Action/Adventure, Week 1: Bibula Harena (2/2)
Title: Bibula Harena (Part 2)
Author: jadesfire2808
Prompt: Slavery, captivity or hostages
Word Count: 17,000
Rating: M
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence/None
Summary: This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
Part One
Bibula Harena
That which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson Ulysses
Rodney works through the sixth bell of the day, shifting irritably to follow the patch of dying light around his cell. Even now at the end of summer, the days are pretty long, and he's able to keep going past the second bell of the evening.. He needs all the time he can get, since the tablet stubbornly resisted his reprogramming until he stripped it right back to basics and started again. It's not as though he needs it to do anything complicated anyway.
When the third bell rings, he's lying on his bunk, the shut-down tablet next to him, so close that he can see his breath steaming on the surface. In the quiet, his breathing sounds ridiculously loud, and the pulse in his ears nearly deafens him. It's not too late for it all to go horribly wrong, and he has to resist the urge to check the tablet again. He can't afford to waste the power.
Whenever it was that they arrived, Rodney tried to work out how long a 'bell' lasted. He and Sheppard had counted seconds, or at least had started to before they started arguing about whether 'athlete' or 'elephant' gave them a more accurate distance between numbers. Sheppard, just because he could, had decided that 'airplane' would work just as well, at which point Rodney had snapped and started counting in his head, relying on his own internal metronome to keep him on track. Of course, Sheppard had tried to put him off by calling out random numbers, but Rodney had once played the Minute Waltz in exactly sixty seconds with his parents screaming blue murder on the other side of the wall, so he wasn't so easily distracted. Even so, it had been hard to be sure, and his calculation of two hours, thirteen minutes was probably out by at least five minutes one way or the other.
The period between the third and fourth bells is the longest 133±5 minutes of his life. Longer than the two days after their first escape attempt, when the Garaldi realized Sheppard was really very good at the killing thing and hauled him off to the arena, leaving Rodney shivering and alone. Longer than the first time he heard the yells of the arena crowds and realized that Sheppard might not be coming back for him, ever. Longer than his first interrogation session, when he thought they were going to starve him to near-death to get the answers they wanted.
He's been trying to count down the minutes, the eight thousand or so seconds, but he loses track somewhere around five hundred and has to lie there, waiting in tense silence for the first chime. When it comes, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Then he starts to yell.
It's something he's had a lot of practice at, and it's not difficult to produce the right level of hysteria, especially when, at first, nothing happens. He yells for what feels like hours, and starts to wonder if his throat will give out before someone comes to see what the fuss is about. Eventually, over his increasingly hoarse shouting, he hears the key in the lock, and footsteps coming in his direction. He slips a hand up to grip the tablet by his head. He'll only get one shot at this, literally. It has to count.
He waits until he can almost feel the guard's body heat, then he stops screaming as abruptly as he started, opens his eyes and pushes down on the new button on his tablet, ramming it up and into the guard's chest. This time, it's the guard who screams.
Rodney already knows what that much electricity can do to a person, so he's ready for the spasms, for the horrible smell that starts to fill the cell. The prongs of his improvised taser seem to have worked as well as he'd hoped, and he waits until the man stops twitching before bending down to tug the keys from still-warm fingers. From his previous escapes, he knows that the door to the stairs at the end of the corridor is locked, as is the one at the bottom of the staircase, leading to the main hall. There's no one else in the cells he passes, and he forces himself not to think about the rest of the prisoners, assuming there are any. For all he knows, he's the only one in the whole building right now. He can't afford the time to go look.
At the door to the staircase, it takes him a minute or so to find the right key, and he tries not to be driven mad by the smell coming from the guard's abandoned meal. He risks a glance at it, swallowing as his mouth begins to water, then swallowing harder when he sees the cupboard beyond the low table and chair. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to let out the whoop of joy that is his first reaction, so he settles for a hissed yes and leaves the keys in the door for a moment. Apparently the Garaldi believe in keeping all a person's belongings together, so they brought his pack up along with his laptop and table. The hoped-for guns aren't there -- they'd been the subject of his first three interrogations, but the Garaldi understood the principles of ballistics about as well as they understood wormhole physics, which was to say that they could see the effects but looked blank when he tried to explain the math --but he does find the life signs detector, along with six power bars, an MRE, an emergency blanket, three flares, a first aid kit and a radio. There's a smaller, water proof bag inside the main pack, and Rodney stuffs everything in there except the LSD, which he flicks on as he goes back to the door.
As expected, there are a few life signs on the floor below him, but there are none on the stairs at the moment, so he risks turning the key, pulling it out carefully and gripping the bunch in his hand to muffle any sounds. Then he slowly starts to creep down the stairs, half an eye on the LSD and half on the slippery stone steps, hoping desperately that Sheppard is going to be there when he reaches the bottom.
*******
It is not being John's best night ever. Everything hurts, the rough patch-up job from the trainers barely enough to stop him from bleeding copiously every time he moves. He spends most of the afternoon face down on his pallet, feeling the throb of his pulse through torn tissue and the heat of an incipient infection that creeps across his back and down his arm. His performance must have been impressive though, because he's actually brought food in the middle of the afternoon, along with clean water, a new shirt, an extra blanket and some kind of foul smelling salve that the guard spreads across the wound before leaving. It itches like crazy, and John thinks the pain was probably better.
He's drifting by the time night falls, and the third bell of the night wakes him, making him jerk half-upright and groan at the throbbing in his back. Breathing through gritted teeth, he manages to sit up, leaning his elbows on his knees until the worst of the nausea passes, then he drinks half the water and eats the odd green fruit that tastes like raspberries. It's as much as he can manage for now, and his hands are shaking as he gets to his feet. This is not good.
He staggers over to the window, resting his forehead against the wall for a moment and willing himself not to pass out. It's going to get worse before it gets better, but he has to do this. When his head stops swimming, he takes three deep breaths, filling his lungs as deeply as he can, as though he's about to go deep sea diving, then he jumps.
The throbbing is worse than the stroke of the sword had been. Then, he'd been running on adrenaline and fear. Now, he's only got water and seriously weird fruit inside him, although how long he's going keep that down, he's not sure. The nausea is horrendous, the blood down his back spreading with each throb of his pulse, and he just hangs from his fingers for a moment, trying to get past the worst. When it doesn't pass, he gives in and starts to bend his arms, scrambling up the wall, until he can get his elbows onto the sill and some of the strain eases.
He waits another moment, then starts to turn his body, pushing his head through the bars and twisting his shoulders so they'll fit. He knows he's opened the wound again, but the discomfort is nothing against the head-spinning dizziness, and the pounding of the blood that he knows is flowing from the re-opened wound. He's more light-headed than he thought, because he almost laughs as his shoulders and back scrape against the bars, thinking that maybe the blood will help him slip through. Hitting the ground with a thump knocks the hysteria away, and he lies still for a moment, getting his breath back and forcing his brain to concentrate.
His knees shake as he hurries across the compound, and he can feel his shirt sticking to the open cut. He tries to keep rolling his shoulders, stop it getting fixed in place, but that just makes it hurt, so he concentrates on staying upright and making it to the rope without passing out. Mercifully, it's still there, as is the second piece, and he can use the inner palisade for support as he makes his way to the guard tower.
There's a nasty moment when he misjudges the guards' patrols, hearing footsteps coming towards him when he's barely halfway over the outer fence. Moving quickly, he swings himself all the way over, hanging still on the other side, trying not to breathe too hard and hoping the creaks of the rope sound like the normal noises of the wooden construction. His hands are almost cramping by the time the guard goes past, but John can't risk letting go with either of them to ease the muscle strain. Instead, he concentrates on getting to the ground without breaking his neck or skinning his palms. His head and stomach are as unhappy with him as his back, and he throws up almost as soon as his feet hit mud. Rolling to one side, he rests his forehead on the cool earth for a minute. He can't stay here too long. He has to get to Rodney, then get them both to the Stargate before it gets too light. There's no chance that they'll make it before the Garaldi discover they're gone, but they're going to need as much of a head start as they can get.
Gritting his teeth, John forces himself to his knees, then to his feet. There'll be time to rest later. Right now, he has work to do.
*******
There's a small alcove, just by the door to the main hall, and Rodney spends an anxious five minutes hiding in it, eyes glued to the life signs detector and trying not to bite his fingernails. He's realized that he and Sheppard didn't actually go into details of what's supposed to happen at this point. Is Rodney supposed to be in the main hall, or is he alright where he is? The trouble with the main hall is that it's got eight guards in it, and Rodney's fairly sure that any attempt to go out there is going to end up with him back in his cell fairly quickly. The only reason he got out last time was that they were bringing some poor soul in at the same time, and Rodney's escape had caused so much chaos that he managed to slip out before anyone noticed. He doesn't think he's going to get so lucky in the middle of the night.
He waits for what he thinks is another five minutes, trying to come up with a plan that doesn't involve him walking into a room with eight heavily armed men, without so much as a penknife to his name. The first aid kit probably has some scissors, but right now, he'd take a short length of two by four over them, however sharp they are. Since the alcove is sadly lacking in any kind of adaptable material, he supposes he'll just have to go on waiting.
He's into his fourth lot of probably-five minutes -- trying to think longer than that makes him hyperventilate, so he forces himself not to -- when he hears a commotion from somewhere. This isn't the only staircase that leads onto the main hall, and he smacks himself on the forehead when he hears the noise coming from one of the others. He'd expected Sheppard to come in through the main door, but this is Sheppard, so of course he doesn't do the obvious. Rodney goes to the door, cold fingers fumbling with the keys, and he looks through the tiny window to try and see what's going on. He has to glance down to get the key in the lock, and when he looks up again, there's fighting going on in the main hall.
Sheppard looks like he's walked straight out of hell. He's swinging one of the huge axes that that Garaldi are so fond of, and he's pale in the flickering torchlight, the white of his skin stark against the dark mess of his hair. When he turns, cutting down the guard who was trying to charge him from behind, Rodney sees that the back of his shirt is stained with something dark, spreading from his shoulders down towards his waist, and Rodney knows it's blood. Idiot.
Once the door is unlocked, Rodney stuffs the LSD into the bag, fishing out one of the flares and the emergency blanket as he does so. He's moving as quickly as he can, but it's hard when he can't take his eyes off Sheppard. He's seen him sparring with Ronon and Teyla, of course, and knows he's lethal with any kind of gun, following up both with a lazy smile or a blank look, almost dismissively. This Sheppard is different, moving with a controlled fury and grim determination that makes Rodney shiver. This Sheppard is a killer.
Rodney finally finishes untangling the flare and blanket, wrapping the thin material round the bottom of the flare so he can hold it safely, then turning his face away and pulling the top off. It bursts into life, the noise and sparks drawing attention to him and giving Sheppard the chance to cut down the man nearest him with a sweep of the axe. There's blood everywhere now, soaking the floor, reflecting the light of the flare which Rodney is holding in front of him like a sword. He waves it at the guard who starts towards him, then turns and nearly hits someone in the face with it. The man goes down, clawing at his eyes.
The tongue of flame is long now, and Rodney has to be careful to keep it well away from his own face, and not look at it directly. He keeps turning, trying to see all around him at once, as he makes his way towards Sheppard, who's still grimly trying to beat one of the more determined guards. Rodney's feet slip as he comes within Sheppard's range, and he doesn't look down because really, he already knows what it is and seeing it isn't going to help. The flare goes out as he reaches Sheppard, and he tries not to gulp, throwing the useless tube away but hanging onto the blanket.
There are only two guards left now, and they're not coming anywhere near Sheppard and that axe. Rodney doesn't blame them, because he's more than a little scared of Sheppard himself at that moment. Watching them warily, Sheppard says,
"You alright?"
Rodney has to clear his throat to be able to speak. "Been better. You?"
"Peachy." Sheppard is slowly walking towards the guards, and doesn't turn to look at Rodney when he adds, "Grab a knife."
"Wouldn't a sword be-"
"Do you know how to use a sword?"
It's a fair point, but Rodney's not about to admit that. Instead, he stoops over one of the bodies, carefully not looking at the face which caught the worst of Sheppard's attack, and tugs the knife from the man's belt. Then he starts towards the door. He actually has his hand on the handle before he realizes that Sheppard isn't following him. He's got the two men backed into a corner, and still has the axe raised, although he's not moving it at the moment. Dimly, Rodney wonders if it really is possible to cut someone's head off in one stroke, then he decides that he doesn't want to find out. Self-defense is one thing; the look on Sheppard's face is murderous.
"Sheppard?" Rodney says gently, in the voice that always used to coax his cat out from under the sofa during a thunderstorm. "John, we need to go."
"We can't leave them to raise the alarm." The words are soft, hoarse, as though Sheppard hasn't really spoken properly in a long time.
"So hit them on the head and get moving." That's the voice that reduced Rodney's professors to tears during his thesis defense, because he's really had enough and if nice and gentle isn't going to work, he'll try drill sergeant instead.
It seems to rouse Sheppard well enough, who gives him a lopsided smirk that nearly makes Rodney's knees buckle in relief, then he lowers the axe, turns it and uses the handle to smack into the side of one man's head. Rodney looks away into the street, checking they haven't been spotted yet, but he hears the second blow, then Sheppard is beside him, holding a knife that looks almost ridiculously small after the axe.
"Let's go," he says, as though Rodney hadn't been trying to talk him out of cold-blooded murder two seconds ago, and he leads the way along the dark street. Glaring at his back, Rodney makes a final check behind him, but sees no movement from any of the downed men. Some of them are possibly still alive. Others, he really hopes aren't. Blinking, he gently pulls the door closed, then hurries after Sheppard.
*******
They're not in good shape by the time they reach the forest on the edge of the town. It took them longer to cover the distance than John wanted, but neither of them can move very fast. His back is hurting like hell now, a line of fire from shoulder to shoulder, and while Rodney's never exactly been a marathon runner, he gets out of breath far too quickly for John's liking. They have to dodge several patrols and people moving about the town. Why there are people around at this hour, John has no idea, and he's too busy concentrating on not getting caught and not passing out to worry.
He waits until they're a little way inside the forest to call a halt, pushing Rodney into the cover of an arching tree root.
"Wait here." Instead of arguing, Rodney nods and drops to the ground, lowering his head between his knees and breathing hard. Normally, John would put it down to Rodney being Rodney, but there's something about the slope of the other man's shoulders that makes him pause. "You alright?"
That makes Rodney lift his head. "Are you going to keep asking stupid questions the whole way?"
John grins. "Probably." He takes a final look around, noting the position of the path and listening to the rustle of leaves for a moment, then he sits down next to Rodney, hissing as it stretches his back.
"You, er..." Swallowing, Rodney starts to fish in the bag he's brought with him. "You need me to take a look at your back? There's a first aid kit in here somewhere."
"No," John says, shaking his head. "No point."
"Of course not." Rodney's hands are moving, still fiddling with the bag as he talks, and managing to get a surprising amount of annoyance into his low muttering. "You're only losing a few pints of blood. Why would that matter?"
It's such a relief, hearing Rodney's whining, irritated complaints after months of silence and screaming crowds. Still grinning a little, John shakes his head. "I'll manage. We'll just rest a few minutes, then we need to move again."
"Do we have to?" The question isn't serious, so John ignores it, closing his eyes and letting himself relax, just for a moment.
Suddenly Rodney's shaking him, calling his name and looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. He pulls away when John looks up, forehead creasing in an impressive scowl. "Could you not to do that to me, please? It's bad enough being out in a dark forest containing who knows what kind of wild animals and just waiting for a posse to start hunting us without you passing out on me."
"I'm fine," John says automatically. "There aren't any wild animals out here. The Garaldi hunted them all down. And, posse?" Rodney waves a hand irritably, and John sees that he's holding something shiny. Of course. When Rodney follows his gaze, he looks a bit shifty and clears his throat.
"Power bar?" he asks, although it's obvious the question costs him something. "I have more."
"No." The thought of food makes John's stomach roll. "Any water?"
"Ah..."
"Never mind." Leaning his head back against the root behind him, John decides they'll move in just a minute. He's shivering in the night air, probably a fever setting in from his back, and he's just trying to work up the energy to tell Rodney that they need to go soon, when something settles around him. He looks down to see the tell-tale shimmer of an emergency blanket, draped across his chest. When he glances at Rodney, the other man is carefully looking in the other direction. Snorting, John pulls it more comfortably around him, then says, "We can't stay here long."
"I know." Rodney is peering out into the forest, which is probably a good plan, since at least one of them should be alert, and John did most of the hard work back at the prison. Which reminds him...
"Meant to ask," John says, keeping his voice low, "how'd you get out?"
"Hmm? Oh." Without turning to look at him, Rodney hunches his shoulders up a little. He's probably cold too. "I converted the power sources from my laptop and tablet into a taser. Then I just attracted the attention of the guard and hit him with it. Easy."
"Easy," Sheppard echoes, shaking his head. About as easy as squeezing through cell bars and climbing a fifteen foot fence.
"How long have we been here?" Rodney asks, so softly that John almost doesn't hear it. The question surprises him, and before he can answer, Rodney goes on, "I lost some days, during questioning. Lost some more recovering. It got hard to keep track and I didn't even have anything to scratch a tally on the cell walls with."
John tries to do the math, noting the 'questioning' and 'recovery' references for the future. Aloud, he says, "They have an arena fight once every five days. I fought twenty one times, and didn't fight fifteen, so that's thirty-six times five, which is-" His mind goes blank. It's hardly difficult math, but between exhaustion, the wound in his back and the fever, he's not exactly at his best right now. For once, Rodney doesn't answer for him, and John eventually makes the numbers stop dancing behind his eyes. "Hundred and eighty," he says. "That's six months."
"That's a long time."
"Yeah."
They sit in silence for a while. Then Rodney says, "The subcutaneous transmitters only have planetary range, so the Daedalus would have to be in orbit to find us, and we're a bit off of the beaten track, galactically speaking. It's a big galaxy."
"Yeah."
"We've still got the Wraith transmitters that we took out of Ronon. When we get back, I'm going to take them apart and work out how they broadcast over such long distances."
"Yeah."
"That would be worth having. A good project while I'm getting my strength back."
"Yeah."
"Of course, if I do, the Wraith will almost certainly be able to pick up the signal as well, which is probably not so good for security."
They sit in silence for a while, until John can feel his legs starting to cramp, and he has to make himself move. "Come on," he says, pulling off the blanket and folding it up again. "We need to get going."
They don't run. In the dark, over unfamiliar terrain, they'd end up falling over more than they stayed upright. But John sets a fast pace, gripping Rodney's elbow, dragging him along when Rodney starts to flag, and leaning on him when the nausea gets bad and his head starts to swim. Even despite the darkness, John's reasonably sure they're going the right way, keeping parallel to the path, through the dense undergrowth. He's operating on instinct at this point, but he's pretty sure the Garaldi brought them along the path, so following it back seems logical, even to his exhausted brain. When they stop to catch their breath, the sky is starting to get lighter, and John looks back the way they've come.
"This is pointless," he says, nodding to the trail of broken leaves and branches that they've left in their wake. "We need to get off the path completely or we may as well use it."
"Won't that make us easier to find?" Rodney's panting, and the arm in John's grip is swaying from side to side, although John's not sure which of them is moving. Probably both.
"We're easy to find at the moment." The first bell of the day will have rung by now, and the Garaldi could be on them at any minute, depending how long it took them to find the bodies. If they're lucky, they weren't found until the shift change at sixth bell. But there's no reason to think they'll get lucky now.
John was only half-conscious for most of the walk from the Stargate to the town, but he's sure it wasn't more than a few hours. He and Rodney have been walking for most of the night, so it can't be far now, and what they really need is speed. "We'll take the path," he says, half-pushing Rodney towards it. "And we need to move faster."
"Faster?" But Rodney doesn't have the breath to protest. What they need is to stop, rest a while and go on when they're stronger. That's probably the quickest way to get caught again. Rodney steadies him when he stumbles, making an impatient noise and pulling John's hand up to rest on his shoulder. They can move a little faster that way, with Rodney doing the steering and John pushing them onwards.
Vaguely, John wonders what will happen if they get caught. He's done too well in the arena for them to just kill him, probably, but he'll get busted right down to the bottom of the rankings, have to fight his way back up again. And that's odd in itself, because he knows he'd do that, knows that he'd claw his way back to where he was, further, even. He's never doubted that it's better than just letting them kill him, not once. And Rodney's too stubborn to just lay down and die.
The thought makes him grip Rodney's shoulder harder, makes them both stagger and Rodney swear under his breath as he tries to steady them again. Because John knows there's every possibility that they'll just decide Rodney's more trouble than he's worth. And Rodney wouldn't last five minutes in the arena. No, he promises himself as they turn a corner in the path, there's no way they're going back.
The landscape's changing now, with more rocky outcroppings amongst the trees. John gives Rodney's shoulder a tight squeeze, bringing them to a stop. This is the kind of terrain the Stargate is in, which means there must be some guards around here somewhere.
He doesn't realize how much Rodney's holding him up until they retreat to the undergrowth, and he steps away, trying to listen to their surroundings rather than Rodney's gasping breaths. Suddenly, John's knees won't hold him any more, and he's falling, trying to catch himself and tearing something across his back as he does so. There's a startled yelp from Rodney, who's still beside him, lowering him to the ground and bending over him. John shakes his head, trying to say that he's alright, he just needs a minute, when Rodney freezes. A second later, John hears it too.
Somewhere, in the distance, a dog is howling.
*******
Rodney is just getting ready to berate Sheppard for being a complete idiot who doesn't know his own limitations, let alone anyone else's, when he hears the dogs. The howl seems to bypass his higher brain functions, setting off some kind of primal fear that makes him grip Sheppard's arm and turn to him in sheer terror. Sheppard himself seems to be caught between pain and surprise, half-lying on the ground and staring up at Rodney, and for a moment, they're stuck like that. Rodney can read Sheppard's face now, sees the surprise replaced with fear, then sees that dissolve, leaving grim determination behind.
"C'mon," he says, using Rodney's grip to pull himself back to his feet again. Neither of them can stand very well, and they hold onto each other for a moment, swaying and trying to get their balance back. "We need to split up," Sheppard gasps, shaking Rodney a little when he snorts. "Seriously. Guards on the Stargate. Give me your knife, be ready with those flares."
Rodney's still shaking his head, but he swings the bag down from his shoulder, pulling out the flares and handing his knife to Sheppard. This is insane. They're neither of them in any fit state to take on alert, armed guards, whatever new ninja skills Sheppard's acquired in six months of fighting. And a flare isn't exactly going to be stealthy. Sheppard looks like a strong gust of wind would blow him over, while Rodney's head is throbbing, his hands are shaking, and the only reason he hasn't passed out already is that he's running on adrenaline and sheer terror.
He realizes Sheppard's talking to him, and tunes back in to hear him say, "-the other direction."
"What?"
Making an irritated noise, Sheppard starts again. "The Stargate's underground, and the entrance is like a natural arena, surrounded on all sides. When we get there, go round to the right, I'll go left. Find somewhere to hide until I take the guards out. If the dogs start coming, light up one of the flares and throw it at them. Should scare them off for a while, at least."
There was a whole lot of rubbish in those orders, but one thing in particular catches Rodney's attention. "You're going to take out the guards?" he says, giving Sheppard a skeptical look.
"Would you rather?"
"Er..."
"Then suck it up and get on with it. Come on."
Rodney's heard of the miracles of adrenaline, of the superhuman strength that lets parents lift cars off stricken children or hunters rip animals apart with their bare hands. He saw Ronon give his all to fight off a Wraith, going on for far longer than Rodney had known was physically possible. Watching Sheppard stalk off into the undergrowth, Rodney knows that's what he's seeing, the raw determination that's left behind when everything else is gone. For himself, he just feels tired, aching all over and teetering closer to the edge of exhaustion than he's ever been before. He's not exactly been on a suitable diet for hiking, the power bar's not doing much for his shaking hands or incipient hysteria, and he's more scared than he's ever been in his life. But he staggers after Sheppard, because, after all, he's a practical man, and he knows that the alternative is worse.
*******
The barking dogs are closer than John's comfortable with by the time they reach the entrance to the Stargate cave. It's just as he remembers it, a huge rock outcropping, with a natural bowl, an arena surrounded by stone on all sides. Looking at it, he can understand where the Garaldi get some of their ideas from, how they've come to see the town's arena as their safety, their only defense against the Wraith, a twisted mirror of this natural phenomenon. But it's a distant thought, something to file away and stick in his report later. Right now, he's more concerned about how many guards there are, and what they're armed with.
As they get closer, Rodney splits off to the right, just as he was ordered. That keeps him on the path side of the arena, better able to keep watch, and the sound of the flares will give John the warning he needs if the dogs get too close. John's free to think about the guards ahead of him, free to act on pure instinct, honed through months of fighting. The grips of the knives are wrapped in the same smooth cloth that the Garaldi wrapped around his, and they're well balanced, feeling secure in his hands. His back still hurts, still burns as though he's being branded, but he can ignore it for now, riding the surge of desperation as far as he needs. This is about more than fighting for his life.
They took everything from him, and until Rodney asked, he'd never really added up how long it had been, not wanting to think further than how many fights he'd survived, while keeping his eyes fixed on surviving the next one. They made him what he's become, attuned to nothing but the fight, his world contained and defined by this arena that he's about to enter. But beyond it now is Atlantis, and he's fighting for Rodney's freedom as well, for all that they've done to both of them over the months. He knows he's hallucinating, knows that the fever has gone to his head, making him punch drunk, but he swears he can hear Teyla's voice, Ronon's voice, that he can feel them at his back, urging him on. Calling him home.
He's killed the first guard on pure instinct, striking out with the knife even before the man has a chance to turn. It's a silent kill, the knife driving up through the back of the neck with enough force to shatter bone. He pulls the knife free, wiping it absently on the fallen man's shirt before moving onwards. The next guard spots him, and has the chance to cry out before John throws one of the knives, hitting him in the center of his chest and toppling him backwards. John follows it, pouncing on him and dragging the knife out, only to thrust it home again. The man's head falls back, and if he's not dead, then he's close enough.
John moves on quickly, listening for any noises from the undergrowth as he circles round to enter the stone arena. There's one sentry, obviously aware that someone is out there, but sticking to his post. Fortunately, John's kept his attention wider than just the area in front of him, so he's able to catch the one sneaking up on him before he can strike. He dodges the blow aimed at his head, striking at the man's wrist with one elbow, at his chest with the other, sending him sprawling into a bush, dropping the short sword on the way. John lets go of his bloody knife to scoop it up, using its extra length to stab into the undergrowth, not really caring if the man's alive or dead, as long as he stops moving.
The noise has put the sentry on even more of an alert, so John gives up any attempt at stealth. Still carrying the short sword, he walks onto the main path, starting to jog as he comes towards the entrance. John hesitates as the other man lifts his own sword, and it takes him a moment to work out what the problem is: it's too quiet. There's nothing around him but the rustle of the early morning wind in the trees, the howling of the dogs in the distance, and John's blood rushing in his ears. He's spent so long tuning out the screaming crowds that he feels oddly lost without them.
Ten seconds later, the feeling passes, and he's clashing swords with the guard, feeling the shock waves travel through his arms to his injured back. It hurts, but no worse than before, so he disregards it, shoving the man off and giving himself enough room to fight in. The guard is good, waiting and watching rather than just charging at John, holding the sword as though he knows what he's doing with it. It doesn't matter. John's spent six months assessing people's fighting styles in less time than this, and he already knows what he's going to do. As he closes in again, he sweeps his sword upwards, forcing the man to lift his own blade to block the blow to his face. At the same time, John brings his other hand, the one holding the knife, down and towards the suddenly unprotected belly. His opponent seems to realize the danger a second too late, trying to get his hand down, probably trying to grab John's wrist. John keeps going, the force of his movement pinning the man's hand to his stomach. The knife hasn't gone in very deeply, but it's enough that John sees awareness go out of the eyes in front of his, enough that the man starts to crumple towards the ground, barely giving John enough time to retrieve his knife. When he listens again, the dogs sound even closer.
He waits a moment, leaning against the stone pillars that mark the entrance, trying to see if there's anyone inside the arena. There's no cover in there, so once he steps over the threshold, he's a sitting duck. Taking another moment, he looks in the direction that Rodney should be coming from, not seeing any movement there. It worries him a little, but neither of them are going to get very far until he deals with any last opposition that might be between them and the Stargate, so John shakes his head to try and clear it, then steps over the threshold.
Of course, he can't possibly clear his head enough. He's lost too much blood, he knows, by the way his head is still spinning and his hands are starting to go cold. There's enough strength left in them for him to grip the sword and the knife, and as long as he can stand upright, he'll go on. Still, when yet another armed guard comes charging towards him, and John lifts his weapons, crossed to take the blow, the impact forces him back a few steps more than he'd like. There's not really enough strength in his shoulders to throw the man off, so John does the opposite, letting his knees fold and literally slipping under the man's guard. He can't get his knife down in time to strike a killing blow, so he changes the direction of his fall, bracing himself for the pain when his back hits the ground, and praying he's judged the angle right.
He has. As he falls backwards, he brings one leg up, hitting the man in the midsection and using his own momentum to throw him over John's head. There's a nasty crunching sound as the man hits the stone arena floor, and John has enough time to get his breath back before the next one is on him. He can't stay down. His back and shoulders won't take the strain, although he seriously doubts whether his legs will either. But it's the better of the two bad choices, so he rolls away from the downward stroke, coming up to his feet and staggering a little as his vision goes black for a moment. Before it clears, he feels someone hit against his upraised sword, and he reacts instinctively, parrying the blow and following it up with a knife thrust that doesn't connect with anything, but probably made his opponent back off a little. He takes a deeper breath, blinking as his eyes refocus, and lunges at the blurry shape in front of him.
The guard doesn't seem to have expected that, because he retreats, the sound of the blades sliding against each other going straight through John, setting his teeth on edge. He needs this to be over, needs to let himself stop. Warmth is flooding his back now, and his vision won't clear, staying gray around the edges and blurring in the middle. There's nothing but instinct in his head now, nothing but the sheer will to survive, the determination that having survived this far, he's not going to die now.
It seems that the guard has other ideas. John finds himself forced backwards, stumbling over the rough stone floor and desperately trying to ward off the blows to his head, his shoulders, only narrowly avoiding getting stuck through by twisting out of the way at the last moment. The movement is too much for his exhausted body, and he trips over his own feet, which suddenly seem to have been filled with lead. He yells as he lands, the pain making him black out for a moment. When he comes back to himself, he's half-curled on the ground, the guard standing over him, grinning down. He probably won't kill John, he's probably been to the arena and seen him fight, and the Garaldi venerate their successful fighters, but he will hurt him, will return him to the life that will kill him in the end.
From somewhere, John hears an almost inhuman scream, echoing round the stone bowl. The guard lifts his head, looking round for the source, and John wants to do the same, but he can't seem to get his neck muscles to cooperate. There's a familiar snap-hiss, followed by a rushing noise, and John closes his eyes instinctively, the flash of the flare bright through his eyelids. The scream that follows really is inhuman, the cry of a living creature in pain, twisted into an animal howl that cuts off too abruptly. John wants to open his eyes, wants to know what happened, except the dark is so inviting, so warm and comforting that he can't help but follow it down, sinking into blissful oblivion.
*******
Talking helps. Rodney keeps up a running commentary as he hauls Sheppard towards the spiral staircase in the center of the arena, complaining about how much he must have been eating compared to Rodney, and how it's ridiculous that Rodney has to step in and save his ass at the last minute, when really, that's Sheppard's job, and please could he just wake up now so that he can hear Rodney freaking out, rather than just lying there, looking half-dead.
He can hear the dogs barking, much closer now, and he knows they can't have more than a few minutes. Carefully, he pulls Sheppard as upright as he can, wrapping his arms around Sheppard's chest and gripping his wrists tightly. Rodney's own shirt is going to be as soaked with blood as Sheppard's at this rate, but they stand a better chance of getting down the stairs without breaking anything this way. Even so, Rodney stumbles near the bottom, and the last few feet are a breathless tumble, finishing in an undignified sprawl at the bottom. Sheppard is still pressed close against Rodney's chest, so he feels as much as hears the slight groan that the fall elicits. Grumbling about ungrateful Air Force Colonels, Rodney untangles himself, then pulls the last flare from the waistband of his pants.
It takes much, much longer to get up the stairs than it did to get down, even though he's not encumbered this time, and Rodney's seeing black spots by the time he reaches daylight. Pausing with his head just below ground level, he listens to the barking, which is starting to echo round the arena. He used the same trick for his own benefit, so he knows how deceptive the sound is, but still. They're close. Turning his head away, he lights the flare, then lays it on the top step, hoping that it'll be enough to at least discourage any pursuers for a few minutes. Then he half-falls back down the steps, to find Sheppard sitting up and looking confused.
"Where are we?" Sheppard's speech is slurred, and he groans again when Rodney bends to haul him to his feet.
"Stargate," Rodney says shortly. "Care to give me a hand here?"
With Sheppard actually trying to help, however ineffectually, they manage to stagger into the 'gate chamber, and Rodney leans against the DHD for a moment, before pulling Sheppard's arm away from his neck.
"Dial Atlantis," he says, fishing in the pocket of his oversized shirt.
"IDCs," Sheppard reminds him, but Rodney has found what he's looking for now, and waves it in Sheppard's face triumphantly.
It's his radio. Sheppard stares at him stupidly for a moment, then shakes his head and starts to dial. "It's been a long time," he says, not looking at Rodney.
"They'll be waiting for us." Rodney's having trouble with the radio buttons, his fingers too cold and tired to work it properly. It takes him three goes to get it turned on. Atlantis monitors all frequencies, but he chooses the one their team always uses, hoping it will make things go faster.
All the chevrons are dialed, but Sheppard pauses before activating the 'gate. He swallows, then turns to Rodney with a face so pale that it almost glows in the dim light. "I killed a lot of people."
"And lived to tell the tale," Rodney says irritably. "Look, I've promised myself a nervous breakdown when we get back, in which you are more than welcome to join me. But for now, dial the damn 'gate."
Sheppard's teeth are as white as his face when he grins, and he doesn't take his eyes from Rodney as he slams his hand onto the center of the DHD. Rodney can see the fear and relief in his eyes as the chamber fills with light, and he has to swallow before saying into the radio, "Atlantis, this is McKay. Do you copy?" There's no reply within half a second, so he says again, "Repeat, Atlantis, this is Rodney McKay. Can you hear me?"
"Rodney?"
"Elizabeth!"
"Rodney?"
Rolling his eyes, Rodney pulls a face at Sheppard before saying into the radio, "Yes, I've got Sheppard with me and yes, you're all very surprised and very happy, yadda yadda yadda, there'd better be a really big chocolate cake waiting there for us. Now will you lower the damn shield so we can come through before we get torn to pieces by savage dogs?"
He hears a muffled sound that could be laughter, before Elizabeth says, "The shield is down. Come on home."
This time, it's Sheppard who makes the muffled sound, but he looks almost himself when he raises an eyebrow at Rodney. "Chocolate cake?"
"Hey, if you don't want any, all the more for me." Rodney grips Sheppard's outstretched arm, leaning against him for support because he's not sure his knees are going to take him all the way to the gate otherwise. Judging by the way Sheppard's leaning against him in return, they're not going to make it very far. Fortunately, the event horizon is just a few meters away, close enough for them to limp to.
Sheppard pauses right on the edge, looking at Rodney with the first genuine smile that Rodney's seen in six months, from anyone.
"We're going home," he says, and the hand against Rodney's back tightens for a moment.
There's nothing to say to that, so Rodney grins back, feeling the relief wash through him, although really, they need to move because he'd like to arrive in Atlantis on his feet rather than in a dead faint.
"Yeah," he says, gripping Sheppard's shoulder in return, and together, they step through the Stargate.
~End~
Author: jadesfire2808
Prompt: Slavery, captivity or hostages
Word Count: 17,000
Rating: M
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence/None
Summary: This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
Part One
Bibula Harena
That which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson Ulysses
Rodney works through the sixth bell of the day, shifting irritably to follow the patch of dying light around his cell. Even now at the end of summer, the days are pretty long, and he's able to keep going past the second bell of the evening.. He needs all the time he can get, since the tablet stubbornly resisted his reprogramming until he stripped it right back to basics and started again. It's not as though he needs it to do anything complicated anyway.
When the third bell rings, he's lying on his bunk, the shut-down tablet next to him, so close that he can see his breath steaming on the surface. In the quiet, his breathing sounds ridiculously loud, and the pulse in his ears nearly deafens him. It's not too late for it all to go horribly wrong, and he has to resist the urge to check the tablet again. He can't afford to waste the power.
Whenever it was that they arrived, Rodney tried to work out how long a 'bell' lasted. He and Sheppard had counted seconds, or at least had started to before they started arguing about whether 'athlete' or 'elephant' gave them a more accurate distance between numbers. Sheppard, just because he could, had decided that 'airplane' would work just as well, at which point Rodney had snapped and started counting in his head, relying on his own internal metronome to keep him on track. Of course, Sheppard had tried to put him off by calling out random numbers, but Rodney had once played the Minute Waltz in exactly sixty seconds with his parents screaming blue murder on the other side of the wall, so he wasn't so easily distracted. Even so, it had been hard to be sure, and his calculation of two hours, thirteen minutes was probably out by at least five minutes one way or the other.
The period between the third and fourth bells is the longest 133±5 minutes of his life. Longer than the two days after their first escape attempt, when the Garaldi realized Sheppard was really very good at the killing thing and hauled him off to the arena, leaving Rodney shivering and alone. Longer than the first time he heard the yells of the arena crowds and realized that Sheppard might not be coming back for him, ever. Longer than his first interrogation session, when he thought they were going to starve him to near-death to get the answers they wanted.
He's been trying to count down the minutes, the eight thousand or so seconds, but he loses track somewhere around five hundred and has to lie there, waiting in tense silence for the first chime. When it comes, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Then he starts to yell.
It's something he's had a lot of practice at, and it's not difficult to produce the right level of hysteria, especially when, at first, nothing happens. He yells for what feels like hours, and starts to wonder if his throat will give out before someone comes to see what the fuss is about. Eventually, over his increasingly hoarse shouting, he hears the key in the lock, and footsteps coming in his direction. He slips a hand up to grip the tablet by his head. He'll only get one shot at this, literally. It has to count.
He waits until he can almost feel the guard's body heat, then he stops screaming as abruptly as he started, opens his eyes and pushes down on the new button on his tablet, ramming it up and into the guard's chest. This time, it's the guard who screams.
Rodney already knows what that much electricity can do to a person, so he's ready for the spasms, for the horrible smell that starts to fill the cell. The prongs of his improvised taser seem to have worked as well as he'd hoped, and he waits until the man stops twitching before bending down to tug the keys from still-warm fingers. From his previous escapes, he knows that the door to the stairs at the end of the corridor is locked, as is the one at the bottom of the staircase, leading to the main hall. There's no one else in the cells he passes, and he forces himself not to think about the rest of the prisoners, assuming there are any. For all he knows, he's the only one in the whole building right now. He can't afford the time to go look.
At the door to the staircase, it takes him a minute or so to find the right key, and he tries not to be driven mad by the smell coming from the guard's abandoned meal. He risks a glance at it, swallowing as his mouth begins to water, then swallowing harder when he sees the cupboard beyond the low table and chair. It probably wouldn't be a good idea to let out the whoop of joy that is his first reaction, so he settles for a hissed yes and leaves the keys in the door for a moment. Apparently the Garaldi believe in keeping all a person's belongings together, so they brought his pack up along with his laptop and table. The hoped-for guns aren't there -- they'd been the subject of his first three interrogations, but the Garaldi understood the principles of ballistics about as well as they understood wormhole physics, which was to say that they could see the effects but looked blank when he tried to explain the math --but he does find the life signs detector, along with six power bars, an MRE, an emergency blanket, three flares, a first aid kit and a radio. There's a smaller, water proof bag inside the main pack, and Rodney stuffs everything in there except the LSD, which he flicks on as he goes back to the door.
As expected, there are a few life signs on the floor below him, but there are none on the stairs at the moment, so he risks turning the key, pulling it out carefully and gripping the bunch in his hand to muffle any sounds. Then he slowly starts to creep down the stairs, half an eye on the LSD and half on the slippery stone steps, hoping desperately that Sheppard is going to be there when he reaches the bottom.
*******
It is not being John's best night ever. Everything hurts, the rough patch-up job from the trainers barely enough to stop him from bleeding copiously every time he moves. He spends most of the afternoon face down on his pallet, feeling the throb of his pulse through torn tissue and the heat of an incipient infection that creeps across his back and down his arm. His performance must have been impressive though, because he's actually brought food in the middle of the afternoon, along with clean water, a new shirt, an extra blanket and some kind of foul smelling salve that the guard spreads across the wound before leaving. It itches like crazy, and John thinks the pain was probably better.
He's drifting by the time night falls, and the third bell of the night wakes him, making him jerk half-upright and groan at the throbbing in his back. Breathing through gritted teeth, he manages to sit up, leaning his elbows on his knees until the worst of the nausea passes, then he drinks half the water and eats the odd green fruit that tastes like raspberries. It's as much as he can manage for now, and his hands are shaking as he gets to his feet. This is not good.
He staggers over to the window, resting his forehead against the wall for a moment and willing himself not to pass out. It's going to get worse before it gets better, but he has to do this. When his head stops swimming, he takes three deep breaths, filling his lungs as deeply as he can, as though he's about to go deep sea diving, then he jumps.
The throbbing is worse than the stroke of the sword had been. Then, he'd been running on adrenaline and fear. Now, he's only got water and seriously weird fruit inside him, although how long he's going keep that down, he's not sure. The nausea is horrendous, the blood down his back spreading with each throb of his pulse, and he just hangs from his fingers for a moment, trying to get past the worst. When it doesn't pass, he gives in and starts to bend his arms, scrambling up the wall, until he can get his elbows onto the sill and some of the strain eases.
He waits another moment, then starts to turn his body, pushing his head through the bars and twisting his shoulders so they'll fit. He knows he's opened the wound again, but the discomfort is nothing against the head-spinning dizziness, and the pounding of the blood that he knows is flowing from the re-opened wound. He's more light-headed than he thought, because he almost laughs as his shoulders and back scrape against the bars, thinking that maybe the blood will help him slip through. Hitting the ground with a thump knocks the hysteria away, and he lies still for a moment, getting his breath back and forcing his brain to concentrate.
His knees shake as he hurries across the compound, and he can feel his shirt sticking to the open cut. He tries to keep rolling his shoulders, stop it getting fixed in place, but that just makes it hurt, so he concentrates on staying upright and making it to the rope without passing out. Mercifully, it's still there, as is the second piece, and he can use the inner palisade for support as he makes his way to the guard tower.
There's a nasty moment when he misjudges the guards' patrols, hearing footsteps coming towards him when he's barely halfway over the outer fence. Moving quickly, he swings himself all the way over, hanging still on the other side, trying not to breathe too hard and hoping the creaks of the rope sound like the normal noises of the wooden construction. His hands are almost cramping by the time the guard goes past, but John can't risk letting go with either of them to ease the muscle strain. Instead, he concentrates on getting to the ground without breaking his neck or skinning his palms. His head and stomach are as unhappy with him as his back, and he throws up almost as soon as his feet hit mud. Rolling to one side, he rests his forehead on the cool earth for a minute. He can't stay here too long. He has to get to Rodney, then get them both to the Stargate before it gets too light. There's no chance that they'll make it before the Garaldi discover they're gone, but they're going to need as much of a head start as they can get.
Gritting his teeth, John forces himself to his knees, then to his feet. There'll be time to rest later. Right now, he has work to do.
*******
There's a small alcove, just by the door to the main hall, and Rodney spends an anxious five minutes hiding in it, eyes glued to the life signs detector and trying not to bite his fingernails. He's realized that he and Sheppard didn't actually go into details of what's supposed to happen at this point. Is Rodney supposed to be in the main hall, or is he alright where he is? The trouble with the main hall is that it's got eight guards in it, and Rodney's fairly sure that any attempt to go out there is going to end up with him back in his cell fairly quickly. The only reason he got out last time was that they were bringing some poor soul in at the same time, and Rodney's escape had caused so much chaos that he managed to slip out before anyone noticed. He doesn't think he's going to get so lucky in the middle of the night.
He waits for what he thinks is another five minutes, trying to come up with a plan that doesn't involve him walking into a room with eight heavily armed men, without so much as a penknife to his name. The first aid kit probably has some scissors, but right now, he'd take a short length of two by four over them, however sharp they are. Since the alcove is sadly lacking in any kind of adaptable material, he supposes he'll just have to go on waiting.
He's into his fourth lot of probably-five minutes -- trying to think longer than that makes him hyperventilate, so he forces himself not to -- when he hears a commotion from somewhere. This isn't the only staircase that leads onto the main hall, and he smacks himself on the forehead when he hears the noise coming from one of the others. He'd expected Sheppard to come in through the main door, but this is Sheppard, so of course he doesn't do the obvious. Rodney goes to the door, cold fingers fumbling with the keys, and he looks through the tiny window to try and see what's going on. He has to glance down to get the key in the lock, and when he looks up again, there's fighting going on in the main hall.
Sheppard looks like he's walked straight out of hell. He's swinging one of the huge axes that that Garaldi are so fond of, and he's pale in the flickering torchlight, the white of his skin stark against the dark mess of his hair. When he turns, cutting down the guard who was trying to charge him from behind, Rodney sees that the back of his shirt is stained with something dark, spreading from his shoulders down towards his waist, and Rodney knows it's blood. Idiot.
Once the door is unlocked, Rodney stuffs the LSD into the bag, fishing out one of the flares and the emergency blanket as he does so. He's moving as quickly as he can, but it's hard when he can't take his eyes off Sheppard. He's seen him sparring with Ronon and Teyla, of course, and knows he's lethal with any kind of gun, following up both with a lazy smile or a blank look, almost dismissively. This Sheppard is different, moving with a controlled fury and grim determination that makes Rodney shiver. This Sheppard is a killer.
Rodney finally finishes untangling the flare and blanket, wrapping the thin material round the bottom of the flare so he can hold it safely, then turning his face away and pulling the top off. It bursts into life, the noise and sparks drawing attention to him and giving Sheppard the chance to cut down the man nearest him with a sweep of the axe. There's blood everywhere now, soaking the floor, reflecting the light of the flare which Rodney is holding in front of him like a sword. He waves it at the guard who starts towards him, then turns and nearly hits someone in the face with it. The man goes down, clawing at his eyes.
The tongue of flame is long now, and Rodney has to be careful to keep it well away from his own face, and not look at it directly. He keeps turning, trying to see all around him at once, as he makes his way towards Sheppard, who's still grimly trying to beat one of the more determined guards. Rodney's feet slip as he comes within Sheppard's range, and he doesn't look down because really, he already knows what it is and seeing it isn't going to help. The flare goes out as he reaches Sheppard, and he tries not to gulp, throwing the useless tube away but hanging onto the blanket.
There are only two guards left now, and they're not coming anywhere near Sheppard and that axe. Rodney doesn't blame them, because he's more than a little scared of Sheppard himself at that moment. Watching them warily, Sheppard says,
"You alright?"
Rodney has to clear his throat to be able to speak. "Been better. You?"
"Peachy." Sheppard is slowly walking towards the guards, and doesn't turn to look at Rodney when he adds, "Grab a knife."
"Wouldn't a sword be-"
"Do you know how to use a sword?"
It's a fair point, but Rodney's not about to admit that. Instead, he stoops over one of the bodies, carefully not looking at the face which caught the worst of Sheppard's attack, and tugs the knife from the man's belt. Then he starts towards the door. He actually has his hand on the handle before he realizes that Sheppard isn't following him. He's got the two men backed into a corner, and still has the axe raised, although he's not moving it at the moment. Dimly, Rodney wonders if it really is possible to cut someone's head off in one stroke, then he decides that he doesn't want to find out. Self-defense is one thing; the look on Sheppard's face is murderous.
"Sheppard?" Rodney says gently, in the voice that always used to coax his cat out from under the sofa during a thunderstorm. "John, we need to go."
"We can't leave them to raise the alarm." The words are soft, hoarse, as though Sheppard hasn't really spoken properly in a long time.
"So hit them on the head and get moving." That's the voice that reduced Rodney's professors to tears during his thesis defense, because he's really had enough and if nice and gentle isn't going to work, he'll try drill sergeant instead.
It seems to rouse Sheppard well enough, who gives him a lopsided smirk that nearly makes Rodney's knees buckle in relief, then he lowers the axe, turns it and uses the handle to smack into the side of one man's head. Rodney looks away into the street, checking they haven't been spotted yet, but he hears the second blow, then Sheppard is beside him, holding a knife that looks almost ridiculously small after the axe.
"Let's go," he says, as though Rodney hadn't been trying to talk him out of cold-blooded murder two seconds ago, and he leads the way along the dark street. Glaring at his back, Rodney makes a final check behind him, but sees no movement from any of the downed men. Some of them are possibly still alive. Others, he really hopes aren't. Blinking, he gently pulls the door closed, then hurries after Sheppard.
*******
They're not in good shape by the time they reach the forest on the edge of the town. It took them longer to cover the distance than John wanted, but neither of them can move very fast. His back is hurting like hell now, a line of fire from shoulder to shoulder, and while Rodney's never exactly been a marathon runner, he gets out of breath far too quickly for John's liking. They have to dodge several patrols and people moving about the town. Why there are people around at this hour, John has no idea, and he's too busy concentrating on not getting caught and not passing out to worry.
He waits until they're a little way inside the forest to call a halt, pushing Rodney into the cover of an arching tree root.
"Wait here." Instead of arguing, Rodney nods and drops to the ground, lowering his head between his knees and breathing hard. Normally, John would put it down to Rodney being Rodney, but there's something about the slope of the other man's shoulders that makes him pause. "You alright?"
That makes Rodney lift his head. "Are you going to keep asking stupid questions the whole way?"
John grins. "Probably." He takes a final look around, noting the position of the path and listening to the rustle of leaves for a moment, then he sits down next to Rodney, hissing as it stretches his back.
"You, er..." Swallowing, Rodney starts to fish in the bag he's brought with him. "You need me to take a look at your back? There's a first aid kit in here somewhere."
"No," John says, shaking his head. "No point."
"Of course not." Rodney's hands are moving, still fiddling with the bag as he talks, and managing to get a surprising amount of annoyance into his low muttering. "You're only losing a few pints of blood. Why would that matter?"
It's such a relief, hearing Rodney's whining, irritated complaints after months of silence and screaming crowds. Still grinning a little, John shakes his head. "I'll manage. We'll just rest a few minutes, then we need to move again."
"Do we have to?" The question isn't serious, so John ignores it, closing his eyes and letting himself relax, just for a moment.
Suddenly Rodney's shaking him, calling his name and looking at him with wide, terrified eyes. He pulls away when John looks up, forehead creasing in an impressive scowl. "Could you not to do that to me, please? It's bad enough being out in a dark forest containing who knows what kind of wild animals and just waiting for a posse to start hunting us without you passing out on me."
"I'm fine," John says automatically. "There aren't any wild animals out here. The Garaldi hunted them all down. And, posse?" Rodney waves a hand irritably, and John sees that he's holding something shiny. Of course. When Rodney follows his gaze, he looks a bit shifty and clears his throat.
"Power bar?" he asks, although it's obvious the question costs him something. "I have more."
"No." The thought of food makes John's stomach roll. "Any water?"
"Ah..."
"Never mind." Leaning his head back against the root behind him, John decides they'll move in just a minute. He's shivering in the night air, probably a fever setting in from his back, and he's just trying to work up the energy to tell Rodney that they need to go soon, when something settles around him. He looks down to see the tell-tale shimmer of an emergency blanket, draped across his chest. When he glances at Rodney, the other man is carefully looking in the other direction. Snorting, John pulls it more comfortably around him, then says, "We can't stay here long."
"I know." Rodney is peering out into the forest, which is probably a good plan, since at least one of them should be alert, and John did most of the hard work back at the prison. Which reminds him...
"Meant to ask," John says, keeping his voice low, "how'd you get out?"
"Hmm? Oh." Without turning to look at him, Rodney hunches his shoulders up a little. He's probably cold too. "I converted the power sources from my laptop and tablet into a taser. Then I just attracted the attention of the guard and hit him with it. Easy."
"Easy," Sheppard echoes, shaking his head. About as easy as squeezing through cell bars and climbing a fifteen foot fence.
"How long have we been here?" Rodney asks, so softly that John almost doesn't hear it. The question surprises him, and before he can answer, Rodney goes on, "I lost some days, during questioning. Lost some more recovering. It got hard to keep track and I didn't even have anything to scratch a tally on the cell walls with."
John tries to do the math, noting the 'questioning' and 'recovery' references for the future. Aloud, he says, "They have an arena fight once every five days. I fought twenty one times, and didn't fight fifteen, so that's thirty-six times five, which is-" His mind goes blank. It's hardly difficult math, but between exhaustion, the wound in his back and the fever, he's not exactly at his best right now. For once, Rodney doesn't answer for him, and John eventually makes the numbers stop dancing behind his eyes. "Hundred and eighty," he says. "That's six months."
"That's a long time."
"Yeah."
They sit in silence for a while. Then Rodney says, "The subcutaneous transmitters only have planetary range, so the Daedalus would have to be in orbit to find us, and we're a bit off of the beaten track, galactically speaking. It's a big galaxy."
"Yeah."
"We've still got the Wraith transmitters that we took out of Ronon. When we get back, I'm going to take them apart and work out how they broadcast over such long distances."
"Yeah."
"That would be worth having. A good project while I'm getting my strength back."
"Yeah."
"Of course, if I do, the Wraith will almost certainly be able to pick up the signal as well, which is probably not so good for security."
They sit in silence for a while, until John can feel his legs starting to cramp, and he has to make himself move. "Come on," he says, pulling off the blanket and folding it up again. "We need to get going."
They don't run. In the dark, over unfamiliar terrain, they'd end up falling over more than they stayed upright. But John sets a fast pace, gripping Rodney's elbow, dragging him along when Rodney starts to flag, and leaning on him when the nausea gets bad and his head starts to swim. Even despite the darkness, John's reasonably sure they're going the right way, keeping parallel to the path, through the dense undergrowth. He's operating on instinct at this point, but he's pretty sure the Garaldi brought them along the path, so following it back seems logical, even to his exhausted brain. When they stop to catch their breath, the sky is starting to get lighter, and John looks back the way they've come.
"This is pointless," he says, nodding to the trail of broken leaves and branches that they've left in their wake. "We need to get off the path completely or we may as well use it."
"Won't that make us easier to find?" Rodney's panting, and the arm in John's grip is swaying from side to side, although John's not sure which of them is moving. Probably both.
"We're easy to find at the moment." The first bell of the day will have rung by now, and the Garaldi could be on them at any minute, depending how long it took them to find the bodies. If they're lucky, they weren't found until the shift change at sixth bell. But there's no reason to think they'll get lucky now.
John was only half-conscious for most of the walk from the Stargate to the town, but he's sure it wasn't more than a few hours. He and Rodney have been walking for most of the night, so it can't be far now, and what they really need is speed. "We'll take the path," he says, half-pushing Rodney towards it. "And we need to move faster."
"Faster?" But Rodney doesn't have the breath to protest. What they need is to stop, rest a while and go on when they're stronger. That's probably the quickest way to get caught again. Rodney steadies him when he stumbles, making an impatient noise and pulling John's hand up to rest on his shoulder. They can move a little faster that way, with Rodney doing the steering and John pushing them onwards.
Vaguely, John wonders what will happen if they get caught. He's done too well in the arena for them to just kill him, probably, but he'll get busted right down to the bottom of the rankings, have to fight his way back up again. And that's odd in itself, because he knows he'd do that, knows that he'd claw his way back to where he was, further, even. He's never doubted that it's better than just letting them kill him, not once. And Rodney's too stubborn to just lay down and die.
The thought makes him grip Rodney's shoulder harder, makes them both stagger and Rodney swear under his breath as he tries to steady them again. Because John knows there's every possibility that they'll just decide Rodney's more trouble than he's worth. And Rodney wouldn't last five minutes in the arena. No, he promises himself as they turn a corner in the path, there's no way they're going back.
The landscape's changing now, with more rocky outcroppings amongst the trees. John gives Rodney's shoulder a tight squeeze, bringing them to a stop. This is the kind of terrain the Stargate is in, which means there must be some guards around here somewhere.
He doesn't realize how much Rodney's holding him up until they retreat to the undergrowth, and he steps away, trying to listen to their surroundings rather than Rodney's gasping breaths. Suddenly, John's knees won't hold him any more, and he's falling, trying to catch himself and tearing something across his back as he does so. There's a startled yelp from Rodney, who's still beside him, lowering him to the ground and bending over him. John shakes his head, trying to say that he's alright, he just needs a minute, when Rodney freezes. A second later, John hears it too.
Somewhere, in the distance, a dog is howling.
*******
Rodney is just getting ready to berate Sheppard for being a complete idiot who doesn't know his own limitations, let alone anyone else's, when he hears the dogs. The howl seems to bypass his higher brain functions, setting off some kind of primal fear that makes him grip Sheppard's arm and turn to him in sheer terror. Sheppard himself seems to be caught between pain and surprise, half-lying on the ground and staring up at Rodney, and for a moment, they're stuck like that. Rodney can read Sheppard's face now, sees the surprise replaced with fear, then sees that dissolve, leaving grim determination behind.
"C'mon," he says, using Rodney's grip to pull himself back to his feet again. Neither of them can stand very well, and they hold onto each other for a moment, swaying and trying to get their balance back. "We need to split up," Sheppard gasps, shaking Rodney a little when he snorts. "Seriously. Guards on the Stargate. Give me your knife, be ready with those flares."
Rodney's still shaking his head, but he swings the bag down from his shoulder, pulling out the flares and handing his knife to Sheppard. This is insane. They're neither of them in any fit state to take on alert, armed guards, whatever new ninja skills Sheppard's acquired in six months of fighting. And a flare isn't exactly going to be stealthy. Sheppard looks like a strong gust of wind would blow him over, while Rodney's head is throbbing, his hands are shaking, and the only reason he hasn't passed out already is that he's running on adrenaline and sheer terror.
He realizes Sheppard's talking to him, and tunes back in to hear him say, "-the other direction."
"What?"
Making an irritated noise, Sheppard starts again. "The Stargate's underground, and the entrance is like a natural arena, surrounded on all sides. When we get there, go round to the right, I'll go left. Find somewhere to hide until I take the guards out. If the dogs start coming, light up one of the flares and throw it at them. Should scare them off for a while, at least."
There was a whole lot of rubbish in those orders, but one thing in particular catches Rodney's attention. "You're going to take out the guards?" he says, giving Sheppard a skeptical look.
"Would you rather?"
"Er..."
"Then suck it up and get on with it. Come on."
Rodney's heard of the miracles of adrenaline, of the superhuman strength that lets parents lift cars off stricken children or hunters rip animals apart with their bare hands. He saw Ronon give his all to fight off a Wraith, going on for far longer than Rodney had known was physically possible. Watching Sheppard stalk off into the undergrowth, Rodney knows that's what he's seeing, the raw determination that's left behind when everything else is gone. For himself, he just feels tired, aching all over and teetering closer to the edge of exhaustion than he's ever been before. He's not exactly been on a suitable diet for hiking, the power bar's not doing much for his shaking hands or incipient hysteria, and he's more scared than he's ever been in his life. But he staggers after Sheppard, because, after all, he's a practical man, and he knows that the alternative is worse.
*******
The barking dogs are closer than John's comfortable with by the time they reach the entrance to the Stargate cave. It's just as he remembers it, a huge rock outcropping, with a natural bowl, an arena surrounded by stone on all sides. Looking at it, he can understand where the Garaldi get some of their ideas from, how they've come to see the town's arena as their safety, their only defense against the Wraith, a twisted mirror of this natural phenomenon. But it's a distant thought, something to file away and stick in his report later. Right now, he's more concerned about how many guards there are, and what they're armed with.
As they get closer, Rodney splits off to the right, just as he was ordered. That keeps him on the path side of the arena, better able to keep watch, and the sound of the flares will give John the warning he needs if the dogs get too close. John's free to think about the guards ahead of him, free to act on pure instinct, honed through months of fighting. The grips of the knives are wrapped in the same smooth cloth that the Garaldi wrapped around his, and they're well balanced, feeling secure in his hands. His back still hurts, still burns as though he's being branded, but he can ignore it for now, riding the surge of desperation as far as he needs. This is about more than fighting for his life.
They took everything from him, and until Rodney asked, he'd never really added up how long it had been, not wanting to think further than how many fights he'd survived, while keeping his eyes fixed on surviving the next one. They made him what he's become, attuned to nothing but the fight, his world contained and defined by this arena that he's about to enter. But beyond it now is Atlantis, and he's fighting for Rodney's freedom as well, for all that they've done to both of them over the months. He knows he's hallucinating, knows that the fever has gone to his head, making him punch drunk, but he swears he can hear Teyla's voice, Ronon's voice, that he can feel them at his back, urging him on. Calling him home.
He's killed the first guard on pure instinct, striking out with the knife even before the man has a chance to turn. It's a silent kill, the knife driving up through the back of the neck with enough force to shatter bone. He pulls the knife free, wiping it absently on the fallen man's shirt before moving onwards. The next guard spots him, and has the chance to cry out before John throws one of the knives, hitting him in the center of his chest and toppling him backwards. John follows it, pouncing on him and dragging the knife out, only to thrust it home again. The man's head falls back, and if he's not dead, then he's close enough.
John moves on quickly, listening for any noises from the undergrowth as he circles round to enter the stone arena. There's one sentry, obviously aware that someone is out there, but sticking to his post. Fortunately, John's kept his attention wider than just the area in front of him, so he's able to catch the one sneaking up on him before he can strike. He dodges the blow aimed at his head, striking at the man's wrist with one elbow, at his chest with the other, sending him sprawling into a bush, dropping the short sword on the way. John lets go of his bloody knife to scoop it up, using its extra length to stab into the undergrowth, not really caring if the man's alive or dead, as long as he stops moving.
The noise has put the sentry on even more of an alert, so John gives up any attempt at stealth. Still carrying the short sword, he walks onto the main path, starting to jog as he comes towards the entrance. John hesitates as the other man lifts his own sword, and it takes him a moment to work out what the problem is: it's too quiet. There's nothing around him but the rustle of the early morning wind in the trees, the howling of the dogs in the distance, and John's blood rushing in his ears. He's spent so long tuning out the screaming crowds that he feels oddly lost without them.
Ten seconds later, the feeling passes, and he's clashing swords with the guard, feeling the shock waves travel through his arms to his injured back. It hurts, but no worse than before, so he disregards it, shoving the man off and giving himself enough room to fight in. The guard is good, waiting and watching rather than just charging at John, holding the sword as though he knows what he's doing with it. It doesn't matter. John's spent six months assessing people's fighting styles in less time than this, and he already knows what he's going to do. As he closes in again, he sweeps his sword upwards, forcing the man to lift his own blade to block the blow to his face. At the same time, John brings his other hand, the one holding the knife, down and towards the suddenly unprotected belly. His opponent seems to realize the danger a second too late, trying to get his hand down, probably trying to grab John's wrist. John keeps going, the force of his movement pinning the man's hand to his stomach. The knife hasn't gone in very deeply, but it's enough that John sees awareness go out of the eyes in front of his, enough that the man starts to crumple towards the ground, barely giving John enough time to retrieve his knife. When he listens again, the dogs sound even closer.
He waits a moment, leaning against the stone pillars that mark the entrance, trying to see if there's anyone inside the arena. There's no cover in there, so once he steps over the threshold, he's a sitting duck. Taking another moment, he looks in the direction that Rodney should be coming from, not seeing any movement there. It worries him a little, but neither of them are going to get very far until he deals with any last opposition that might be between them and the Stargate, so John shakes his head to try and clear it, then steps over the threshold.
Of course, he can't possibly clear his head enough. He's lost too much blood, he knows, by the way his head is still spinning and his hands are starting to go cold. There's enough strength left in them for him to grip the sword and the knife, and as long as he can stand upright, he'll go on. Still, when yet another armed guard comes charging towards him, and John lifts his weapons, crossed to take the blow, the impact forces him back a few steps more than he'd like. There's not really enough strength in his shoulders to throw the man off, so John does the opposite, letting his knees fold and literally slipping under the man's guard. He can't get his knife down in time to strike a killing blow, so he changes the direction of his fall, bracing himself for the pain when his back hits the ground, and praying he's judged the angle right.
He has. As he falls backwards, he brings one leg up, hitting the man in the midsection and using his own momentum to throw him over John's head. There's a nasty crunching sound as the man hits the stone arena floor, and John has enough time to get his breath back before the next one is on him. He can't stay down. His back and shoulders won't take the strain, although he seriously doubts whether his legs will either. But it's the better of the two bad choices, so he rolls away from the downward stroke, coming up to his feet and staggering a little as his vision goes black for a moment. Before it clears, he feels someone hit against his upraised sword, and he reacts instinctively, parrying the blow and following it up with a knife thrust that doesn't connect with anything, but probably made his opponent back off a little. He takes a deeper breath, blinking as his eyes refocus, and lunges at the blurry shape in front of him.
The guard doesn't seem to have expected that, because he retreats, the sound of the blades sliding against each other going straight through John, setting his teeth on edge. He needs this to be over, needs to let himself stop. Warmth is flooding his back now, and his vision won't clear, staying gray around the edges and blurring in the middle. There's nothing but instinct in his head now, nothing but the sheer will to survive, the determination that having survived this far, he's not going to die now.
It seems that the guard has other ideas. John finds himself forced backwards, stumbling over the rough stone floor and desperately trying to ward off the blows to his head, his shoulders, only narrowly avoiding getting stuck through by twisting out of the way at the last moment. The movement is too much for his exhausted body, and he trips over his own feet, which suddenly seem to have been filled with lead. He yells as he lands, the pain making him black out for a moment. When he comes back to himself, he's half-curled on the ground, the guard standing over him, grinning down. He probably won't kill John, he's probably been to the arena and seen him fight, and the Garaldi venerate their successful fighters, but he will hurt him, will return him to the life that will kill him in the end.
From somewhere, John hears an almost inhuman scream, echoing round the stone bowl. The guard lifts his head, looking round for the source, and John wants to do the same, but he can't seem to get his neck muscles to cooperate. There's a familiar snap-hiss, followed by a rushing noise, and John closes his eyes instinctively, the flash of the flare bright through his eyelids. The scream that follows really is inhuman, the cry of a living creature in pain, twisted into an animal howl that cuts off too abruptly. John wants to open his eyes, wants to know what happened, except the dark is so inviting, so warm and comforting that he can't help but follow it down, sinking into blissful oblivion.
*******
Talking helps. Rodney keeps up a running commentary as he hauls Sheppard towards the spiral staircase in the center of the arena, complaining about how much he must have been eating compared to Rodney, and how it's ridiculous that Rodney has to step in and save his ass at the last minute, when really, that's Sheppard's job, and please could he just wake up now so that he can hear Rodney freaking out, rather than just lying there, looking half-dead.
He can hear the dogs barking, much closer now, and he knows they can't have more than a few minutes. Carefully, he pulls Sheppard as upright as he can, wrapping his arms around Sheppard's chest and gripping his wrists tightly. Rodney's own shirt is going to be as soaked with blood as Sheppard's at this rate, but they stand a better chance of getting down the stairs without breaking anything this way. Even so, Rodney stumbles near the bottom, and the last few feet are a breathless tumble, finishing in an undignified sprawl at the bottom. Sheppard is still pressed close against Rodney's chest, so he feels as much as hears the slight groan that the fall elicits. Grumbling about ungrateful Air Force Colonels, Rodney untangles himself, then pulls the last flare from the waistband of his pants.
It takes much, much longer to get up the stairs than it did to get down, even though he's not encumbered this time, and Rodney's seeing black spots by the time he reaches daylight. Pausing with his head just below ground level, he listens to the barking, which is starting to echo round the arena. He used the same trick for his own benefit, so he knows how deceptive the sound is, but still. They're close. Turning his head away, he lights the flare, then lays it on the top step, hoping that it'll be enough to at least discourage any pursuers for a few minutes. Then he half-falls back down the steps, to find Sheppard sitting up and looking confused.
"Where are we?" Sheppard's speech is slurred, and he groans again when Rodney bends to haul him to his feet.
"Stargate," Rodney says shortly. "Care to give me a hand here?"
With Sheppard actually trying to help, however ineffectually, they manage to stagger into the 'gate chamber, and Rodney leans against the DHD for a moment, before pulling Sheppard's arm away from his neck.
"Dial Atlantis," he says, fishing in the pocket of his oversized shirt.
"IDCs," Sheppard reminds him, but Rodney has found what he's looking for now, and waves it in Sheppard's face triumphantly.
It's his radio. Sheppard stares at him stupidly for a moment, then shakes his head and starts to dial. "It's been a long time," he says, not looking at Rodney.
"They'll be waiting for us." Rodney's having trouble with the radio buttons, his fingers too cold and tired to work it properly. It takes him three goes to get it turned on. Atlantis monitors all frequencies, but he chooses the one their team always uses, hoping it will make things go faster.
All the chevrons are dialed, but Sheppard pauses before activating the 'gate. He swallows, then turns to Rodney with a face so pale that it almost glows in the dim light. "I killed a lot of people."
"And lived to tell the tale," Rodney says irritably. "Look, I've promised myself a nervous breakdown when we get back, in which you are more than welcome to join me. But for now, dial the damn 'gate."
Sheppard's teeth are as white as his face when he grins, and he doesn't take his eyes from Rodney as he slams his hand onto the center of the DHD. Rodney can see the fear and relief in his eyes as the chamber fills with light, and he has to swallow before saying into the radio, "Atlantis, this is McKay. Do you copy?" There's no reply within half a second, so he says again, "Repeat, Atlantis, this is Rodney McKay. Can you hear me?"
"Rodney?"
"Elizabeth!"
"Rodney?"
Rolling his eyes, Rodney pulls a face at Sheppard before saying into the radio, "Yes, I've got Sheppard with me and yes, you're all very surprised and very happy, yadda yadda yadda, there'd better be a really big chocolate cake waiting there for us. Now will you lower the damn shield so we can come through before we get torn to pieces by savage dogs?"
He hears a muffled sound that could be laughter, before Elizabeth says, "The shield is down. Come on home."
This time, it's Sheppard who makes the muffled sound, but he looks almost himself when he raises an eyebrow at Rodney. "Chocolate cake?"
"Hey, if you don't want any, all the more for me." Rodney grips Sheppard's outstretched arm, leaning against him for support because he's not sure his knees are going to take him all the way to the gate otherwise. Judging by the way Sheppard's leaning against him in return, they're not going to make it very far. Fortunately, the event horizon is just a few meters away, close enough for them to limp to.
Sheppard pauses right on the edge, looking at Rodney with the first genuine smile that Rodney's seen in six months, from anyone.
"We're going home," he says, and the hand against Rodney's back tightens for a moment.
There's nothing to say to that, so Rodney grins back, feeling the relief wash through him, although really, they need to move because he'd like to arrive in Atlantis on his feet rather than in a dead faint.
"Yeah," he says, gripping Sheppard's shoulder in return, and together, they step through the Stargate.
~End~