Late afternoon sun cast long shadows in front of three dusty, fabric-wrapped figures as they strode past the outskirts of a small town. A dying fire lingered on the corner but its owner was long gone.

Teyla, the slenderest and most obviously human of the trio under their mummy-garb, pulled a fold of cloth away from her mouth. She cast a quick look around and leaned in close to her companions.

"We're in and no-one's noticed us. If we can just find a fuel vendor...but we must still move with the utmost caution. The slave traders of Ka'in-Torg are notorious for their merciless executions and they tolerate no strangers in their midst."

"We just need a little of the stuff, though, right?" Ronon shifted his cape and gathered it closer around him.

"That is correct. The next planet within reach harbors a peaceful trading port that is well-overseen by the ruling class of the city."

Teyla's steps quickened as they neared an area with slave yards on either side of the street where several slaves were lashed to individual posts. Most of them looked to be at death's door or close to it. Some barely seemed to breathe. Sheppard followed her lead, but he couldn't help stumbling back as a shriek rent the air and a body was kicked out into the street, still quivering with the life that had been ripped from its gaping throat. He backed away, not wanting to stop, and ran into a post where another slave was tied. The slave master raised his head and glared at him from the other end of the yard. Sheppard ducked his head, raising a hand in apology and turned away, his heart pounding.

Then his heart stopped.

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The stars wheeled in the universe. They danced, in strange, neat patterns and drew together. Sheppard passed a hand over his face as the darkness receded. Teyla and Ronon were huddled against him on either side, holding him up with their bodies but looking this way and that across the street.

"It's him. It's him." He couldn't tear his eyes from the slumped, motionless figure half-hanging from the post he had just bumped into. The slave master roared at them and brandished his whip, too lazy to rise from his chair. Several of the slaves stirred at the sound of his voice and the slave Sheppard was staring at raised his head.

His eyes met Sheppard's and held them for one second...another...

The world spun and exploded in a confetti-fall of chittering sounds and childlike laughter.

And then he was swimming, floating down a corridor, but why was he moving like this when everyone else was walking? and why were there voices echoing at him from every side?

"Planet...is completely uninhabited (laugh). It's totally safe. We'll drop him off, pick him back up in a few hours—"

-McKay, had to be—no mistaking that sharp, sarcastic tone—

"And he'll be none the worse for wear. ( Was that his voice? God—) Plus..."

-Elizabeth's voice, chiming in, confident in their company—

"Plus I get a whole three hours of perfect peace knowing he's nowhere on the base."

Their combined laughter faded and Sheppard reeled as the hot Ka'in-Torgian street's sounds and smells slapped him in the face.

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"John!" Teyla's hissed whisper brought him back to his senses. He looked down quickly, shaking his head, but neither the pounding behind his eyes nor the shivering in his soul subsided much. The slave's eyes closed and his head dropped back to his chest, a mess of filthy curls forming a curtain in front of his face, but Sheppard had seen enough.

"He's alive! he's alive, there'll be a way to make things right...a way to undo it..." The words throbbed repeatedly, mercilessly, through his whole body. Through his mind flashed again and again, in a thousand frozen snapshots, the face he had just seen, but younger, fuller, and—most notably-still wild with shock and disbelief. Those eyes had begged him, had begged all of them, for help.

And he had left him there anyway, alone and defenseless, and laughed.

It was what kept the air in Sheppard's room jumping to startled wakefulness, night after night, at the sounds coming from his own strangled throat, at the loud throbbing in his temples, at the strange, inappropriate gasping as he forced himself—if he was lucky—back to sanity. He'd stopped hoping for sleep ages ago. But now...

Sheppard grasped Teyla's sleeve, gathering his thoughts as quickly as he could. He bent his neck and spoke in her ear. She gave him one shocked look and stepped into a nearby alcove, pulling both of them with her.

"Are you certain? We cannot afford any mistakes in a place such as this."

"I'm sure. We have to go back. We have to—to get him out." Sheppard's voice shook with tension, he took a long breath and turned away, one hand against the wall as he struggled with himself. Ronon gave him a sharp look.

"We need the fuel. But I'm with you two. Whatever you decide." The Satedan checked the dagger in his belt and settled back into his customary half-slouch. Teyla looked at him, her eyes uncertain. As cruel as her life had been, she had known enough love to keep her tied to the ebb and pull of her emotions, and Ronon's relaxed impartiality in every possible situation sometimes strained the bounds of her comprehension.

"John..." There was no need for her to voice the many doubts running through her mind. Sheppard looked up, his breath more measured but still short.

"Teyla, I'm sure. I'm sure it was him. We—we—" His voice hoarsened, he turned away again, panting, ducked his head against his cloak.

"God-damned-dirt, everywhere-"

Teyla and Ronon exchanged glances. She spoke, hesitantly.

"I know Dr. Weir would want us to explore the possibility. I have seen her unguarded and she...she suffers greatly since..."

Sheppard did not look up, but he nodded, jerkily.

"She's not the only one who mopes. They're all a bunch of old women about it." Ronon's voice was less harsh than the words seemed to merit. His fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger, he looked at first at Sheppard, then at Teyla.

"Guess we'd better go check this out."

Teyla sighed and nodded. Carefully the trio began to retrace their steps, keeping their heads down and their faces obscured.

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They reached the street with the slave yards again. Teyla glanced around the corner.

"Let me go. I was branded into a clan of their brotherhood once, for diplomatic purposes. The negotiations failed but I still have the mark."

Sheppard and Ronon both looked at her. Sheppard swallowed.

"Be careful, ok?"

"I will." She stepped away from them but Ronon caught her arm.

"We'll be close by. You start anything, we'll finish it."

She gave him a swift, warm touch in return and slipped into the crowd.

Sheppard and Ronon had found a safe haven under a low overhang, blending into the shadows, by the time Teyla reached the edge of the slave arena. The movement of the crowd thrust her off balance and Sheppard tensed, but Ronon's hand warned him not to make any premature sign. She moved into a clear space, only a few feet from them, with her back to the mystery slave. He was tied up like the others that had been separated, his wrists lashed so tightly to the post that no blood showed in his hands. One hand, his right, was clubbed and deformed from some old injury and his long curly hair covered his face completely. Teyla edged closer.

"You! Who are you? Why are you here? What is going on?"

The body stirred, came reluctantly to life, as from a long habit of obedience. He tilted his head back and stared at her. One eye was bruised and partly swollen shut, but both eyes made a concentrated effort to focus on her.

"Don't let them see I am talking to you! Put your head down!"

He ducked his head instantly. He was already panting with excitement, but several of the others were panting from thirst, agony, or both, so it went unnoticed.

"I—I—" he licked peeling lips and straightened a little, pushing against the post for support.

"I'm—I was—I—"

"Shhhh!" The slave trader was making a bored round of the yard. The mystery slave went quiet, hiding his face against his arm, and Teyla drew out her bag, searched for some non-existent item.

The slave trader turned his back and the slave tried again.

"I have training. As a scientist."

In the alcove Sheppard set his teeth, his every muscle straining against the light, authoritative touch of Ronon's fingers. The slave gasped a quick breath and continued.

"My hand is, is messed up but I can teach. I can teach you anything. I remember it, all of it." He pulled at his bonds, his whole body trembling with the effort, and looked up, the wide blue eyes clinging to hers.

"I can help you, I can, I can—" His voice grew too strong for a whisper, it caught on his breath and rasped into speech, one garbled, desperate syllable. One of the slaves near him lifted his head. Teyla drew a quick breath and turned away, hoping he would see and understand.

He did. Teyla waited for several seconds. When he spoke again, it was the safe, hushed whisper she could barely catch.

"Buy me. I'll do anything. Anything you want. You won't be sorry, I swear it. I swear."

Teyla stiffened as the guard approached. He cast a contemptuous glance around, kicked a slave, and ambled back toward the hut. She edged closer to the prisoner.

"We will try to get you out. Be patient and watch—"

Beside them a slave's body jerked into a horrible twisted spasm.

"Out! We'll never get out! They're going to kill us—kill us all!"

The guard stopped short.

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Teyla and the slave shared a single, suspended second in time as the guard turned. The mystery slave's shoulders trembled violently, he ducked his head against the post that held him. Teyla's voice, lower than the crowd, just at the edge of hearing, flowed over the exposed, wiry muscles, under the matted hair, a running stream of soothing words and sounds. The slave's body relaxed, stilled, vanished into the mass of nearly-dead bodies.

The guard mumbled a curse, scratched his head and walked towards them, stepping on or over any slave in his way. The sea of bodies flowed away from him on both sides, a withered and sun-scorched puddle still cringing from the wrath of the gods. He fixed his eyes on the shrieking slave next to them. Teyla whispered a last plea to the mystery slave and slid out of sight against the wall of the yard. The guard reached them, looked around for co-conspirators and, finding none, considered the hysterical slave thoughtfully.

"Ready for an early bedtime, are we?" The gravelly voice was curiously soft under its harshness and Teyla wondered briefly, incidentally, if the creature beside them had a wife, a home. Were there fragile little alien limbs and round, immature bodies waiting for this thing to come out of the darkness into firelight and warmth?

Teyla heard a sickening crunch and then the only sounds were screams and the wet, raw noises of butchery.

"Quiet!" the guard said, and there was instant silence. He turned, dragging something behind him, and walked to the edge of the yard, flung his burden into the street.

Teyla watched as a group of indistinct figures fought discreetly over the remains, pushing their blood-stained baskets back on their arms to free them for their hushed struggles.

The curly-haired slave did not lift his head as Teyla cautiously eased back into position, but he turned it toward her a fraction.

"It's too late. They're going to kill us. Just like he said. If we don't sell by—by tonight. That's why we're here. Look, it's almost dark. He's going to start on us soon." A new note of panic attached itself to each building phrase. Teyla turned toward him a fraction, involuntarily.

The guard took out a long machete-style knife, sharpened it with gruesome deliberation, and stepped toward the first slave.