Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate: Atlantis, and I don't claim to. If I did, Ronon and Teyla would be happily married with half-a-dozen kids and a dog. I am making no monetary gain from this fic, I am merely writing and posting it for entertainment purposes.

Summary: Twelve years after the Atlantis Expedition failed, a rebellion forms to fight those who took it away and save the Pegasus galaxy from its imminent fall. RononTeyla, some Shweir and McKeller.

Rating: T

Warnings: Violence, sequences of torture, minor character death

Pairings: Ronon/Teyla, Sheppard/Weir, McKay/Keller, OC/OC

Spoilers: Seeing as this is only semi-canon, I would say a familiarity with seasons 1-3 will get you through.

Title: Stand in the Rain

Author: fyd818

Author's Note: This story has been slowly building over the course of two to two-and-a-half years. While my original idea has had some major renovations, and a few key characters' parts have been altered, the story is essentially the same one I thought up so long ago. It is a story of hope in the face of failure; romance both old and new; and the underlying passion and drive that is the essence of the Atlantis Expedition of old. The familiar crew we've come to know and love over the years will play major parts in this story, but there are a few newcomers, too. I very much hope you enjoy this story, and thanks for taking the time to check it out!

Stand in the Rain



Post-Atlantis (PA) Year 12

Rain wept relentlessly from an iron grey, foreboding sky. Flickers of lightening lit the muddy path beneath a single caped figure's booted feet, guiding her steps through the darkness. She was the only one fool enough to be out in the storm, especially at that hour of the night when the smart ones fled indoors. Everything was different now.

In fact, Michaela Charin Dex could hardly remember a time when things were normal. Her memories of a beautiful place with stained-glass windows and soaring splendor had long faded, leaving her to face the cruel reality of life as it was now. Life after the darkness had descended upon her childhood home, ripping families and friends apart like the demons of the night they were.

Mika didn't understand it then. As a three-year-old, all she knew was terror, and her father's strong arms as they fled their home. Now, fifteen and an adult, she understood everything. She could fight now. She could be a part of the Rebellion, and she could help her family take back what was rightfully theirs.

Cold and wet to the bone, Mika pulled her long, rough, brown Athosian cloak a little tighter around her. Ducking her head further under the hood minimized the sting of raindrops in her eyes, but not by much. She had to be almost there.

Her muddied boots left prints on the steps of the saloon as she ascended them. Once under the protection of the porch, she tossed back her hood. Damp curls of her dark hair fell around her face as she tossed open the door and stepped inside.

Everything went silent as twelve pairs of eyes turned to look at her. Mika met each of their gazes in turn, saving the barkeeper for last. His mouth was open, half-uttering a warning for her to get out. She was only fifteen, too young to enter such establishments. But something in her eyes and expression must have scared him, for he was the first to turn away.

The other patrons eased their blatant watchfulness, as well. Mika could still feel their eyes upon her, however, as she hopped up on a barstool and calmly crossed her legs. She would wait until the target arrived.

"Name's Solen," the bartender grunted as he slapped a glass on the wood surface before her. "Holler if you need anything."

"Thank you." Mika placed a coin on the counter, then smoothly picked up her glass and sipped. The ale was strong, but not as potent as the kind her mother's people made. She could easily drink the stuff all night, if need be, and not feel its effects.

The stale scent of smoke hung in the air, and Michaela batted curls of it out of her face. She casually turned, eyeing the other people – all men – in the bar. Some of them looked back, taking in her stance, her clothes, and the handle of the knife protruding from beneath her cloak. That seemed to be enough to turn them back to their conversations. She saw none of the right height and build to be the person who had quietly whispered the request to meet her there, on the secluded world of no interest to either side of the fight: Rebellion, or New Atlantis.

Turning back to the bar, she caught Solen staring at her. "Something wrong, barkeep?" she asked. Picking up her glass with her right hand, she slipped her left down to the knife in her belt. Years of diligent practice had made her good with a knife in both hands.

"You look familiar," he said. "Like someone I knew a long time ago."

Mika shook her hair out of her face. "Your face brings no immediate recognition to mind," she replied. "I'm afraid you must be thinking of someone else."

Solen shook his head. "No, no, I can't be," he said. "It's your eyes. I know those eyes."

Blast. Mika couldn't look away now, not without making the man suspicious. Her mother had always said she'd inherited her father's eyes, spirit, and stubbornness. Any or all of them would get her in trouble one day, she said. Apparently Teyla Dex hadn't been exaggerating. "I know a lot of people with my color eyes," she said flippantly. Granted, she knew only one: her father. She'd never known her father's mother, who had the same color, and her brother had inherited Teyla's dark brown eyes.

"What's your name?" Solen demanded.

"Michaela Charin." Certainly not an uncommon name. It had been her grandmothers' before her. She was careful to omit her last name. In certain circles, it would draw more attention than she wanted. More attention than she already had, at least.

The barkeep leaned forward, eyes glittering. "What's your father's name, child?"

She was saved by a hand grasping her shoulder and spinning her around on the stool. Halfway through the turn, she had her knife out and up, so when the turn was completed, the blade was against the man's jugular.

Mika, in the midst of trying to disentangle herself from the mess her father had gotten her in – unintentionally, of course – hadn't heard the newcomer enter. She stared into hazel eyes ringed by long dark lashes, the pale face made whiter by the dark hair atop it. He couldn't be older than fifteen or sixteen, and he was dressed similar to her. Like a peasant, like a member of the Rebellion. He was the right height and build of the man who had requested a meeting in this dangerous place.

A hand swiftly snatched the knife from her grip. "Thank you, bartender, for keeping my betrothed occupied until I could find her," he said. "She has a habit of running away."

Solen eyed them both suspiciously. "Betrothed?"

The newcomer pulled her off the stool, at the same time surreptitiously reaching under her cloak to replace her knife in its sheath. "Yes. Apparently she doesn't find me a worthy future husband." He leered at her, showing a row of perfectly straight white teeth. "Come on, girl. I'm taking you home – and this time you'd better stay there." Hand still gripping her arm, he pulled her out of the saloon, into the cold and rain.

"What were you thinking?" He hissed at her the moment they were outside. "Are you crazy, drawing attention like that?"

Mika calmly snatched her arm from his grip and pulled her hood over her head. "Who are you to barge in and yell at me like my master?" she demanded. "As far as I know, you're a meddling tramp whom I should smack so hard your head spins on your shoulders."

A grudging smile turned up the corner of his lips. "Dad wasn't kidding," he said. "You are your parents' child."

"I wish I had the pleasure of knowing your parents as well as you seem to know mine," she snapped. "I'd tell them they need to keep a better eye on their misbehaving son. I was perfectly capable of handling myself in there."

"Sure you were. Just 'cause you're a girl doesn't mean you can't handle yourself in a good fight." He pulled his own hood up, at the same time pivoting on his heel to walk down the steps. "Coming?"

Growling under her breath, Mika reluctantly followed. He was headed for the Stargate, after all. "Who are you?"

"You can call me JJ. You?"

"Mika." She pulled the front of her cloak closed again, mostly to hide her hand on the handle of her knife. "Why'd you call this crazy meeting, anyway?"

JJ grinned at her. "Because your parents are leading the Rebellion against New Atlantis. Because they're legends, two of the most famous warriors in this galaxy. Because my parents and yours are old friends. Because the Rebellion is the Pegasus galaxy's last hope. Take your pick."

Mika shivered. "So you know my parents?"

"I don't remember them much. To be honest, your father used to scare me. I called him Uncle Ronon, once upon a time, but as a four-year-old, he seemed awful tall and awful scary with that hair. I liked your mother, Teyla, though. She would always bring me Athosian candy."

Mika scowled. She loved her father's hair, he was the only person she knew who had such a style. It was unique, a part of him. "Okay, so you know my parents. That doesn't prove anything."

JJ stopped, catching her shoulders to pull her to a halt next to him. "Perhaps you'll remember my parents, Michaela Charin Dex. I'm John Jared Sheppard, son of John Sheppard and Elizabeth Weir. Ring a bell?"

She stared at him, suddenly seeing her childhood friend in his eyes, the shape of his mouth, jaw, and nose, and his hair. "Jay?"

He grinned. "Hey, Mimi. How've ya been?"

-To Be Continued-