The Long Road Home
a thrilling drama series by Eildon Rhymer
Episode one: Breaking Out
Sheppard came to awareness slowly. He was lying on his back; that much was clear. Above him was… what? He tried to blink, but his eyes didn't seem to be working properly. He tried to move his arm, but it felt stiff. Something was holding him in place, and everything… everything was strange. He couldn't… He couldn't…
No. He tried to calm himself, seeking memories. Got to focus. Got to get out of here. He'd been with his team, heading back through the Gate. The others had gone first, Ronon looking back over his shoulder as he vanished into the blue pool. Sheppard had fired one last round at the enemy, then had leapt for the Gate…
Nothing. There was nothing between that and this. "And
where's this?" he said out loud, his voice sounding strange in his own
ears – smaller, he thought. He still couldn't move, not properly. There
was no sky above him, no ceiling, no trees. All he could see was a strange
smearing of colours and shapes that filled the whole world. It was as if… as
if I was seeing the world through thick, distorting glass.
He tried to reach up, tried to find if the glass was really there, but his arm refused to obey. He stilled the instinctive flutter of panic. He wasn't paralysed. There was still movement there, just not the way he expected it. He concentrated on moving his wrist, and then his elbow. It felt as if someone had taken all his joints and reassembled them wrongly. Nothing the doc can't fix, he thought.
Then the world changed. Something huge and monstrous loomed over him, all smears of colour and hectic movement. Something pink reached out at him, with five tentacles. He saw a cleft that could be a mouth, and dark pits that could have been eyes. He braced himself, ready to fight, but then everything lurched. He was caught in an earthquake. His plane was coming down, free-falling, crashing. A sound rumbled, far away, but everywhere. "Sold," he heard, and he knew that he was a slave, bought and paid for – Han Solo in carbonite; prisoners drugged and sold to new masters.
No! he thought. No! He fought his unwilling limbs, struggling to sit up, desperate to fight. His team…! If he stayed where he was, his team would find him, but if he was sold off-world…! He couldn't even move his head to see where he was being taken; couldn't leave clues; couldn't dial home… couldn't even see properly, couldn't close his eyes, couldn't scream.
Then darkness. He was face down, though something was holding him suspended, keeping him away from the ground. Light dwindled, and was gone. He tried to move, tried to struggle… but then there was nothing at all.
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A scratching sound woke him. Everywhere was still dark. The violent movement had stopped, but Sheppard knew that he was still moving. It was as if had been sealed in a crate and was being carried…
He didn't complete that thought. Got to get out now! His limbs still moved strangely, but he had been beginning to get their measure before he had passed out in the darkness. He concentrated now on moving them, on flexing them, on adapting to their limited points of articulation.
The scratching noise continued. Somewhere far away, he thought he heard the sound of engines, and an unearthly tuneless whistling.
He tried to bite his lip with concentration, but his mouth was frozen, unable to move. One cheek hurt, and a memory came to him of his mother telling him that if he smirked like that one more time, the wind would change and his face would stay like that. He shook the memory away, and carried on working.
A dog barked, the sound muffled.
And then one arm was free. Now that he had more feeling, he realised that his hand was holding a pistol, and suddenly nothing seemed quite so bad any more. He ripped the other arm free, and tried to sit up, but his head impacted against the thing above him – not glass, he decided, but plastic. It was hard to grip the pistol with his stiff and sluggish hands, but he managed it, and struck repeatedly at the plastic until it tore. He grabbed at the hole with both hands, widening it, and tried to wriggle through it, but something was holding him at the waist. He tore at it, finding it to be thick wire, and wrenched himself out of its grip.
He was almost free when a rift opened up in the darkness. He turned to the light, and cowered from it, unable to close his eyes. For a moment, he could barely see at all, but he saw enough.
A Wraith was standing in front of him.
Sheppard brought up his pistol, but his arm betrayed him. When he tried to pull the trigger with his stiff fingers, the gun was pointing somewhere up in the air. He tried again, but his strangely articulated elbow lurched, and the gun jerked away from his target. The Wraith lunged towards him, but missed. Its movements were jerky, and its outstretched hand closed on the empty air somewhere near Sheppard's ear.
"Ah," the Wraith said, withdrawing a little. "It is as I feared."
"What?" Sheppard wouldn't normally have responded so obviously, but everything was just freaky wrong.
"Take a look." The Wraith nodded stiffly.
Not lowering his gun, Sheppard looked where the Wraith was
indicating. The light was above was just enough to see the prison that he had
escaped from. He saw the torn moulded plastic. He saw the cardboard backing. The
cardboard backing?
"Can you read the sigils?" the Wraith asked.
Sheppard swallowed – or would have, if he could. "Stargate Atlantis," he read out loud. "Field Ops Sheppard."
"And mine?" Was there need in the Wraith's voice?
Sheppard looked beyond the Wraith, to his own torn prison. "Wraith," he read. "Just 'Wraith.'"
"Ah." Although his face was frozen in a snarl, the Wraith looked deflated.
"What's happened?" Sheppard demanded. "What have you done to me?"
"I am as much as victim as you are, Colonel Sheppard," the Wraith said.
I've been turned into an action figure, Sheppard
thought, because he knew the truth – had known it as soon as he had turned and
seen the prison. Hell, he had played with enough Star Wars action figures when
he was young. Perhaps part of him had known it since he had seen the world
through the plastic of the original packaging. Dave had always kept his figures
in their packaging, hoping to make a fortune one day. John had always opened
his, and played with them, enacting huge air-borne adventures. And see who's
the millionaire business man now.
He thought of a lifetime spent as plastic, a plaything in the hands of others. Unable to breathe, unable to feel, unable to fly… No time to brood, he berated himself. Got to get out of here. His team was still out there somewhere, searching for him. He had to find the enemy who had done this to him, and make him reverse the process. This wasn't the end. He refused to accept a universe in which he was an action figure for the rest of his life.
"So." He mentally took a deep breath. This was a Wraith, after all, but one who was in the same situation as he was. "Wanna escape together?"
The Wraith said nothing, but reached upwards with his pointy weapon, and tore again at the darkness. The outer packaging, Sheppard thought. The Wraith poked his head out, then ducked back down. "It's bad," it said. "We are being carried in the hands of a giant. He is heading for a house. A giantess is standing in the door. Her eyes are gleaming."
Sheppard held up a hand, stopping him. "My action figures have come!" he heard, in a gleeful female voice. "Oh, the fun I'll have with my Shep."
He felt himself turn pale, although his face was still frozen in what felt like a ridiculous smirk. "We've got to get out now." His head darted stiffly from side to side. "Quick. Help me." It was hard to run, because his legs really didn't want to move in a normal fashion, but he managed it, hurling himself at one side of the dark parcel, then another. After a moment, the Wraith joined in. He fell over, skidding through the darkness to strike the wall with his body. Groaning silently at the pain, he got up, and hurled himself at the far side.
All the while, he heard the slow thud-thud of footsteps. Time was running out. Only seconds now…
"Again!" he gasped. "One more time!" The Wraith joined him, and for a moment they were shoulder to shoulder, almost touching.
Their whole world shivered. A male voice cursed, and then they were falling, falling…
Sheppard felt himself thrown through the air. He landed heavily, painfully, but there was no time to rest. The moment he had landed, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, and headed for the tear in the outer packaging. He was almost there. Almost free…
The Wraith! He turned round, and saw the Wraith struggling under the plastic packaging. Sheppard didn't pause to think. Heading back, he grabbed at the Wraith's outstretched hand, and pulled it free. "Come on!" he gasped. "Hurry!"
He felt the package begin to move, felt the hand that grabbed it…
And then he was free, out into the morning. "Quick!" he hissed. "Hide behind that plant." With the Wraith half a step behind him, and sure every moment that he would be discovered, Sheppard headed for the shelter of the enormous overhanging petals. Crouching down, he reached for fallen leaves, each one as large on him as a pillow, and covered himself up.
For a very long time, he didn't dare move. He heard the giants – humans, he told himself – stamping around. The giantess was shouting. The giant headed off to deliver other packages.
At long last, he let himself move. "So we escaped," the Wraith said, his expression unreadable. "What now?"
"I don't know about you, but I plan to find my way home," Sheppard said. "Reverse all this. Become less… plastic."
The Wraith just looked at him. "I will do the same," it said at last.
"Well, then." Sheppard turned to go.
"And if we meet again?" the Wraith said.
"All bets are off."
He saw the Wraith nodding out of the corner of his eye. Then, alone, Sheppard started to wade through the flowerbeds and stride over slugs, seeking home.
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And now for the Blooper Reel
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