Sonny Whitelaw: The Chosen

Somehow he felt just a little cheated. Sitting on the grass, the mid-afternoon sun warming his face and the breeze ruffling his hair, Major John Sheppard decided that this day was just about perfect in every way. The brilliant blue sky — ideal flying weather, the aviator in him noted idly — was completely inappropriate for the magnitude of the decision he was about to make. Storm clouds would have been more fitting, or at least something with a little less cheer and a little more drama. Figures. He allowed a wry grin to twist his lips. Unpredictability seemed to define his life.

Taking the road less traveled was one thing, but he was pretty sure Robert Frost had never considered that it might lead to another galaxy.

God, another galaxy . He still hadn’t wrapped his mind around that concept. Days ago, he’d been minding his own business at McMurdo Station, secure in his view of the world: namely, that it was far from perfect but at least followed a rational set of rules. It was quiet, he was getting lots of stick time, and the environment, while hostile, didn’t come with gun-toting inhabitants determined to blow him out of the sky. At least, that’s what he’d thought until that freaky missile had fired at him. Then he’d taken a seat in that equally freaky chair, and everything that he’d thought he understood about the world had gone out the window.

It was an unparalleled opportunity, they’d all told him with the same expression of wide-eyed wonder. Travel instantly to another galaxy, explore the culture and technology of a race far more advanced than our own, and take a stab at defending Earth from a nasty fate. He was a strong natural carrier of the all-important gene. Think what they could do with his help. There was just that one tiny detail about possibly never coming home.

It surprised him that he wasn’t more afraid of that prospect. Then again, he wouldn’t exactly be leaving behind a stellar career and devoted family, and Antarctica was already about as close to an alien environment as he could imagine.

Still, another galaxy?

Leaning back against the hillside, John wondered if the idyllic weather was a sign. He dismissed the thought when he couldn’t be certain if it was telling him to stay on Earth, where there were lovely sunny days, or to consider this ‘opportunity’ a step toward a brighter future. And because he couldn’t interpret the potential omen and had no better luck interpreting his own turbulent thoughts, he returned to his original plan.

Years of special-operations flying had instilled in John a deep respect for mission planning. He’d chosen the site and the time of day, selected the unit coin, even checked the wind direction; though that might have just been his inner aviator again, hoping irrationally to get in one last flight before reporting to Cheyenne Mountain. He had planned out every last detail of this life-altering decision — then placed his future squarely in the hands of fate.

Tails meant returning to the status quo at McMurdo, where they got the football games on videotape a week late but at least no one asked him about Afghanistan. Heads meant a potential one-way trip through a big metal ring that would dump him out…somewhere else.

He stared hard at the coin, then flipped it into the air. It spun gracefully, the sunlight glinting off its face, and landed with a satisfying smack against his palm.

Tails.

Apparently fate was telling him to stick to his own galaxy.

And yet — what if they really didn’t have anyone else with the same knack for operating that weird equipment? What if they somehow needed a pilot? What if, through some thoroughly unnatural confluence of events, that other world ended up giving him the sense of purpose he’d misplaced somewhere along the way?

No. He’d left the decision to fate, and fate had slapped him with tails. End of story.

And yet…

John Sheppard had never been particularly good at blind obedience. He shot the coin a look of contempt, then flipped it again…

“Heads!” Aiden Ford announced, his boyish features alight with triumph. “Victory is mine.”

Teyla’s brow creased. “What have you won, Lieutenant?”

“The last brownie.” Pocketing the coin, Ford grabbed the desired treat and plunked it onto his tray. Stackhouse walked away with slumped shoulders.

“We still have brownies?” John Sheppard’s eyebrows shot up as he settled into a seat at the nearest table.

“That was the last one.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Please tell me the defenders of our fine city aren’t spending their time mourning the lack of desserts.” Rodney McKay announced his arrival with a characteristic scoff.

After the waking nightmare that had been the storm and the concurrent Genii assault on Atlantis, they’d all gained a new sense of ownership, for lack of a better term, in this place. It was their home, damn it. They’d paid for it in every way imaginable. Right now, just being able to sit here and argue about dessert was enough to provoke a sensation of deep relief in John Sheppard. It was normal, and normalcy had been in short supply from day one.

“You’re getting on our cases about provisions?” Ford looked indignantly across the table at Rodney. “After your little one-man melodrama with the coffee?”

“Do I need to explain the debilitating neurological effects of caffeine withdrawal again?” the scientist fired back.

“No,” John cut in, glancing over at their Athosian teammate. “Teyla? A little mystified by this overdose of Earthly idiosyncrasy?”

Teyla looked grateful that someone had brought her back into the conversation. “I am still pondering this ‘coin toss’ Lieutenant Ford spoke of. It is a contest of some kind?”

Ford withdrew a coin from his pocket. “We generally use them as currency, but sometimes we use them to make a choice by tossing it in the air, and assigning a decision to whichever side lands face up.”

“Would it not be more beneficial to weigh the positive and negative aspects of each option, rather than make a choice at random?”

“Well, yeah, but there are times when both options seem equally right, so you leave it to chance, fate.”

“I see.” Her tone suggested that she didn’t. With long fingers, she plucked the medallion from the Lieutenant’s hand and studied it. “The design is intricate.”

“That’s the symbol of my Marine division.” Ford pointed to the crest. “There’s a tradition that says if someone catches you without your unit coin on you, you have to buy them a drink.”

“A drink?” Teyla cast a curious glance at him.

“Of alcohol, preferably,” John elaborated, reaching for his glass of water. “But if there are any stills cropping up around here, Lieutenant, I don’t want to know, because I’d have to put the responsible parties in my weekly report. And you know I like to keep those as short as humanly possible.”

Ford’s expression froze somewhere between a knowing grin and feigned innocence. A second or two passed before he opted for a change of subject. “You got a challenge coin, Major?”

“What? You thought it was just a Marine tradition?” John reached into his back pocket, withdrew a scratched silver coin, and handed it to his second in command.

“Special Ops. Cool,” said Ford, reading the designator. “Bet you’ve got some hardcore stories to tell, huh, sir?”