The Lost and the Forgotten

Chapter 3

John regarded the bloodshot, shadowed eyes, in the unshaven face, in the cracked bathroom mirror. He touched his bruised jaw, scowled at himself and decided not to bother shaving; just like he'd decided not to bother with a shower, when rusty water spluttered reluctantly from the showerhead. The basin faucets both gave out thin streams of lukewarm water, even though, presumably, one was meant to be cold and one hot. John shrugged, and washed as best he could, yawning and grumbling to himself.

Nobody had slept well. John had been on watch when Ronon's miner friends had returned, with much shouting, slamming of doors and, as far as he could tell, rearranging of furniture. He'd been sitting on the broad windowsill, leaning back against the side of the embrasure, when the noise started, but every time a door had been slammed (which was often), the whole house had shuddered, so that it vibrated painfully against the back of his head. He'd got up and prowled silently between his and Rodney's room and next door, where Teyla had been sprawled luxuriously across most of the bed and Ronon perched precariously on the brink. He knows his place, John had thought. The furniture-moving party directly above their rooms had continued, so that Rodney had tossed, turned, squeaked complaints and pulled both pillows over his head, Teyla had done likewise, but without the complaining and Ronon had got up and offered to relieve John early.

So then it had been John tossing and turning and swearing at the racket going on above them, until it had subsided and he had snatched a couple of hours of dead-to-the-world sleep, which had left him feeling dopey and irritable. Arriving back at the room, he put one foot against the bedframe and gave it a violent shove.

"McKay! Get up!"

"Still dark."

"It's always dark here," said John, shortly. "Street lights are on, so that means morning. Get up."

Rodney sat up and rubbed both hands over his face and then through his hair.

"God, I feel like crap."

John, sorting through MREs, glanced up at him, but said nothing.

"Guess I look like crap, too. There coffee in that lot?"

John shrugged.

Rodney fought back the blankets, grabbed some clothes and padded, barefoot, in the direction of the bathroom, grumbling.

oOo

The morning's plan: Teyla and Ronon to ask around, door-to-door, near the Gate to see if they could find any witnesses to the events surrounding the missing team's final, broken communication. John and Rodney would go to the Getters' Clan House in the first instance and follow any leads from there.

Rodney pulled his hat lower as they made their way Gatewards, wondering if the constant dripping moisture was rainwater making its way down from the outside world, or was it condensation from the warm breath and industry of so many people, living in an enclosed space. It was a miserable place to live, he thought, although this morning the narrow ways were more lively and the inhabitants didn't look any more miserable than many he'd seen in this galaxy. Tiny stores and businesses lined the way, awnings extended to protect their wares and customers from the damp, lights shining out into the darkness. From somewhere above came the sound of small feet running on metal, the laughter of children, the roar of an enraged adult. Normal life was happening here; hidden deep underground, but normal, nevertheless.

"There is a way up here, John," Teyla said. "Ronon and I will ask at the dwellings that overlook the Gate."

"Okay." He looked at his watch. "Check in in two hours, but if you can't raise us on the comms, go to Zanta's and wait. C'mon, McKay."