ah crap, what did they do to you, what the hell did they do?”

What does it look like? But all John could manage was a pinched croak.

Another hand, small, soft and warm, pressed against his cheek. “We are here, John. We are here for you.”

Voices chattered at once, rising in volume as they closed in. Lights flared on like a burning corona and, suddenly, John had all the energy he needed and then some to shrink away while crying out when the corona stabbed his eyes.

“Turn that bloody light off!”

Someone complied and sweet darkness brought John relief. The hands on his face and shoulders lifted away, leaving cold spots where they had occupied. Another hand took the place of the one that had been on his shoulder. It shifted to his neck for another pulse-check, then his forehead. It left to be replaced by something round and cool pushing into his chest.

John's eyes finally adjusted enough to see the lumpy outline that was Carson highlighted by the weaker illumination of flashlights.

“Bring me a gurney,” Carson said. “We need to get him out of here.”

Something was placed over his eyes, something soft – a cloth, maybe a wad of gauze – and taped into place. He heard the clatter of a gurney being wheeled into the cramped space of the cell. He felt hands all over him; his arms, legs, upper body, hip, and the appendages of flesh and bone pulling at his back. The support wasn't enough for the appendages not to tug on mutilated flesh, muscle and bone. Pain ripped through his back, shoulders, and across in chest like a cresting wave until he couldn't help crying out in agony.

“Would you be bloody careful!” Carson barked, angry and scared.

Sheppard was set on the softer surface of the gurney with the hands moving to arrange his decrepit limbs into a more comfortable configuration. The appendages were secured against his back by loose gauze strips tied around his body, the shift was cut away, being useless anyways, nothing more than a thin white poncho that had been pulled over his head. The doctors hadn't wanted to get creative in making him more proper clothes and yet still felt it necessary to give him some kind of covering for his upper body. Pants, of course, hadn't been a problem. Pants were universal, because no one wanted to see what was “down there.”

The gurney squeaked when it was wheeled from the cell into the corridor. John knew it was the corridor by the simple fact that he could breathe easier and that the air no longer smelled of urine and stale sweat. He was momentarily thrown by the relative silence. Either the other freaks were dead or had been released. John found the quiet nauseating, unnatural. He wanted to stay positive and think his fellow mutations had been set free, but the silence was too much like what one might hear in a graveyard at night.

John shivered, part out of cold and part for other reasons. This didn't go unnoticed when a blanket was draped over him.

“Is he going to be all right?” Rodney.

“Too soon to tell.” Carson. “At least he's alive. That's always a good start.”

Silence, then, “How is it even possible? I mean, how were they able to...? How could they...?”

“Aye, I know.”

“Is it hurting him? It is hurting him. It looks like it hurts.”

“The incision sites looked inflamed. But, aye, that would just be the half of it. What they had to do...? I don't even know what they had to do, I've never seen anything like it.”

The muscles of the appendages twitched as though protesting their confinement. John swallowed several times, fighting back the rising bile. He listened into the silence at the hushed, awed, horrified whispers.

“Wings... They gave freakin' him wings.”

-----------------------------

The infirmary lights were tolerable at their dusky level, but John wanted the darkness back. The darkness kept him from seeing the eyes that stared at him, the expressions of horror people tried too hard to hide. The blanket wasn't enough, he needed to just vanish. He needed to move so he could stand, march over to the light board, and rip down the hard copies of his scans throwing the appendages anchored to his back in his face. Side-views only since laying on his back hurt too damn much. One would think the weight of wings would only bug the shoulders, but he had aches extending down his back and around his ribs to his chest. Even with support, every time he was moved, he felt them, tugging and shifting. He'd finally vomited a thin stream of bile when he was transferred onto the scanning bed.

But, trying to scrounge for the positive, he no longer hurt as much. Since the drugs the scientists had pumped into him had metabolized a long time ago, Carson had been able to give him the good stuff. After the scans, blood-letting, and testing of his cognitive functions and reflexes, he'd been cleaned up, which had been a nice little sliver of hell. All those hands on him, stripping him, manipulating his languid arms and legs, eyes raking over his exposed body. They'd even cleaned the appendages, driving the nail of their existence deeper into John's skull. He never said a word, didn't allow himself the luxury of a whimper, and didn't struggle (not that he could have). He was going to fight for every crumb of dignity there was to find.

Plus... he didn't want them getting mad at him. Funny how a part of him knew they wouldn't, yet another part didn't believe it.

So now he was clean, dressed in a gown tied except at the appendages, with a feeding tube up his nose, an I.V. in his hand, and other tubes in uncomfortable places. The appendages were pressed to his back by more gauze strips to keep them from moving.

“How is he, Carson?” Elizabeth.

John heard Carson let out a sharp breath. “I don't rightly know, to tell you the truth. What I do know is what's obvious. He's severely malnourished. His body's cannibalized itself to the point that he can't even move, which seems bloody odd since those daft buggers claimed him to be their prized specimen in that data base of theirs.”

Those 'daft buggers' hadn't starved him on purpose, although it wouldn't have killed them to give him something beyond nutrient fortified gruel that tasted like cardboard. The experiment and all it entailed had made keeping food down next to impossible, and the Frankenstein posse hadn't had the patience to fix it.

“They didn't handle him too kindly. I've founds some severe bruising on his arms and legs, about his back and chest, but especially his arms. The bastards apparently had no bloody clue how to insert a needle. Lad's got more track marks than a heroine addict.”

Again, lack of patience was at fault. John was a stubborn SOB, always would be a stubborn SOB, but the scientists couldn't get that through their heads. So they punished him as any master would a pet. They tossed him around, slapped him, kicked him, all as a warning. When he still wouldn't cooperate they resorted to the needles. The green liquid was bad. The blue good. The green liquid set John's veins on fire and doused his nerve-endings with acid. He screamed until his voice cracked and lungs collapsed. Only when he promised to be a good little freak did they give him the soothing blue that made his nerves sigh, his heart pound, and an involuntary smile split his face. Oh, and one mustn't forget all the pretty colors that followed, undulating in auras of prismatic delight around his tormentors. John had always wondered what colors had danced around himself.

They'd stopped punishing him when they attached the appendages.

“Thankfully, whatever they pumped into him is long gone. However, that also means they weren't giving him any pain medication or antibiotics, so we've got an infection to worry about. It's only now starting to set in.”

The scientists had thought letting John writhe in agony would help in the plot to make him a docile and obedient mutation.

Carson took a deep breath. He'd done enough pussyfooting around and was about to launch into the heart of the matter. “I want to wait until he's stronger to remove the... um... additions. Gaw, Elizabeth, it blows me bloody mind how they managed it. I don't know whether to be bloody sick or jealous. They didn't just slap a pair of wings onto him. According to the scans and blood-tests, they altered his DNA just enough to get the body to reform and grow the necessary bone structure and muscle to accommodate the wings – which had to bloody hurt.”

It probably would have hurt if the scientists hadn't gone all momentarily concerned and doped their experiment to the gills in order to ensure he didn't die from shock. But there had been moments; agonizing, trying-to-rip-his-eyeballs-out-of-the-sockets-and-the-wings-from-his-back moments that had him screaming until he was mute. So, yeah, it had hurt a lot when it did hurt.

“So the... wings,” Elizabeth said, saying the word as though she'd never heard it before, so wanting to come up with something better. “They're a part of him now?”

“Aye, like having an extra pair of arms.”

An extra pair of arms with long fingers and webbing in between. They weren't even flesh-colored, more a dark blue verging on black and copper. John could feel them flinch, the blood flowing through the tiny veins, the muscles aching from being forcibly immobilized. John squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel every damn inch of them, including the small tendril of air snaking through the blanket, brushing against the membrane, leaking cold into the rest of his wasted body.

“I don't want to say it's bloody amazing, but it is. It's also sick, like a bloody bad joke.”

“You think they knew he was a pilot?”

John heard the rustle of cloth associated with a shrug.

“We saw all kinds of experiments in that place. John wasn't the only one with wings, just the only one not irrevocably altered.”

John wondered if the harpies had taken off the moment they were released. He had called them harpies because, well, they were. Human heads on bird bodies, their DNA more screwed up than John's had been during his bug mutation. They'd been a nice bunch of creatures, even after they'd descended into madness. The insanity just made them harder to talk to, what with them all trying to talk at once. They were probably building nests on the facility even now. Or, better yet, hunting down the remaining scientists and gouging their eyes out.

“Can I see him?” Elizabeth asked.

“Aye, if he's awake.”

John heard them approach. He rolled his eyes up when Elizabeth stepped within his line of sight, smiling down at him.

“Hey there,” she said in genuine pleasure that he was awake.

Carson stepped up beside her to join in on all the grinning. “How're you feeling, Colonel? Any pain? Just nod your head yes or no.”

John shook his head no. He wanted to verbally respond, he really did, but his throat felt like someone had roughed it up with sandpaper. Carson had to be precognitive. He produced an ice-chip from the bowl by the bed and slipped it into John's mouth. The arctic water doused most of the flames baking his esophagus.

“He'll be a little quiet for a time.” Carson didn't say why and didn't need to. People don't come back from Unnecessary Surgery Land maintaining a perfect singing voice.

Elizabeth reached out and took John's bony hand into hers, squeezing, the gesture of one friend comforting another that John never got tired of. It beat, by far, the distant and unreadable “how're you doing, son” that was the usual emotional spiel from commanding officers who preferred to remain detached. Elizabeth was the commanding officer who would cry with John if he needed to cry. The kind of commander he'd only heard about but never got because no one wanted a potential screw-up.

John stared at his hand that was knobby and shriveled, and had to fight not to pull it back.

“Sorry it took us so long to find you,” Elizabeth said. She looked like she was the one who needed someone to cry with. “The facility was shielded and we couldn't get in until Rodney found the generator powering the thing. Once that was down, we were able to move in.”

John had been taken in the night on another world, because someone had scanned him and thought having an Ancient, even a half one, might be useful. He would say the rest was history but he didn't understand it all that much. It wasn't as though his gene had made a difference; he'd heard the scientists confess it. It was as though the scientists were screwing with his body out of habit, as though it were a hobby. “Let's toss stuff into a metaphorical blender and see what we get”. There had been honest to goodness creatures right out of a fairytale freak show: A thing with two heads like a chimera, the harpy gang, a manticore, a winged cow-thing that John supposed could be called a Pegasus. Then himself, a modern day Icarus, angel or demon he couldn't decide. He supposed demon since no way would an angel be caught dead with the kind of wings he had.

John hadn't even learned any of the scientists' names or seen their faces always hidden behind surgical masks and goggles. They had never talked to him except to make demands. They had called him 'it', instead of 'him'. The only reason John had had clothes was because he'd been getting sick from being cold all the time and they couldn't have their prized 'it' dying on them. He knew he had been the favorite since the harpy gang had complained that he got taken out of the cell more.

“We tried to get there sooner,” Elizabeth said. “We really did.”

John grimaced, forcing everything he had into his hand to squeeze hers back, to let her know it was okay and that he didn't blame them. They'd come for him, he was free, and that was all that mattered. His hand shook when he grasped.

Carson put a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. “I need to check his back, lass. I think he'd prefer it if it were done in private.”

Elizabeth nodded. She tucked John's hand back under the covers, clasped his arm, then left still wearing guilt like a thin veil. Carson pulled the curtains, closing them off from prying eyes. He then tossed aside the blankets and tugged at the ties of the gown until the halves parted. John shivered from the temperature change, then from Carson prodding and pulling at the scabbed skin around the joints of the appendages.

“Suture sites are still inflamed,” he said. It wasn't a long check, just felt that way. Carson finished up with a listen to heart and lungs, then closed the gown and covered John back up. “Just be patient, lad. As soon as you're fit, we'll have these things removed. I don't want to risk it until then and until we reverse the alterations to your DNA. I can't say how long it'll be, but be assured it'll happen as soon as possible.”

Soon better have included before John was back on his feet. Like hell he was walking around with a pair of wings for everyone to gawk at. Completely useless wings tacked onto him for decorative purposes only. He'd promised the scientists that as soon as he had the strength, he was flying out of that joint. The response had been raucous laughter, a slap on the head, and a scathing, “they will not work, you stupid man.” Apparently, they just wanted to see if grafting body-parts of two totally different species to create a new species was possible. And who gave a crap if 'it' couldn't fly, since not everything with wings could.

It was freakishly, sickeningly ironic – the flyboy with wings can't fly. John choked on a laugh, awarding him another ice chip from a throughly concerned Carson.

“Up for more visitors, lad?” Beckett asked.

John lifted a bony shoulder. He was tired, but he knew the routine: people were worried and watching him breathe wasn't enough. They needed to know he was still at home upstairs. He kind of wished he wasn't, because every twitch and shudder from the appendages kept weirding him out.

Carson pulled back the curtains and stepped away. Minutes later, just as John was about to nod off against his will, his team clattered in gathering around his bed.

Teyla smiled at him in untainted happiness to see him awake. Rodney, always looking at the bigger picture, had a smile that was twitchy and slightly strained. Ronon, as usual, was at first unreadable until John realized the man wasn't slouching like he normally would be. He was ramrod straight, as though someone had told him there was a wraith in the city but he couldn't go hunt it yet.

Teyla took John's hand as Elizabeth had done. “Hello, John.”

John gave her a pale smile and blinked heavily.

“Checking out on us already?” Rodney asked. He stuck his hands into his pockets and began rocking heel to toe. John waited for Rodney to add to the remark, so it was a bit of a shock when he didn't. The silence that followed was heavy and getting heavier, uncomfortable. It was giving John too much space to observe and think. His team was uneasy and John had two pretty good reasons why. One: where as Elizabeth's guilt had been gauzy, Rodney's was a bulky mask twice the size of his head, making his smile look painful to maintain. Two: Ronon's eyes kept flicking to and from the misshapen lump beneath the covers at John's back.

John curled and hunkered deeper into the blankets. He wasn't normally a chatty guy, liked silence just as much as noise, but he'd never wanted to speak so badly in his life as he did right then; break the silence and pretend everything was hunky-dory. He wanted some damn normalcy, even if it was just delusional. Was that so much to ask? He thought his team, above all, would get that. Although he did have to award them points for trying, Teyla especially.

Damn it, here comes the self pity. He just needed the silence to end. John opened his mouth, croaked, then convulsed in an onslaught of coughing.

“All right, then,” Carson said, bustling in to save the day, “everyone out. You've seen the lad, but he needs to rest.” Carson fitted a nasal cannula over John's face, under his nose, then slipped him another ice chip.

“We will see you later, John,” Teyla said, setting his hand down.

With conversation, I hope. In truth, he didn't want them to go. When Carson headed off to get some medicine or device, John tried to move, to get his hand to snake out and grip Carson's coat. But he didn't have the strength, so now it was just him and the appendages.

It probably wasn't so bad he didn't have any energy left or else he would have ripped them off his back himself. He felt an itch on the clawed thumb and refused to scratch it.

SGA

Elizabeth walked into the infirmary, making her way to John's bed that had been moved to a more private part of the infirmary, when she noticed two things that stopped her in her tracks. John was asleep, on his side, with an oxygen mask practically swallowing his thin face. Kate was standing within the threshold, arms folded and leaning against the door jam. Kate's presence wasn't a surprise, but the oxygen mask certainly was.

“What happened?” she asked.

Kate glanced over her shoulder. “Infection. According to Carson, whatever was done to John had compromised his immune system enough to make infection inevitable. It's spread to his lungs. However, also according to Carson, it's not as bad as it looks since he was able to treat it in time. Col. Sheppard as a mild case of pneumonia.”

Elizabeth frowned, folding her own arms. “Just what he needs. More complications.” Sheppard looked like the blankets alone could have crushed him. They were configured in a way so that they were covering his waist and the wings, but not his naked upper body that was glossy with sweat. His rapid, shallow breaths kept his protruding ribs in constant motion, and his arms were akimbo, one hand dangling limply over the side of the bed. There were wires and tubes running from him and, with a sickening twist in her gut, Elizabeth realized this was what John had probably looked like when he was being experimented on. It nearly had her hightailing it out of the room right then and there. Instead, she told herself to suck it up.

“Have you talked to him yet?” Elizabeth asked. She felt a twinge of jealousy and irritation toward Kate's supposed stoicism. But Kate was a professional. Plus she had had more time to digest any shock or disgust felt, where as Elizabeth had just arrived.

“Not yet. I thought I'd observe first while Sheppard's voice is still under.”

“Any verdicts on what to expect?”

Kate shifted slightly. “The usual post traumatic stress and reactions commonly seen in those victims of some form of abuse. He's shown involuntary reactions toward sudden hand motions and touch, and his heart rate increases whenever Carson comes near him with a syringe.”

Elizabeth nodded, then furrowed her brow. “What about the... uh... the additions?”

“The wings? So far he hasn't really acknowledged them. If anything, he's probably trying to pretend they don't exist, which means he isn't going to be particularly social until they're finally removed. You don't have to be a professional to know the wings are a humiliation for him. A reminder of what was done to him. Carson told me John will sometimes start trembling whenever the sutures around the wing joints have to be checked. So we can add feelings of being violated to the ever growing list.”

“So he probably isn't going to be smiling any time soon until those wings are removed,” Elizabeth said.

Kate pursed her lips. “Probably not even then. He wasn't tortured for information or to save a life. He was mutilated for the sake of mutilation, treated as less than human, and left to die. To be honest, I don't think removing the wings will make much of a difference.”

SGA

John graduated from the feeding tube to semi-normal food after he overcame his persistent bout of pneumonia. Soup, for the most part, and oatmeal or cream of wheat just for variety. He had strength enough to lift the spoon to his mouth, which was fine and dandy when it was oatmeal or cream of wheat. Soup he was forced to bend in close to the bowl and suffer gravity pulling on the appendages. It didn't hurt, it was just... weird. And the more it happened, the less John could take it until he tried not to move at all. Thankfully, laying against the upturned head of the bed was no longer a problem with the wings now strapped to his sides rather than his back.

The slight pull was nothing compared to having the appendages manipulated by one of Carson's nurses. To prevent muscle atrophy and pain during his illness, the nurses had had to manipulate his arms and legs for him, wings included. He'd lodged a formal complaint that attention to the wings wasn't necessary, to which Carson countered that if John wanted to be relatively pain free, then the wings had to be included.

It hadn't been so bad when John had been too doped up to notice. Afterwards, he came to fully realize just how anti-touch he'd become, but was still too weak and too wary to do anything about it except flinch and swear a lot. And, crap, all the freakin' flinching. Every flash of a gloved hand out of the corner of his eye, every time a needle full of meds floated toward him en route to the I.V., his skeleton made an effort to jump out of his skin. And if he were truly honest with himself, the lack of struggling wasn't entirely due to weakness. He was afraid; afraid of punishment for not being cooperative.

John had been tortured before, nearly broken before, but this was different. There had been no goal, no fight, no game of 'see who would give out first'. Physical pain, even psychological pain, had always been inflicted for two reasons: to get him to talk or for the sake of revenge. All he needed to do was keep his mouth shut, or keep on smiling; usually both.

What the scientists had wanted was for him not to squirm so much. They'd been quite creative about getting what they wanted. John had had no idea how to counter them except to kill himself and he'd been quite ready to at one point, but too drugged to even bang his head against the wall. They'd had him trapped in every sense and that had freaked him out more than the wings.

It was still knocking him for a loop, because they had won, even when the calvary had come and chased them off like naughty mice. They had done what they intended. They had won.

It pissed John off, sickened him, scared him. He felt both a failure and like he'd been duped. It made him uncertain what to do with himself, how he needed to act, whether to be depressed, angry, or ashamed. It made him despise company when it was there, then crave it when it was gone.

John's only certainty was that he was screwed up and had no idea what to do about it. So he opted for being scared.

------------------------------

John was bundled like a caterpillar in a cocoon as he was slowly wheeled from the infirmary to the balcony for some fresh air and a change of scenery. Ronon was doing the pushing, with Teyla walking on one side and Rodney the other, making small talk. His team was trying, they really were, to go with the flow that was his unspoken desire for normalcy. He was grateful for the attempt, but also irritated by how forced it sometimes seemed. Rodney would go on and on about mundane matters and Teyla and Ronon would let him. Back in the good old days, Ronon would have told Rodney to shut up by now. John had done as much three days ago when his team had come to the infirmary for lunch. Instead of a scathing comeback, Rodney had fallen silent, and that silence reigned until lunch was over.

The door to the balcony slid open to a warm ocean breeze and the cusp of sunset. Lawn chairs were already set up and John's wheelchair locked in place between them. The team sat surrounded by silence, but an amiable silence that came before conversation as they enjoyed the scene of the sinking sun tossing its image like a path across the choppy water.

“Any good missions?” John asked when he couldn't take the quiet anymore.

“SG-4 were run off the planet,” Rodney said, “when it turned out the bugs they were swatting were the locals' gods.”

“Ronon and I attended the Malayans harvest festival,” Teyla said. “It was a most pleasant event.”

“Yeah, after the three-hour speech and face-painting,” Ronon muttered. Teyla shot him a narrow-eyed look. The Satedan's need to go off world during down time seemed to always end up getting him into hot water with the Athosian. John smiled tentatively.

“SG-6's trip to those ruins wasn't worth the price paid for,” Rodney said next.

“A crate of power bars,” Ronon explained.

Rodney glowered. “Chocolate power bars. They refused to take the damn lemon ones.”

“Other than that,” Ronon said. “Just a lot of trading.”

“Elizabeth has been keeping everyone on their toes ever since...” Rodney cleared his throat and twirled his hand, “...you know...”

“You were taken,” Ronon finished.

Rodney dropped his hand into his lap. “Yeah.”

John glanced over at the physicist and realized that Rodney was looking everywhere but at him. Quiet settled back over them like a fog. John wracked his brain for another conversation starter. The more he couldn't come up with anything, the more he longed to return to the infirmary. His wings twitched, and he shuddered, which didn't go unnoticed by Teyla. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Colonel?”

“I'm all right,” John blurted.

Quiet again. John focused on the sound of the waves and the scent of brine on the wind, but the stupid wings kept twitching, growing numb from being pressed tight against his sides. He had no choice but to shift them enough to get the circulation going, causing the blankets to bulge and rustle.

“So, huh,” Rodney began, “can you fly with those things?”

John stilled, stiffening. Rodney was staring at him. Both Teyla and Ronon shot Rodney a look that could have wilted forests.

“Rodney!”

“McKay!”

Rodney lifted both hands. “Sorry, sorry! I just... Sorry. I'm a scientist, I'm naturally curious, all right? I'm not making fun or anything, I swear. I mean, seriously, it's an innocent question, right?”

In all honesty, it was, but that didn't stop John's lips from forming a bitter smile. “I was told I couldn't.”

“By who, those quacks? They're not even real scientists. Even the Ancients were better at playing god than they were. I mean, did they even let you try, just to see if it was possible?”

John squirmed deeper into the blankets. “I was too weak to try.”

Rodney tossed his hands up. “Why am I not surprised? I know I'm going to regret saying this, but the Frankensteins did have enough sense that their creations did work. Those bird-people flew. I don't see why you can't.”

John opened his mouth for a retort that wasn't there. The scientists had said he couldn't fly and yet had never given him an explanation as to why. He'd taken their word for it because they were the scientists, and him the subject, and scientists normally knew what they were talking about. Yet for all he knew they could have just been saying that to keep him from taking off.

John looked over at Rodney uncertainly. “Really?”

Rodney shrugged, suddenly uncertain himself. “Well... we could have Simmons take a look at them. He specializes in avians. Although that means, you know, he'd have to look at them...”

Ronon stood suddenly from his seat. “Let's go then.”

John's heart thudded. “What, now?”

Ronon unlocked the wheels then grabbed the handles. “Why not? The sooner we know, the sooner you can start doing what you need to to make the wings work.”

Teyla rose just as swiftly to place a restraining hand on Ronon's arm. “If the Colonel wants to. We should not force him into anything.” She looked at John. He looked from her to Ronon to Rodney. They were expressionless, or at least trying to be so as not to sway him one way or the other. John had never actually pondered the possibility of flight, not since that one scientist had shot down the idea as though John were an idiot.

That scientist could have been wrong. He could have just said that to keep John from forming flight-related escape plans. And there was no harm in letting a bird expert look over the appendages and confirm what John had already been told.

He nodded, reluctantly. He wasn't sure, but he was a little curious himself.

------------------------

John didn't try to suppress a shudder as Dr. Simmons pulled, turned, spread, poked, and prodded the wings. They were in the biology lab, emptied of all personnel except Simmons by Ronon. Simmons had John in a clear section of the lab in order to have room to pull the right-side wing as far as it would go. He had Rodney measure the length with a tape-ruler. The wings were three feet longer than John's body, the width of the membrane the length of his torso. Unlike bat wings, the membrane didn't attach to his flank but was an inch away from it. The joint was as thick as his shoulder and the claw the length of his middle-finger.

“Did the alteration to his DNA make his bones hollow?” Simmons asked as he tugged on the membrane, testing its elasticity.

“No,” Rodney promptly replied. “I remember Beckett talking about it with another doctor. They were surprised Sheppard still maintained normal human bone density.”

Simmons hummed. “Well, Col. Sheppard's current body weight would allow for flight... Uh, no offense Colonel.”

John just shrugged. Being emaciated was kind of the least of his problems right now.

“If you were to concentrate developing the muscle tone of the wings and kept your body weight well below two-hundred and I mean well below...”

Rodney folded his arms. “Yeah, I don't think that's going to be a problem for him.”

John glared at him.

Simmons gnawed his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I wouldn't put out any hopes, but it is possible to achieve flight with these wings, or at least be able to glide with them.”

John widened his eyes. “Really?”

Simmons tucked the wing back against John's side, letting Teyla handle tying it in place then cover him with the gown. “I honestly think it's worth a try. And it shouldn't be too hard to develop the musculature. Wings are no different than arms except for the structure. At most you could actually achieve flight. At least they'll be less of a bother to your back. The lack of pressure on your spine from their weight would, alone, be worth the attempt.”

The bigger picture was possible flight. Preventing back-aches was nice and all... but flight, open and unhindered flight without being encased in bulky metal and technology. That alone sealed it for John.

“I'm willing to try,” he said, and blinked in astonishment that he really was.

---------------------------

There was a stretched out moment of awkward silence as Rick the PT looked the wings over. John's team stood a little off to the side, waiting to be called in to help when or if needed. Carson was next to John, holding him up by the shoulder so he didn't have to lean into the back of the wheelchair. Beckett had been reluctant about giving his stamp of approval in getting the wings to work, but agreed since their presence wasn't exactly life threatening. He did threaten that if the wings caused any muscle or bone damage, they were coming off as soon as John was fit enough to handle the surgery.

John kept his hands clasped in his lap. Any tighter they would crush each other. He had black sweat pants on, the hospital gown covering his front, but he still felt exposed and vulnerable. He was also freezing to the point of shivering. A hand gripped the upper arm of the wing and he jumped, and would have slid from the chair if Carson hadn't been keeping hold of him.

“Sorry, Colonel,” Rick said. “Okay, I'm just going to rotate the joint a little and stretch it to get an idea of the range of motion on these things, all right?”

John swallowed and nodded. Rick placed his other hand a little above the shoulder of the wing and manipulated. John winced and cringed when muscles pulled and the bones popped and ground together. Rick pulled the wing up, down, around, then moved his hands in order to spread the wing. More muscles pulled, tendons creaked, leathery skin stretched, and John's brain somersaulted when it kept trying to associate the appendages as natural arms that he tried to pull away. His body, his brain, could not compute what had not been there since the day he was born, so fell back on instinct.

The wings twitched and shuddered, then John lurched forward, jerking the wing out of Rick's grasp to drop limply at his side.

Carson rubbed John's shoulder blade one-handed. “Easy lad, easy now.”

John tightened his fingers around the arms of the wheelchair until his knuckles paled. If his heart beat any harder it was going to bruise itself. “I-I don't if I can do this, guys.”

Carson slid his hand back up to John's shoulder and squeezed. “It's all right, lad. You just need to give it time, get used to them.”

John shook his head. “I don't know if I will. I'm human, Carson, I'm not supposed to have wings.”

“So you're giving up before you even start?” Ronon argued.

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head forcefully. “No! It's just... It's weird. It's...” Someone touched the limp wing, probably Rick, and John pulled it away, cringing and snarling. “Don't touch it!”

“All right,” Carson said, hands raised. “All right, let's just calm down.” He lowered one hand and the other he used to cover his mouth as he studied John pensively. After a moment, he lowered that hand as well. “Okay, let's try something. Rick, help me secure the wing. Ronon, I need you to wheel the Colonel for me.”

Rodney stiffened. “What, we're done already?”

John tensed as Carson and Rick tied the wing so it wouldn't drag. “Not by a long shot,” the doctor said. “We're taking a little field trip.”

John's back was covered by a blanket. He was taken from the gym, down the hall then onto the nearest balcony. It was noon, the sun high, the sky clear, and the air warm but not warm enough to get the chill off of Johns' skin. He resumed shivering when the blanket was removed and a tepid breeze brushed across his back.

“All right, then, colonel,” Carson said, moving to John's right. “I'm just going to be spreading your wing, here, while Rick takes the other.”

The gauze stripes were untied, then John's wings were slowly stretched, the length taking up most of the small balcony. John's grip on the arms of the chair increased until the tendons of his wrists corded. “What're you doing?”

“A little experiment. The DNA used to alter you enough to attach wings had had to belong to something with wings of its own. Stands to reason there might be a wee bit of a change to your brain chemistry, perhaps enough to create a bit of instinct toward wing use. Close your eyes. I know you'd rather not, but I need you to focus on the wings, how they feel, what you feel against them. If you want to find out if these things work then you have to accept that they're attached to your body. That they're yours, a part of you now.”

John pulled in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. He was too wound tight to go into a trance and he hadn't been all that attentive to meditative methods back at the cloister. He did as Carson said, trusting that even under the circumstances the man knew what he was doing, and focused on the wings. His stomach immediately knotted. His mind wanted to perceive them as a kind of alien presence, like someone else's arms pushing against him rather than being attached. After a moment, John's subconscious took over, exploring the sensations out of curiosity, to come to better understand these new additions. John flexed the muscles of the wings. When they wouldn't move how he wanted, he tried to jerk them free, inciting the hands holding them in place to tighten their grip. John was hit by a surge of panic cinching his chest.

He was starting to feel restrained, trapped.

“Easy, John,” Carson said. “Deep breaths, lad.”

John inhaled, unsteady, then exhaled. He licked his dry lips nervously and forced the muscles of his back to relax, piece by piece, extending it into his wings until they stopped pulling. He shifted his focus to the warm wind pushing against the stiff membrane that reminded him of a parachute tugging at his shoulders after landing. He wasn't hit with any sudden desire to go diving off the balcony and ride the breezes. He was struck by a memory from his childhood, when he was nine and sitting up in a tree, watching the birds and imagining what it would be like to have wings of his own. Of course, he'd always opted for feathers, and the phantom feel of wings had been more at his shoulder blades than shoulders. Despite all that, what he had imagined then was what he was feeling now: extra joints, extra limbs, and the wind pushing against them.

John swallowed. No instinct and no sudden love for these things hitching a ride on his back. What there was was an increase in his curiosity, less subconscious and more conscious. It must have been because of the wind and how easily the membranes resisted it. There was a need that had nothing to do with some alien instinct to maneuver the wings so that the wind was flowing around instead of pushing against. He was a pilot. He new all about the subtle changes of air currents and wind shifts. Had he the strength, were he to go leaping off this balcony with the appendages spread, he would know exactly what he needed to do to stay airborne. It wasn't a perfect knowledge since no hand-held controls were involved, but it was there, he could very well do this.

He wanted to. It was a challenge and he liked challenges.

It still didn't mean he liked the additions.

“How're you doing, lad?” Carson asked.

John nodded. “Good.”

“Good. We're going to rotate them now.”

John closed his eyes and let them. It was uncomfortable, but he perked when he felt the wings lift slightly from the air coursing below and above when they were positioned just right. Excitement and fear swelled in his chest and he nearly burst out laughing that he was nervous about possibly being lifted right out of the chair, over the balcony and water, light as a leaf.

“All right then,”Carson said after a time, “I think that's enough for today. We need to start working on your arms and legs while you still have the energy.”

The wings were tucked and secured against John's sides. He opened his eyes and sighed in relief.

“You need to start moving them,” Rick said. “Lift, spread... I'll look into configuring some weights to attach, help build up muscle.”

John just nodded numbly. He was feeling a little shell-shocked that he was, so far, actually going through with this.

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John had to force himself to acknowledge the wings, to get his brain to move them beyond muscle twitches and startled reflexes. During PT, his body came first, his wings second. He started with his arms using one to three pound dumbells, then legs after. Ronon would hold the wings up, or Teyla, while Rick supported John as he moved about the room. Afterwards, he would sit in a chair or on the edge of the bed and work the wings as instructed. When all was said and done, John was so exhausted he'd forget the wings were even there.

John ate, slept, and increased his strength. He went from liquid foods to solids but still light weight in terms of calories: boiled chicken, toast, mashed potatoes, fruit; nothing that would be strenuous on his body. With the more filling meals came better control over his limbs and a lot less shaking. If he was starting to get a little more padding between his skin and bones, it wasn't noticeable. Carson said that all the calories were being utilized to build up muscle, and that he had a lot more muscle to build thanks to the wings.

The wings he was starting to tolerate in that he no longer flinched every time he moved them. His stomach had yet to stop twisting from the discomfort of their existence. No matter how much he lifted and spread, they still pulled like dead weights that would drag on the floor if someone didn't hold them up. Rick had glued weights onto nylon cloth that was draped like a sleeve over the arm and claw of the wing, and two weights cinched onto the tip. John felt like an idiot wearing them. But until he could hold up the appendages on his own, he wasn't allowed to walk without support or he'd go pitching backwards. He was starting to hate the things more than when they were first attached.

John was moved up to the use of the balance bars when there was strength enough in his arms to support himself. Walking first, then the wings after. They trembled as he lifted, then spread, then closed, again and again, shaking harder each time. Sweat dripped from his face and tickled down his body creating itches he didn't risk scratching. The gown was soaked to the waist and the waist-band of his pants were joining it.

“You know,” John panted, “I can't stay in a gown forever. What the hell am I go to do about a shirt? The military kind of frowns on officers taking command half-naked.”

“The Spartans went into battle naked,” Rodney said from where he stood a little off to the side. He was back-up in case the already present four people weren't enough to catch or hold John up, or so Rodney said. His actual part to play was to bring John food and the in-between meals meal, and meals were usually after PT.

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney. “And it didn't exactly go well for them.”

Rodney shrugged. “Eventually. They still kicked ass.”

“On Sateda,” Ronon said, “there's a level you reach in training that requires the trainee to be naked in order to come to fully realize the limits of his own body.”

John rolled his eyes. “If God had intended us to be naked, He wouldn't have invented clothes, and body armor. I am not parading around Atlantis in the buff. People carry cameras, for crying out loud. And that botanist, what's her name? Angie something... Got all giggly when I changed my shirt after that flower spit on me.”

Teyla rubbed his arm as she'd taken up doing whenever John became agitated. “We will figure something out.”

John nodded. “Good.” He lifted the wings one more time, then dropped them with a gasp. “I think that's it for me.”

They helped him back to the infirmary where Rick took him into the bathroom. The shower stall was small enough for John to lean against and wash without needing someone to hold him up, which was the kind of progress that made him a littler more chipper. By the time he was finished, as usual, he was so exhausted he could barely bring the fork to his mouth, which was why his meals were always smaller after PT.

The next day was a respite day to keep things from becoming mind-numbingly repetitive. It was a day to laze about, watch movies, play games. Ronon and McKay were there, ready to take John to the distraction of the week, so all they needed was Teyla. She came ten minutes after McKay had arrived, carrying a bundle that she immediately handed over to John with a shy smile.

“It is... a little thrown together,” she said, “but I think it should do to help make you more comfortable.”

John unfolded the bundle to reveal a shirt. It was Athosian make, like something Ronon would wear, off-white and long-sleeved. The sides were slit up almost to the armpits with thin leather ties laced to pull them together. It was a little odd, but John had to admit he was impressed with the ingenuity of it.

“When did you make this?” he asked.

“Last night. And I finished this morning.”

John couldn't get the gown off fast enough to slip the shirt over his head. Teyla helped tighten the ties closing the halves over his flanks except around the wing joints. It was loose, coming past his waist, soft, and warm.

“I like it,” John said. “Thanks.”

Teyla blushed, then placed her hand on his arm. “You are welcome, Colonel.”

Their destinations on the off-days were either the rec-room (emptied courtesy of Ronon) or the nearest balcony, and always with a blanket covering the wings. John never wore the shirt during PT, just when heading to the gym, after showers, and during outings.

The next progression was when he no longer needed the chair except for after work-outs. He kept the wings tucked tight against his body and strapped down with a robe hiding them. His team kept him surrounded and sufficiently blocked from passer-bys craning their necks because they'd heard a rumor that Colonel Sheppard wasn't the same.

“Probably one of Beckett's nurses started the talk,” Rodney said one day as they headed to the gym. “People need to learn to keep their mouths shut.”

All eyes turned to Rodney. Rodney flashed them all a look of scathing indignation. “What!”

Carson said John's progress was moving along well. John would have been more enthusiastic if he didn't keep getting poked in the arm by his own ribs. He did want to pull Carson in a bear hug when the verdict finally came that Sheppard could recuperate in his own quarters. John would say that it had been so long he'd forgotten what his room looked like, except... he didn't. Back at the facility, in the cell, sometimes to get any sort of decent sleep, John would let himself slip into a little delirium and pretend that he was back in his room. He would curl up on the floor, close his eyes, and sink into mapping out his quarters until he hit the right moment where he actually believed he was there, and let it relax him enough to slip into unconsciousness. If that didn't work, then he would resort to mapping out a jumper and think of himself piloting it.

His room on Atlantis and flying; most couldn't boast having two happy places to go to.

John was finally afforded some privacy after being home for two weeks. He was torn about it, still in that between mode of loathing company yet also wanting it. After Carson prattled off a long list of instructions on what Sheppard needed to do, he and the nurse headed out, and John almost stopped him. Almost. His team would be dropping by with lunch in an hour, so he forced himself to become reacquainted with solitude.

A different kind of solitude, actually. This was his room, larger than the cell, devoid of the distant mumbling chatter of fellow freaks. So though he was split between wanting to be alone and wanting company, it wasn't so bad as before. It was something he would get used to, could get used to, eventually.

John moved to the edge of his bed, sat, and tugged the ties loose to release the wings. They didn't drop as they used to, which he supposed was something to be slightly proud of. He lifted them, spread them, stretching out the kinks.

Then he flapped since that's what wings were supposed to do, and felt his body lift a little off the bed. That brief nanosecond of weightlessness was both startling and ever so slightly exhilarating. John smiled, amused. He flapped again, pushing up a gust of short-lived wind that ruffled his hair and fluttered the ends of his shirt. It actually felt good using the newly developed muscles. He lifted the wings high, then pulled them together behind him. The muscles used extended beyond the wings to the shoulders, chest, collar bones, shoulder blades and upper ribs and spine.

John brought the wings forward to grab one and pull it around. He'd never really given them a good once over since that biologist had looked at them. They were more creepy than beautiful, but they were impressive in their size, no longer shriveled lumps of flesh dangling from his back. John ran his hands down the membrane that felt a little like velvet, covered in fine hairs that couldn't really be seen, not even up close.

The previous owners of the wings had to be mammal. Or maybe they had been grown in a tube. There had been tubes all over the lab, and massive containers; all amber with some kind of formaldehyde and stuffed with parts or entire bodies, stacked on shelves and along the walls, bubbling or still, the parts bobbing...

John blinked and pulled in a sharp, stinging breath. His grip on the wing had tightened, the skin over the bones twitching warm and alive. He was suddenly disgusted and yet couldn't let go. He chuckled softly at first, then a little more hysterical, because these appendages had been just as much a victim as him and he hadn't even been floating in any liquid chemical.

Still didn't mean he liked the things. He did pity them; he pitied freakin' body parts that had initially been dead. John released the wing to lean forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“I am soooo freakin' screwed up...” He flapped the wings and snorted out a laugh. He sat up straight, pushed himself to his feet, and climbed onto the bed. Then he started jumping, tiny little hops that kept his feet on the mattress at first, moving into larger leaps with his feet leaving the mattress. The next jump he made big, tucking his legs under him and flapping the wings down. His body rose higher than that measly little leap was capable of. The shock of that sudden elevation threw John and he dropped back onto the bed, coughing out a manic laugh of gleeful astonishment, heart pounding and blood humming in his ears.

John tilted his head back to see his team standing in the doorway carrying trays of food, staring at him as though he'd sprouted two heads. He gave them a tentative wave and abashed grin. “Hey guys.”

TBC...

Part Two: http://community.livejournal.com/sheppard_hc/61379.html