Evan Lorne stared at the blank screen in front of him.  What the hell was he supposed to write?  After a moment, he typed, "Today Atlantis was crazy, and so was my CO.  There was a lockdown of the entire city for a level 5 disease outbreak that Atlantis later decided didn't exist.  Communications and ventilation were disabled, and I was in the control room when Sheppard broke in through a window after climbing up the outside of the tower.  Atlantis then began a self-destruct countdown, at which point I may have implied that Sheppard had armed it on purpose.  Luckily, he didn't seem to notice.   C4, etc, etc.  Zelenka eventually saved the day by crawling through a bunch of vents."

Then he hit the delete key, and held it down until the screen was blank again.  And that hadn't even gotten into the whole password debacle -- Evan wasn't sure if it would sound worse to say that Dr. McKay had password-protected key systems in the city's mainframe, or to say that it was okay because Colonel Sheppard knew Dr. McKay's password.  He considered starting a game of Solitaire.

He lost ten games in a row in less than four minutes -- a new personal record -- and decided that the real problem wasn't what to write, but who was going to read it.  And, of course, what everyone else was going to write.  

Or maybe that wasn't the real problem.  After all, he'd written plenty of incident reports back in Colorado -- foothold situations, embarrassing alien sex rituals, killer plants, killer snakes, killer alternate reality selves -- and he was well-versed in the acceptable "SG lingo."  But on Earth, being in the SGC was just a job.  On Atlantis -- well, it was different.  Evan just wasn't sure Earth knew how different, or if he wanted to be the one to tell them.  

Part of him wanted to write, "Recommend the SGC re-evaluate command staff for Atlantis base ASAP.  Divided loyalties & failure to follow standard alien contact procedures puts base at risk.  Potential for undue alien influence high; risk of foothold situation threatening Earth high."

Or possibly, "You fucking idiots.  Sheppard's gone native, and McKay's the only one who knows how to operate the city in a crisis.  If the SGC wants Atlantis, you better do something sooner rather than later."

Because at some point, Earth's best interests and Atlantis' weren't going to match up, and both sides were going to be in for a rude awakening.  Atlantis was a long way from Earth, and people here had given their loyalty to this galaxy.  Yeah, yeah, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes.  Lines drawn, sides chosen.  Like there was any doubt where he'd end up.

Evan wrote, "Due to unexpected atmospheric fluctuations, several of Atlantis' systems experienced errors, leading to a lockdown situation.  Control room personnel repaired the majority of the affected systems, aided by Colonel Sheppard.  Dr. Zelenka was able to repair the remainder of the systems, and Dr. McKay has made adjustments to prevent any repeat occurrences.  No injuries were reported." 

It was possible the words "bury the gate and salt the earth" hadn't actually been used in relation to Rodney McKay joining an offworld team, but he wouldn't bet on it.  Then again, the whole Atlantis mission had been a somewhat dubious honor from the beginning.  Rodney had been called a lot of things in his life, and paranoid was certainly one of them, but he'd always imagined the selection committee meetings going something like this:

"Let's put Weir in charge.  We can't leave a civilian as head of the SGC, but now she's too much of a security risk to do all those diplomatic missions to unstable regions of Earth. "

"And let's tell McKay he can be in charge of the scientists; his ego won't let him say no.  Plus, Atlantis is even farther away than Siberia."

When Elizabeth asked for Sheppard, the SGC must have thought they'd scored the misfit triumvirate.  Of course, they'd always thought Sumner would be there to keep everyone in line.  

The thing was, Rodney wasn't actually cleared for fieldwork, at least according to the SGC's rules.  Allergies were one thing -- rules were bent for allergies all the time; they were just too difficult to predict in alien environments.  But hypoglycemia could cause serious problems in the field.  You start out running from some angry natives, and a few hours later you're dizzy and unable to complete a simple train of thought, let alone repair a DHD or aim a P-90.  From Rodney's perspective, it was just as dangerous on Atlantis, and Elizabeth and Carson had backed him up.  But they weren't military.  

It was Ronon who came to talk to him about it when Sam took over.  Actually, it hadn't been much of a conversation, but the end result was Ronon bringing him snacks on missions, and -- if reports were to be believed -- covering for him in the mess hall.  Covering for him by making him sound like an idiot, but still -- better to be the idiot who thought he were sick during a quarantine lockdown than the liability who couldn't concentrate because he hadn't eaten lunch yet.  No one had mentioned the h-word in weeks, and Rodney was beginning to think it was going to be okay.   

Still, that didn't mean he wanted it to end up in his report.  Knowing he had a reputation to uphold, Rodney used the first two and half pages to describe the ionospheric event that caused the malfunctions.  Then he added another page listing other atmospheric and oceanic differences between their current planet and the previous one.  He ended with an annoted section on current science team projects that had been affected by the malfunctions.  He put his own work on the lockdown protocols at the start of the section, because he was the most important, and also because the most common reaction to long reports was to read the first paragraph and then skip to the end, and after reading ionospheric pattern statistics and marine biology updates, he figured no one would care what he'd been doing anymore.  

Tucked in between the explanation of his pre-lockdown tweaks to the protocols, and his post-lockdown reprogramming to account for their new atmosphere, Rodney wrote, "During the lockdown, radio communication was disrupted.  Due to a lack of computer access in Botany Lab 1, I was unable to determine the extent of the situation."  

"I confess, I am unsure what to write about the day's events."  Teyla's voice preceded her into the lounge.  

Ronon was right behind her.  "Don't ask me," he said.  "Isn't that why we have these things?"  

Rodney tried to hide his eyeroll behind his computer screen.  After all, he'd already written his report.  He was just there Sheppard made team nights mandatory.  And because he was getting really good at video golf.  "Ha!" he said.  "Hole in one!  You're never going to beat me, you know."

John looked up from where his own screen was flashing "Game Over."  "Rematch?" he asked.  "As soon as we're done with the reports."

"Who's this 'we'?" Rodney asked.  "I already filed mine."  

"Yeah?" Ronon asked, looking interested.  "How many pages this time?"  He was carrying both laptops, and after Teyla had settled onto one of the sofas he pulled a chair over for her to put her feet up.

"Six," Rodney said smugly.  It fit neatly into the bell curve of his average report length, not standing out in any way, just like he wanted.

"Nice," Ronon replied, handing Teyla one of the computers.  

"Rodney," John said, in that almost-but-not-quite whining tone.  "It would go a lot faster if you would help."

He only hesitated for a second, and even that was mostly for show.  "Fine.  Hand it over."  John gave up his computer gratefully, and Rodney sighed.  It was never as easy to write someone else's report.

Ten minutes later, John was trying to explain why it was usually better not to include any references to popular movies -- even "Jaws" -- in official reports, and Rodney was trying to find some way to write, "And then I broke a window and climbed the tower," without actually having to say that, when Zelenka walked in.  

"I'm not here," he said, dropping into a free chair.  Rodney just waved a hand in acknowledgement. 

"Is this sufficient?" Teyla asked, and John peered over her shoulder.  

"Yeah, that's good," he said.  "You're all set."

"Teyla, what did you say about the window?" Rodney asked.

Teyla just gave him her "I had no idea the natives would expect you to participate in that ritual" expression.  "I did not feel it was important to include in my report," she said calmly.  

Huh.  That could work.  Rodney reviewed what he'd already written.  Added a few lines, moved some things around -- "There," he said.  He grimaced.  "I think that's as good as it's going to get."

Zelenka, who appeared to have dozed off, opened his eyes as John abandoned Ronon to his hunt-and-peck typing and moved to sit next to Rodney.  "Is very challenging to write," Zelenka offered, "without making Atlantis sound dangerous or ourselves incompetent."

Rodney snorted.  "Or the reverse," he replied.  "I had eight scientists come to me asking if their attempts to blow open the doors with homemade explosives had to be included in official reports."  

"Oh," he added, turning back to John.  "You might be interested to know that your 'Mission: Impossible' entrance into the control room had nothing to do with the self-destruct arming.  Not that it wasn't an incredibly reckless and stupid thing to do, because it was.  Just not as stupid as the linguists who tried to use their ATA genes to convince the city that it was in grave danger.  I'm still not sure how Atlantis made the leap from 'if you don't open this door' to 'if you don't blow yourself up,' but there it is."  

John was still reading, and just said, "Linguists, huh?"  But his tone was commiserating, and Zelenka had fallen asleep again, so Rodney mostly felt better about the whole thing.  

By the time Ronon was finished -- and what could he and Keller possibly have been doing in the infirmary that would take that long to explain? -- John was asleep, with his head drooping sideways and his feet up on Teyla's abandoned chair.  Teyla had moved to the floor, and was meditating -- which Rodney found simultaneously soothing and somewhat intimidating, not that he would ever admit that to anyone.  Radek was awake again, and they were deep in a two-player version of the latest tetris-like game (designed by the geologists, who clearly didn't have enough to do), when Cadman showed up.  

"Hey McKay," she said, strolling into the room and sitting down on a piece of furniture that was probably meant to be a small table.  Rodney braced himself for to say something about Katie, but instead she pulled out three PowerBars and waved them in the air.  "What's this I hear about you and the original Batman cartoon?"  She studiously ignored the fact that her commanding officer was snoring on the other end of the couch.

Rodney hesitated, weighing the likelihood that Katie Brown would come up if he denied it.  "Okay, yes, I've got it," he said.

"I knew it!" Cadman crowed.  Rodney made shushing motions, and she rolled her eyes.  Still, her voice was quieter when she said, "We'll give you four Snickers and the first season of 'West Wing' for copies."

"We?" Rodney asked.  Despite regular supply runs from Earth, the demand for bootlegged entertainment was as high as ever.  "No, never mind," he added hastily.  "I don't want to know."  He considered the offer.  "Can you get me 'The Office' instead?"

"Only in French," Cadman replied, after a moment's thought.  "Five Snickers, plus the French episodes?"

"Done," Rodney said.  Cadman handed him the PowerBars, then fished a tiny flash drive out of one of her pockets.  

"Thanks McKay," she said, heading for the door.  "Oh, and Dr. Z -- Dr. Keller was looking for you.  Something about your wrist?"

Zelenka muttered something in Czech and glared at his computer screen.  "He's not here," Rodney offered to Cadman.  She raised her eyebrows.  Rodney sighed and tossed her one of the PowerBars.

"Right," she said, grinning.  "I haven't seen him."

Samantha Carter stared at the computer set up in the -- her -- office, and watched the incident reports trickle into her inbox one by one.  They were prompt, she'd give them that.  They just weren't informative.  Sam felt like she'd known more when she was trapped in the transporter.  She looked back over the most recent reports.

"Attended training session at 0900; went to mess hall at 1300 -- blue pudding today; stayed in mess until lockdown was resolved; mission briefing at 1650."  

"Control room duty shift during lockdown.  Assisted in determining source of lockdown (localized ionospheric disturbance), determined citywide radio communication was inoperative, determined Stargate was inoperative (outgoing and incoming), used citywide email message alert system to  inform city personnel of situation (re. lockdown; conservation of breathable air).  Continued use of message alert system to communicate and advise individuals in lockdown situations."

Many of the reports read more like daily logs than anything else -- some didn't even mention the lockdown, and several people claimed to have slept through the whole thing.  Sam wasn't quite sure what to make of it.  Dr. Weir did seem to have depended more on face-to-face meetings than written reports, but this was ridiculous.  Maybe it was just an indicator of what everyday life on Atlantis was really like, that a quarantine lockdown and self-destruct alarm barely registered on the scale of "things to worry about."

Sam sighed, and stretched, looking out into the mostly-empty control room.  Every time she thought she was getting her feet under her, something would throw her for a loop and she'd feel like an outsider all over again.  She reminded herself that there was always an adjustment period when someone new took over -- things would be fine.  Atlantis wasn't hiding some deep dark secret; she wasn't missing something important; she wasn't going to mess up her first base command.  She told herself to stop being so paranoid.

A chime from her computer indicated another incoming report, and Sam dragged her attention back to the screen.  She still had her own report to write, after all.