Captives pt 2 Ronon and John R for violence

[ltcoljsheppard]

 
Series Title: The Thousandth Man Series
Story Title:  Captives, part 2
Author: ltcoljsheppard       Email: ltcoljsheppard@yahoo.com
Characters: Ronon and Sheppard
Rating: R/NC-17 for descriptive violence

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon had no idea how long they'd been held so far, but he retained enough of his awareness of passing time from many years on the run from the Wraith, and many hours holed up in the dark in order to gain some sleep, to know that it was at least the following day's night.

He hadn't heard or seen any sign of Sheppard since they were blindfolded and separated. The guard had said John wasn't far away... then how come he couldn't hear him? Even Sheppard would've been calling out for him by now, just as Ronon had spent a good hour doing earlier today and most of last night. That action only succeeded in irritating the guards outside his door who finally got fed up enough to shut him up.

When Ronon had realized they were about to open the door, he prepared himself to overpower them and run. Not to escape though, no. He wasn't leaving this place without Sheppard. He had to find him first. But when the door swung open, Ronon hadn't been expecting to be hit by tiny metal claws that sent volts of electricity through his body.

He'd ended up convulsing on the floor and then one of them ordered him to be quiet from here on and emphasized the order with a strike to his head with a blunt weapon. He'd refused to eat any of the food they'd brought for him throughout the day and he hadn't taken advantage of the time to sleep. So he was pretty worn out by the time the offensive came and the sudden jolts and heavy slug to his head, sent him into darkness.

* ~ * ~ *

When Ronon came to, hours later, still lying in a heap on the floor he cursed himself. None of that should've taken him down so easily and he realized that his refusal to sleep and eat was going to end up hurting their chances to escape.

He had no idea where Sheppard was and what condition he'd be in when he finally found him, so Ronon decided he needed to stay strong for both of them. He knew that John would do the same.

With a groan, Ronon slowly rolled onto his side, taking a moment to play his fingers across his hairline to find a crusty patch of dried blood. He grunted, satisfied that the knot on his head had taken care of itself for the moment, and stretched out a hand reaching for the bowl still sitting on the tray on the floor nearby.

He looked at the contents of it closely then sniffed it. If they wanted him dead or drugged there was certainly easier ways to do both by force. Ronon figured out by this time that he wasn't their intended target so he figured he was pretty safe unless he caused them trouble. Trouble, hnh, he thought, they have no idea what kind of trouble they're in.

Foregoing another arm stretch to gather the spoon that had been supplied, Ronon simply dug into the gruel with his hand. Using his fingers as a spoon, he shoveled the cold porridge-type meal into his mouth. He had to force himself to swallow it since its consistency was more like a thick paste now, but he got it all down. Then he moved across the floor on his butt, staring at the wooden cup still sitting on the tray. Lifting it, Ronon sniffed at it then narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

It had no odor and he couldn't tell if it had color to it due to the dark interior of the mug. With a shrug he took the chance and sipped at it. Water.

He guzzled the entire cup quickly to sate his growing thirst.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They'd left one man to guard the prisoner while the others took a few hours to get some needed sleep. His name was Ujaal and he sat at the table in the corner playing a game that was probably similar to Solitaire on Earth, but it was played with a pitted board and some shiny smooth stones. Once in a while Ujaal glanced up at the man hanging by his arms in the center of the room and wondered if he was unconscious or asleep.

He doubted anyone could simply sleep in that position, with all his body weight pulling on his wrists. It was hardly a comfortable position, especially after two days already. They'd beaten this man so badly that even the metal bands cutting into his wrists didn't stir him. Blood ran down both arms and his face was swollen, bruised and bleeding.

Just as Ujaal pulled his eyes away from the prisoner to focus on his game, a loud noise, an unusual popping sound, made his head snap up. He barely had time to wonder what had made the sound when the prisoner's head came up sharply and his body stiffened.

Sheppard howled around the soggy gag, his blood curdling screams muffled by the cloth. One shoulder had popped out of its socket under the pressure of his full weight bearing down on them. He tried to put his weight down on his legs to relieve his shoulders of the weight but it was too late.

Ujaal stood up so fast that he knocked his chair backward onto the floor. He'd never been a part of such a thing before and was having doubts that, regardless of what the Alterans had done thousands of years ago, this would right that wrong.

His heart pounded in his chest as he carefully stepped closer to the prisoner. He could see which shoulder had dislocated and he winced in sympathy for the man. Just as Ujaal reached up, wanting to ease the man's pain, but not certain how he could with him stretched out in this manner, the door opened.

"Don't touch him!" came the voice that John recognized.

"Marek... he... he..." Ujaal stammered.

"He's fine just as he is," the interrogator, now known as Marek, informed the young guard. "You can leave now, Ujaal. We'll take it from here."

John tried to swallow against a parched throat and found that not only could he not swallow but his brain seemed to have forgotten the signals. He couldn't even coordinate his tongue and throat to even make a decent attempt at it. He gasped for air around the offending rag. Even raising his head in order to over extend his neck and open his airway didn't help alleviate the sensation of suffocation.

He was pretty sure he didn't need the blindfold anymore because both his eyes felt grotesquely swollen shut at this point. John was sure they'd cracked his skull with one of the clubs they used on him through the night and now he had a dislocated shoulder.

As thirsty as he was, painfully so even, Sheppard found that he wasn't the least bit hungry and knew it was his own body's way of keeping him from craving the food that would most likely make him sick anyway. Getting sick at this point would only serve to sap his remaining strength if he were to become violently ill.

"So," Marek began with a casual tone in his voice, "shall we begin again?"

John tried to keep his head up, but he was so weak it simply fell forward. He could barely concentrate on simply breathing through the pain and that's what he focused on, breathing in and breathing out.

In... and out.  In. Out.

"Where is the new Alteran settlement? We know you are not here alone. We saw another with you and he escaped. Where are the rest of your people?"

Sheppard simply shook his head as it hung forward. Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head back again and he yelled out in pain as the ligaments in his shoulder tore violently with the rough move. The tight fist in his hair pulling him backward made it nearly impossible to breathe at all and John struggled instinctively to throw him off but the surge of energy quickly dissipated.

"You must be thirsty," Marek's voice came to him as if the man was talking under water.

Oh god, he'd been through this before. John's brain could only repeat one word that reverberated through the chaos inside his own mind. No. No, no, no, no, nooooo...

His brain remembered too and flashed vivid images through his mind of a desert prison a long time ago. He knew this game, knew it too well. John knew how to play it now, but that didn't mean it would be fun.

Marek was close enough now to whisper in his ear, like a lover he spoke softly but his words were not friendly and his intentions were cruel. "Thirsty? Let me help you drink."

John tried to pull his head forward, but the fist in his hair only tightened to hold his face upward. The gag in his teeth kept his mouth open and the best he could do was try to close his throat with the back of his tongue to keep from drowning.

Marek slowly poured a full pitcher of water over John's face. The prisoner gurgled and spewed the water out, trying to gasp for air as the water streamed back into his throat. He tried to breathe through his nose but the beatings had left it bleeding freely. So now John realized he would either suffocate or drown.

After an eternity the water flow ceased and John's lungs fought to breathe. Suddenly his head was released and he threw himself forward, despite the torn shoulder he choked up water from his lungs and then vomited whatever he'd swallowed in desperation to not breathe it in.

His lungs burned and the fluid now in them made breathing even more difficult. His abdomen hurt with the wrenching muscles, being unable to double over as they insisted he do. They left him hanging there for a few minutes, letting him take stock of his injuries and his predicament.

"You want this to end?" Marek finally asked. The prisoner simply hung there breathing heavily. "This can end now... all you have to do is tell me where the others of your kind are."

That infuriated Sheppard. He wanted to rage at the man but all he could manage was to shake his head no. He wouldn't give up his people, his friends. Never. Not to save himself. If he even considered it, all he had to do was imagine Rodney in this position, or Lorne, or Miko...  All he could do was shout out in defiance through the gag and shake his head.

Never!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Major Lorne powered up Jumper Two again in the bay above the Gateroom and looked out the windscreen at Jumper Six across the way where Sgt. Stackhouse powered up his own ride. Day two of the search for their missing men had yielded nothing once more, perhaps today they'd get lucky.

Evan looked to his left out the main view port to see Jumper One sitting dark and idle a few yards away. Jumper One and Jumper Three were Colonel Sheppard's two favorite ships, while Lorne preferred Two and Four and Stackhouse always chose Six. The Jumpers were a marvelous piece of Ancient technology and a pilot's dream.

Cylindrical in shape, they were aerodynamically designed specifically to fit through a Stargate. They contained drive pods on each side of the craft's body down the length of the fuselage and the pods have to be retracted back into the vehicle's sides in order to fit through the Gate.

The ship also carried weaponry in the form of drone missiles, which are launched simply through the mental interface each piece of technology used to bond with the ATA gene carriers. It was because of this particular interface that the Jumper pilots found themselves favoring certain ships over another. It was as if the shuttle and the pilot literally bonded to one another over time through this interfacing technology.

Though the Puddle Jumpers can be piloted by utilizing the hand controls, they might've been provided simply as a redundant system, since the aircraft did interface with the mind of its pilot. The Heads-Up Display, which can reveal all sorts of information to the pilot and crew, including life signs and geographical readouts, as well as other relevant equipment and systems on board, can be immediately put at a pilot's disposal simply through a thought command.

Teyla sat beside Lorne in the co-pilot's seat and offered Rodney a smile through the main view port as he stared back at her wide-eyed and concerned from his seat beside Stackhouse. As the Jumpers' pilots activated the engines and the inertial dampeners, the two ships were boarded by ten Marines each to act as search and rescue or recovery personnel in the event their two missing people were located.

Once the rear hatches of the vehicles were raised and secured, Lorne radioed Flight Control and received the clear for go reply. He exchanged a glance with Teyla and offered her a thin smile as he reached between their seats to activate the console that would dial the Gate below them. Teyla understood his wish to show optimism but she found herself wary of too much of it as well.

The team had come under significant heavy fire and it was only because of Ronon and John's sacrifice that she and Rodney had made it back to Atlantis safely. The conditions in which they'd last seen their friends did not bode well for their return unharmed, she was sure.

As the Jumper lifted off its base, the center bay door panels located in the ceiling above the Gate room twisted and retracted in a circular fashion revealing the hovering ship to onlookers below. Jumper Two descended slowly, lining itself up with the Gate portal automatically and waited for its command to proceed.

Colonel Carter's voice came over their headsets with a final acknowledgement. "Bring them home, Major."

"Yes Ma'am," he replied. That request had been made every day since their men were lost to them and each day he replied with confidence that he would find them. With that, Jumper Two accelerated and shot through the Great Ring as Jumper Six descended from the bay above.

"We'll find them, Sam," Dr. McKay told her, his voice shaky and unsure.

"Good luck, Rodney," she replied and the second ship disappeared through the shimmering pool.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Marek stepped back from the prisoner and considered the man hanging from the chains. Either he was the most stubborn man the interrogator had ever met or the most loyal. Stepping backward, he kept his eyes on his captive, who simply hung limp and semi-conscious in front of him.

"You are a stubborn one, aren't you?" Marek mentioned and looked to the other men positioned around the room who looked back at him silently.

Sighing heavily, he turned to the small table where Ujaal had sat in watch earlier and poured himself a glass of water. Sheppard lifted his head slightly at the sound of the pouring liquid but his action went unnoticed. He was too weak though and couldn't hold it there, a few seconds later his head dropped forward again.

After sating his own thirst, Marek turned around to face him again. He simply looked over his captive, from head to toe, then nodded to one of the men nearby. "Remove his shirt," he ordered.

Sheppard heard and understood, but didn't have much left in him. His whole body hurt, he couldn't see it but he had intense bruising all over his chest and back, he had a dislocated shoulder and his face was swollen and bleeding. A gash on his left cheek bled freely and his bottom lip was split open. His eyes hurt so bad and were swelled shut. John had felt warm liquid flow between the closed eyelids of his left eye earlier and now, even beneath the blindfold, he couldn't open that eye since it was now coated with dried blood.

He could barely keep enough of his weight on his feet to keep the stress off his arms, his muscles shook with exhaustion and it hurt to even breathe or to swallow. The gag holding his mouth open was painfully tight and had caused drying and chafing at the corners of his mouth which he could tell were also now splitting open and John found himself dreading the gag being removed at this point.

Someone approached him.

It's funny how instinctive spacial awareness heightens when you lose the use of your sight, John thought vaguely. He heard a knife slowly sliding from its sheath and his heart picked up its pace again. He tried to pull away but it was a futile attempt, barely able to simply raise his head in defiance. The someone grabbed a piece of his tee shirt and then snagged the material with the point of the knife. A steady pull with the blade and the material ripped and then two hands grabbed at him and tore the shirt from his body, roughly pulling it free.

John waited, wondering what kind of sight he made at this moment. Marek watched him from a few yards away, noting the trembling legs, gasping breaths and general weakness of the prisoner.

"Fetch the doctor," he told the man closest to the door.

"The doctor?" the man asked to verify and Marek gave him a stern look. "Ean's not going to like this, Marek."

"I'm not asking for his approval. I want to be sure he's going to live a while longer," Marek replied with a nod toward the prisoner. "I don't want him to die before telling us where we can find his friends."

"What about the Satedan?"

"What about him?" Marek asked and even John turned his face toward the voice in query.

"Maybe he'll tell us... under the same circumstances."

"I have no dispute with the Satedan. He will not give up his Alteran friends and I won't have him pay for someone else's crimes." Marek stepped up close to his captive letting his breath wash over John's cheek and whispered to him, "We won't hurt your friend... unless you make me."

The thought of these men tying up Ronon like some trapped animal and doing this or worse to his best friend caused a surge of rage in Sheppard. He straightened suddenly with a muffled shout and, estimating Marek's close proximity, brought one knee up sharply, catching his torturer in the groin.

Marek doubled over with a loud cough as the surprise pain forced air from his lungs. The others in the room came to attention and one over-zealous follower stepped forward and bashed Sheppard across the back of the skull with a blunt club. John slumped limply in the chains again, fighting to stay conscious from the blow and Marek moved to a safe distance as he needed a few moments to recover from his own hit.

Unsure of what just happened, the man by the door glanced around wildly - from Marek to Sheppard to the man with the club and back to Marek. He turned and threw the door open and ran down the hall to find the doctor as Marek had ordered.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The Puddle Jumpers exited the Stargate and immediately cloaked, but Marek's watchers were guarding the portal as ordered. Marek had assumed correctly that once the Alterans were told of their missing man they'd send a search party. The sentinels, alerted by the dialing ring, stood armed and ready for the rescue team. They were taken aback when the two cylindrical ships zipped through and then disappeared into thin air.

The entire group hunkered down and scanned the skies with wide eyes. They hadn't been expecting ships and the watchers felt exposed and outnumbered at this point. The group continued to look skyward while sending one man back to inform Marek of the fantastical sighting.

The generations of storytellers, throughout the Matullan history, had turned the prophesied return of the Alterans into a myth, a near-religion, that harbored a vengeance for crimes committed by their ancestors thousands of years past. Their stories had created a cult-like mentality amongst some of the Matullans, while another sect of the population understood the return would consist of the descendants, or "second coming of their kind", not the Alterans themselves.

One faction wanted revenge on the Ancestors for what they'd done in their galaxy. Marek and his soldiers were of this belief. The other faction believed the return would consist not of the Alterans themselves, but of their children, the Annunaki, who possessed the knowledge and, through the right of birth, the ability of the Ancients to correct the abominations their forebears had left behind.

~ * ~* ~ * ~ * ~

Ronon passed the long hours of solitude pacing his cell and calling out to anyone passing by his door. Many times he'd exhausted himself this way, peppering his physical attempts to escape with long hours of exercise to keep from becoming weak and listless. He had no idea how long they'd be held or when their friends would find them, but Ronon wanted to be physically ready when the time came.

He was on the floor, pumping out another hundred push-ups when the sound of voices outside his door caught his attention. He didn't stop pushing out his set even when he heard the sound of the latch sliding back and the door opening to allow someone entry. Ronon noted the shoes just out of his direct line of sight but he pushed out his final eight then paused with his arms locked straight.

Turning his head slightly, Ronon looked at the shoes that indicated the person's position was to stand patiently waiting for his attention. The Satedan relented and slowly sat back on his knees and looked up at the older man looking down at him with an expression of regret.

"Yeah?" Ronon said.

"My name is Ean Viccor, I'm a doctor. I've come to check on your welfare," he told the large man kneeling on the dirt floor.

"I don't need a doctor," Ronon grumbled at him and then shifted onto his butt and slid himself back to lean against his cot.

"Well, knowing Marek and his men, I insisted on making sure of that myself," Ean informed him in a manner that reminded Ronon of Dr. Beckett's manner. "Let me take a look at that gash on your forehead," he mentioned as he put his bag down on the bed and reached his hand out.

"I'm fine, I said," Ronon insisted heatedly and pulled his head away from the stranger's touch.

"I'll be the judge of that if you don't mind," Doc Viccor stated in a tone again reminiscent of Carson Beckett. Ronon wasn't sure what to make of the man but he held still as Ean examined the laceration that had already begun to heal.

"What did you mean?" Ronon asked as the doctor applied an antibiotic gel to the healing wound and carefully covered it with a small dressing, taping it in place. "What did you mean 'knowing Marek and his men'?"

"Well," Viccor began slowly, "they aren't exactly the type to have a soft touch when they're looking for information."

"What?" Ronon pushed away from the man so he could turn a bit to look at him directly. "Wait. What kind of information?"

"Knowing Marek, he's probably demanded that you tell him about what you know of the Alterans...? It's all he seems to care about. It's become an obsession over the years, especially since the cullings have resumed sooner than anticipated."

"Who are the Alterans?" Ronon asked, confused.

"The Alterans. The... Ancestors?" Ean offered with a touch of doubt. "I'm sorry, I don't know by what name others in the galaxy know them as."

"Nobody's asked me anything about anything," Ronon told the man, piercing him with jade green eyes. "One of the guards did mention that name. He accused my friend of being an Ancient."

"Who?" Viccor asked, now looking to Ronon with serious concern. "What friend? I thought you were alone here."

"No. I had someone with me when we were taken prisoner. I haven't seen him since and nobody will tell me where he is."

Dr. Viccor sat beside Ronon on the edge of the cot as he finished taping the dressing in place. His expression was furrowed in serious thought and concern. "I haven't been told of another. Which doesn't bode well for your friend... especially if they believe he's an Alteran."

"Why not?" Ronon demanded to know as he pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the door. He stopped and turned back to the doctor halfway there. "What are they doing to him?" Ronon wanted to know.

"I don't know. I don't even know where he is," the doctor offered, but the lack of answers only served to agitate Ronon even more. The doctor simply sat and watched the prisoner, who was becoming angrier by the second. He wished he had the answers the man wanted, but then again he wished Marek would stop taking prisoners for no good cause as well.

"My friend is not an Ancient. He's not an Alteran," Ronon insisted. Dr. Viccor studied the Satedan closely and then shifted slightly on the edge of the cot.

"Does your friend carry the blood of the Ancestors?" Ean asked quietly, throwing a look toward the door to be sure they weren't being spied on. Ronon simply looked back, unsure if this man could be trusted and not really knowing why he'd ask.

"Please," the doctor asked, "if he carries the blood and is not an Alteran, then he is Annunaki. A descendant... one of those foretold in the stories of my people about the Alteran's returning, but in a second form - the Annunaki, the children of the creators."

Ronon had no idea how to answer that. He didn't need to either. Ean could see the truth in his faraway gaze as he tried to separate the truths from the legend. Dr. Viccor nodded and patted the large man on the shoulder, "It is alright. You don't have to find an answer. Your hesitation tells me that what I ask has come to pass... in a manner of speaking."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The sentry who'd been sent back to the compound finally found Marek in the interrogation room after having asked a number of his comrades if they knew of his whereabouts. He pushed his way through the door, pushing aside the guard who'd been standing in front of it with his back to the door.

"Marek! Ships!" he blurted out, gasping for air after his long run back.

At the sound of the door being forced open and his guard's dismayed retort at the abrupt intrusion, Marek spun around nearly pulling his gun. He stopped himself when he recognized the man and watched him with confusion and great interest as he tried to catch his breath, obviously having run the entire way back to report.

"What ships?" Marek demanded to know.

"Ships. Through the Great Ring. Two of them," the sentry gasped in short sentences.

Marek instinctively looked to his prisoner, hanging in chains by his bloodied wrists and looking near death, but still... there was a slight change to the prisoner's expression. Barely visible, but almost a grin behind the bloody, rank smelling and rancid tasting gag. He looked... satisfied? Or vindicated, Marek wasn't sure which.

"Your Alteran friends, I presume," he stated calmly to the captive. John tried to shrug but couldn't, wincing with the pain of the attempt then shook his head loosely.