Alternate ch 5 of ShayaSar's Amat Victoria Curam; a round robin
“Why… are you doing this?”
Rodney looked over to a clearly spent Teyla, who was essentially whispering hoarsely to thin air, her voice quavering. Since Kolya’s guards had brought her back, she had been sitting in an abject huddle on the opposite side of the cell to him with her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. It was so not Teyla. Then when she bowed her head and began to sob, Rodney felt instant, stomach-churning panic. He approached her cautiously, wondering if she might be injured. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than she clearly already was. He rested a shaky hand on her bare shoulder, but she startled, then pushed him aside, refusing to make eye contact. Up close, he could now see she was sweaty, and her body juddered occasionally with spastic tremors. Her face was grubby and tear-stained. More alarming were the blood splatters over most of her clothing. She had obviously attempted to wipe blood from her face and arms judging by the smears. Rodney’s inner CSI kicked in. She didn’t appear to be injured, which could only mean one thing. Sheppard. This was his blood. And that meant she - Oh, nononononono…
“Ah, Doctor McKay, I see from your enlightened, albeit comical, expression that you have deduced correctly. Miss Emmagan has fulfilled her obligation, and you shall be allowed to keep body and soul together for a short while longer.”
“So polite with the titles. Makes you quite the gentleman. Not. What have you done to Sheppard? Scratch that - what did you make Teyla do to Sheppard?”
“All in good time.”
“Well, you can’t make me harm Sheppard.” Rodney thrust out his chin. “I won’t hurt my best friend in two galaxies.”
Karel Kolya smiled coldly. “Let me expedite your decision.”
A small, thin boy of around seven years old was shoved into the cell, and began to whimper. Kolya hauled him up by one skinny arm. Just then, Kolya looked more like Mola Ram clutching a dazed Short Round after his and Indy’s thrashing in the Temple of Doom.
“Leave the kid alone!” Was he channeling Indy or Sheppard?
“Let me assure you, Doctor McKay. This mere dishrag of a boy won’t be missed. He’s a local beggar. Vermin. I’d be doing this community a service by ridding them of him and the rest of his kind. Quite the little Wraith snack, don’t you think? All huge, soulful eyes like a wounded puppy. Can you bear to see this pathetic, unloved little waif shrivel before your eyes, too agonized to even scream, because believe me, Doctor, I’ll have your head in a brace and your eyes sewn open to force you to watch.”
“You’re all heart, just like your brother. I see the resemblance now. I won’t let you harm a child on pain of, well, pain.” Rodney winced.
Kolya chuckled, but his eyes remained predatory. Rodney conjured up the unwelcome mental image of a shark. A Great White. Funny that Sheppard kept trying to coax him into surfing, oblivious as ever of danger or impending doom. He’d seen Jaws when it first came out, and had refused to set toe into any sea since nineteen seventy wheneveritwas. Plus Sheppard constantly insisted on humming the theme music whenever he ventured near a body of water. Between Jaws, Moby Dick and Sheppard, Rodney’s mind was a mess.
“You are quite entertaining, Doctor McKay. As for pain, it won’t be yours, so why the concern?”
“That’s cold. It’ll be Sheppard’s pain. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Believe me, Doctor, he does. This is about family honor. Surely you have some concept of it on your homeworld.”
Rodney was aware that wasn’t a question.
“John Sheppard is my family… "
“How touching. Come, let’s find out how much of a friend or brother you are, and how much of a marksman. You are clearly not military, so this should be interesting. On with the show. Bring him.”
“Wait! What about Short Round?”
“The beggar child? You never cease to amuse me. He remains here as collateral.”
Kolya pushed the boy to the floor, and he started to bawl. At that, Teyla snapped out of her fugue, looked wide-eyed at the boy, then drew him close. The boy’s tears began to abate, and he melted in her arms. He closed his eyes with the hint of a smile on his face, and Teyla made soothing noises as she stroked his ratty hair back from his pale face. Her mothering instinct would be her salvation, her redemption. But what of him?
***
Rodney was dragged deeper into the complex, the catacombs of the Wraith outpost, the sharp incline telling him he was heading down. Before long, he could hear groaning and snuffling coming from somewhere further into the gloom, and towards his left. He knew the sound. He’d know it anywhere. He’d heard it many times over the years in the Pegasus Galaxy. It was Sheppard. His cries of agony were as familiar to him as his wicked laughter if not more so, and for some reason, Rodney felt a melancholy. When he was pushed into the Wraith-style torture chamber, and first caught sight of what was left of his best friend in two galaxies, he promptly fain- passed out…
The next thing Rodney knew, he was tied to a chair with one hand free. Well, not exactly free, as he’d somehow acquired an appendage. Strapped to his right hand was a gun not unlike Ronon’s stunner. Fancy that. Under other circumstances, it’d be way cool to finally get to fondle one, but not today. Strung up before him was Sheppard. The man was pale, his head was bowed, and he was tipped so far forward he could see the state of his back. Teyla had done this to him? Their Teyla? Little wonder she was catatonic. John’s legs were buckled. The strain on the man’s arms and shoulders was painfully obvious. His muscles were bunched and the skin on his shoulder blades was either blotchy or white, as if whatever blood remained had been forced to pool due to the position he had been left in. Rodney looked at his steadily bleeding lacerations. Whip marks. So, pins and needles were the least of Sheppard’s worries. Rodney desperately wanted to lift him down, ease his friend’s suffering, but he was trapped. He was starting to get pins and needles himself in several important places, but then again -
“John… “
Sheppard lifted his head, and looked up at him through glazed eyes. His pain was palpable, even though he was out of it. Then he flashed a lop-sided grin, which morphed into a frown as he struggled to his feet. Sheppard was as ever the stoical hero.
“Rod… “
“I’m not as cool as him. Am I?”
“..ney?”
“Oh, so not Rod, then. Okay, I’m rambling. Uh, how are you? Dumb question, I know. As you are clearly not doing so great.” Rodney squirmed. He found it hard to talk without the use of his hands.
“No, ‘m not… You… okay? How’s… Tey - “
Rodney’s expression must’ve given something away for John’s head sank again. “’M sorry,” he mumbled. There were times Rodney wished he wasn’t so readable.
“You’re sorry?! I should be rescuing you!”
“Ro…non?”
“What, with us or rescuing us?”
“McKay! Please… I -”
“Not with us. He’s out there, John.”
John raised his head, the glimmer of a smile on his battered face.
“Stay p-pos… “ and his head sank again. His legs were shaking, but at least he was upright.
“Ah, Colonel Sheppard. You are with us once more. Glad you could join us. I want you awake for this.”
“You know, Kolya, the badass thing is getting old.” Rodney rolled his eyes.
Kolya folded his arms, but looked more amused than pissy.
“Shoot him.”
“Whuh?! You want me to do what now?!” Rodney eyed the Inspector Gadget gadget thingy that was strapped arch-nemesis-like to his right forearm.
“Think only of the poor, dear little orphan currently nestled in the arms of Miss Emmagan. You might also consider the fate of Miss Emmagan herself.”
Rodney fishmouthed. John jerked his head up, and glared at Kolya. John was furious, judging by the way his chest was heaving with each breath.
“I see how to get a rise from you, Colonel Sheppard. Threaten your friends. Or is it family? Waifs? Strays? The downtrodden? The oppressed? I suspect there is little need to suggest a similar fate might yet await the good doctor here. Bear in mind many of my men have been stationed here for almost a year, and their sexual appetite knows no bounds.”
“You bast… “
Kolya marched over to John, stood in front of him for a long moment, then slowly, painstakingly, donned a leather glove. John didn’t tear his gaze away, though his fixed expression told Rodney he knew what was coming in a ‘been there, done that’ kind of way. John looked sick to his stomach.
“Never speak ill of a Kolya, Colonel Sheppard. I am an honorable man as was my brother, and you would do well to remember that. Allow me to demonstrate how to bow before every last one of us.”
Kolya backhanded John several times. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto the floor. John was moaning softly now, and his head jerked briefly. John spat blood on the floor, and raised his head high on a wobbly neck in a demonstration of defiance. John’s face was badly grazed, and his right cheek was a swollen mess. He blinked his right eye over and over again, and his eyelid finally drooped to half staff, then puffed up in almost imperceptible increments. A single tear trickled down his face. That was when Rodney wanted to pass out again. And not from manly hunger. Kolya turned to face him in a dastardly sort of way.
“The gun you are holding contains seven capsules. Each capsule contains acid. I suggest you aim wisely. You could take an eye out with that thing.” Kolya began to chuckle.
Rodney was released by some oddly handy goons, and hauled upright. He could barely stand. He was shaking from head to toe. Fire on John? Should he engage in rapid-fire and get it over with? Should he aim at uninjured spots on John’s abused torso of which there were few? Aim for his boxers, the only item of clothing the man was wearing yet which might provide a modicum of protection? His dog tags, which might deflect the bulk of the acid? He looked at John, his eyes full of apology.
“There’s this little boy, “ he began, his voice quaking. “I called him Short Round. Is it okay I got to name something? I mean, someone? It’s not like it’s a puddlejumper or anything. Kolya said he would - “
“Do it!” John growled, as he made brief eye contact. Rodney guessed rampant fury was the only thing keeping John upright. Or alive.
Rodney raised the gun, and aimed. John nodded slowly. Then Rodney did the only thing he knew how. He turned away and scrunched up his eyes. And fired all seven rounds. The screams that ensued would haunt him forever. Oh, God. What had he done? Kolya’s goons led him away, but he felt oddly detached from his body, like he was floating back to the cell. He had just caused untold agony for his best friend. How was this a vendetta? This was torture pure and simple. For all of them. And where the hell was Ronon?
***
The crawling sensation of melting flesh was as nasty-assed as the sensation of trickling blood, only agonizingly hot instead of body temperature. The acid seared him like he’d been flipped like a still live fish on a barbecue turned up high. Rodney had fired off the whole damn Bugsy Malone splurge gun, giving him no time to brace himself, reminding him of when Ronon pulled the rebar from his right flank without warning. The agony was as instant then as it was now, and it ripped a scream from his throat, then a whooping intake of breath, then another scream, then another whooping intake. He must’ve screamed himself hoarse, because now when he tried to speak, no sound came out. He was close to begging the guards for water. Anything to quench his thirst, or to dull the agony if only for one blessed moment. The entire payload had hit him in his upper right arm - was there some fucking unwritten rule about symmetrical scars in this galaxy? The acid had dripped onto his flank then trickled down to his hip to his thigh, thankfully bypassing anything more, uh - vital... He seriously had to be grateful Rodney had missed his eyes and his nuts. He really needed to up the ante on the geek firearm training. It would be high on his agenda if he ever made it home.
Home. Atlantis. He could feel her even from this distance, her cries of anguish reaching far across the galaxy.
Family. Teyla, Rodney, Ronon. Lorne, Zelenka, Woolsey. John loved them all, and would die for any one of them.
Friends - he got friends. Loads. They just mostly happened to be dead. And John was about to join them.
He squirmed. Just a little. It started up a whole barrage of pain, but he had to move, keep his blood flowing. Prove to himself he was still alive, that he wasn’t just a slab of meat in cold storage, awaiting the next barbecue.
It was growing cold. Or maybe Kolya had turned down the heating on him. Kolya wanted him to die slowly after all. Hah, his plan was working, that much was a dead cert. John reckoned he didn’t have much time left. At least - if this Kolya was truly an honorable man as he constantly claimed - Teyla and Rodney would get to go home, and with any luck, take his broken body with them. He wanted to be entombed on Atlantis. Which brought him back to -
Home. He was back to home.
John was losing it. His mind was running some crazy cycle like a washing machine on speed. Dial. Speed dial.
Still, he got loads of friends.
Washloads.
Something was off kilter, making the drum inside his head rattle like an overload of towels on spin. What? What was it? Was there something he was missing? His one-shot at freedom?! Gah! John shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then it occurred to him. Ronon. Ronon hadn’t done anything to him yet. He had to hope. Stay positive, that his good buddy had escaped, gone for back-up. There was nothing else left him, not even his body, his outer casing, and as the heat cranked up, he thought maybe his motor was on burnout. Time for an overhaul.
John screamed again. But nothing came out of his mouth beyond a sick, half-assed wheeze. He looked up and around, anything to reach equilibrium, and spied the missing link. Not the Missing Link, as Rodney would call him, but the missing link to his conundrum. His Conon. Drum…
Ronon.
***
“Got captured.”
Ronon offered that much to Sheppard but got no response. His CO and good buddy just hung there, lifeless. Ronon couldn’t believe his own stupidity. A stun bubble? This far down in a Wraith outpost? As he’d heard on some TV show from Sheppard’s freaky-weird, screwed-up home planet, who’d’athunkit? Not even the Wraith had ever caught him. Not in seven years as a runner. He must be off his game. Captured by Wraith worshippers. It stunk.
“Mr Dex. So glad you could join us. I’m sure Colonel Sheppard will be equally delighted.”
“Uh… “
“No need to articulate, Mr Dex. I happened to know you are part of the colonel’s team, and as such, you shall be complicit in his timely demise.”
“Whuh?”
“You get to help kill him.”
“Uh. Don’t think so.”
“Really? Turn around, if you would be so kind.”
Ronon obliged by swinging his upper body left then right, pivoting on his hips, leaving his legs in place. That way, he could do a sweep, but still be ready to charge into the fray.
“So?”
“These are your friends, are they not?”
“Nah. Just some freedom fighters I hooked up with. Do it all the time. No big deal.”
“Really.” Kolya stared at him long and hard, then broke into a sly grin.
Ronon was squirming inwardly. He kept his face as inscrutable as ever. Sheppard’s life was at stake. As was Teyla’s and McKay’s and some ragged little kid. Sheppard called it his hero movie poker face. What the look on his face had to do with pokers was something he’d have to ask him someday during some down time, maybe over coffee in the mess, though it wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Right now, Teyla and McKay were manacled to poles. The little kid was shackled to one. He was curled up on the floor, snuggling up to if not tangled up in Teyla’s ... Teyla’s… some pieced vest of Teyla’s. The kid looked okay, but Ronon reckoned that wouldn’t last long. Time to suss out his odds of breaking them all free. They weren’t great, but he’d take what he could. The Wraith worshipper paraded up and down. He’d declared himself a Kolya. Ronon had more respect for Acastus than he could ever have for this piece of ‘chorkum’. If there was anything he hated more than the Wraith, it was a sell-out.
Ronon snarled. Then tempered his ire. Time enough to kick ass.
“Whaddya want from me?” He found himself shuffling on the spot. And watching Sheppard for signs of life.
“Ro… n?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“T’l’r’dney?”
“Quit talking.”
“On.. it… “
“So, Mr Dex, now you have elicited a modicum of complicity - now you ‘got your buddy to go along with you’ - I suggest you listen very carefully indeed.”
“Gonna… self-dest… self-destruct… in five… s-s… “
“Shut up, Sheppard.”
“H-Hoist… “
“Hoist?”
“With his… own… petard.”
“That better mean ‘strung up by the balls’, Sheppard.”
“Sure. Thinnngg… Aagh… “
“Sheppard! Quit writhing, too.”
“Hnngh… “
“Does he live or does he die? Remember, Mr Dex, this all plays out per your sense of decency. And mine. I once more declare myself an honorable man.”
“Screw you, Kolya.”
Kolya circumnavigated him. It took all his willpower not to beat the crap out of him or even flinch, or rush to check Sheppard’s pulse. His buddy looked dead. Since nearly all his knives had been confiscated, and he’d been overpowered twenty to one, Ronon was short of options. Ten to one would have been decent odds. Ronon stood stock still. He knew what was coming next. He could tell by the way this Wraith worshipper was eyeing him up. A challenge.
“Mr Dex, what say you we wager?” Kolya raised a bushy eyebrow. Family trait, like the pock-marked face. Yup.
“What’s the deal?” Ronon folded his arms, and threw all his weight onto one leg. He needed to look nonchalant.
“You cast every single one of these seventeen knives we found upon your person. At Sheppard. To within a finger-breadth of his skin. Too far out, and you forfeit his life. You hit him - and we all revel in his blood-curdling screams. You win, and Sheppard lives. You lose, and you go home with a body to bury, but you get to take these three with you. Do we have a deal? There shall, of course, be minor obstacles, but nothing you cannot potentially overcome. Do we have a deal?”
Ronon looked over at Sheppard, the man who had given him a second chance, the man who had become his friend. His brother.
“I asked you a simple question, Mr Dex, involving a mere five syllables. Do. We. Have. A. Deal?”
”Deal,” he growled.
“Then remove your restrictive clothing, Mr Dex.”
Ronon stripped himself off from his leather outerwear without further ado. No big deal. He stood four-square in nothing but a loincloth. Good thing the rest of his knives were tucked into his dreads.
“Hang in there, buddy.” Ronon thought out loud.
“Whuh? 'M'hangin'...” John tutted, and rolled his eyes.
“Ronon here. John. Gotta ask you to quit squirming. Just keep still. Count to one thousand, buddy. Getting you outta here.” When did he start calling him John?
“Good… t’ knowww…. Ronon? Buddy? Thanks. For tryin’… Th’nks f’r everyth’nngg… ’S’been… a pleasure.“
“Gah!” Sheppard was about to quit on him! Ronon charged up and down, fuming, slapping his own face, and pummeling his chest. It wouldn’t help Sheppard, but if nothing else, it would keep him reasonably awake for the trial ahead.
Ronon glanced left and right. Then front and back. He even checked overhead. Before him lay his vast array of throw knives on a small table. Kolya had ordered Sheppard restrained against a target. The fucking bastard had determined a fingerbreadth leeway, if the paint lines around his body were anything to go by. With only a pass/fail. Sheppard looked pathetic enough to rival the kid curled up behind him. Ronon must’ve turned around to glance at the boy, as Sheppard nodded slowly. Gah! There were times when he wanted to beat his sorry ass, and declare to him how much he… how much he was.. . Mostly he wanted to give him a bear hug. Whatever a bear was. It sounded pretty much like a Satedan worrohgug. A toothclaw. Tooth. Claw. Worroh. Gug. Right now he wanted to string him right back up like a clucking p’kaah. Sheppard drove him crazy. He wanted Sheppard around to drive him crazy some more.
“Mr Dex!”
Ronon threw right then and there in ten seconds flat. Knife after knife. Then came the onslaught. His back! His arms! His thighs! What the fuck? Ronon turned to face his tormentors.
“Mr Dex. You have successfully thrown ten knives without even giving Colonel Sheppard a close shave. For your final seven throws, you must compensate.”
“For what?”
“Why, the distraction you just experienced. Courtesy of my Wraith worshippers. Four of them. And each shall be wielding a stave. For each of your last seven throws.”
***
John heard a steady whooshing sound. He had to lift his head. He had to. Each miserable fraction of an inch cost him a multitude of throbs in his skull, front and back. Ronon was out there. Ronon. His good buddy. He tried to bring his legs under him, but he most likely no longer possessed limbs. Who took his legs? When did they amputate his arms? Something skimmed his left ear. Ronon? He willed Ronon to forgive him. For not keeping them all safe. To maybe take his body home. Then something struck his left temple. From the weight of it, it was stuck there, dragging his head down. He heard Ronon cry out in anguish, or even pain.
John shook his head to rid himself of Ronon’s knife, to stay the hell awake, and did a quick shimmy to increase blood flow to his extremities. Yep, still there. He barely suppressed a scream as blood rushed back into his restrained arms and legs. There were no more knives coming his way. The one that struck him was the last of them. John forced himself to stand, forced himself to bear testimony to the integrity of Atlantis. He represented Atlantis, who was still keening in his ear. He prayed she wouldn’t have to mourn him.
As best he could while still restrained, John Sheppard stood tall and proud.
“You win, Mr Dex.”
John could scarcely believe it. He was finally released from his bonds. Hands were all over him, but he was too weak to slap them away. He had no energy to even open his eyes, let alone fight back. He had to admit he was pretty much half dead. They laid him out on a slab like a fish ready for gutting.
The last words he heard were, “Prep him for transport.”
As he sank into oblivion, he hoped that meant transport home, though he doubted it.
Rodney looked over to a clearly spent Teyla, who was essentially whispering hoarsely to thin air, her voice quavering. Since Kolya’s guards had brought her back, she had been sitting in an abject huddle on the opposite side of the cell to him with her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. It was so not Teyla. Then when she bowed her head and began to sob, Rodney felt instant, stomach-churning panic. He approached her cautiously, wondering if she might be injured. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than she clearly already was. He rested a shaky hand on her bare shoulder, but she startled, then pushed him aside, refusing to make eye contact. Up close, he could now see she was sweaty, and her body juddered occasionally with spastic tremors. Her face was grubby and tear-stained. More alarming were the blood splatters over most of her clothing. She had obviously attempted to wipe blood from her face and arms judging by the smears. Rodney’s inner CSI kicked in. She didn’t appear to be injured, which could only mean one thing. Sheppard. This was his blood. And that meant she - Oh, nononononono…
“Ah, Doctor McKay, I see from your enlightened, albeit comical, expression that you have deduced correctly. Miss Emmagan has fulfilled her obligation, and you shall be allowed to keep body and soul together for a short while longer.”
“So polite with the titles. Makes you quite the gentleman. Not. What have you done to Sheppard? Scratch that - what did you make Teyla do to Sheppard?”
“All in good time.”
“Well, you can’t make me harm Sheppard.” Rodney thrust out his chin. “I won’t hurt my best friend in two galaxies.”
Karel Kolya smiled coldly. “Let me expedite your decision.”
A small, thin boy of around seven years old was shoved into the cell, and began to whimper. Kolya hauled him up by one skinny arm. Just then, Kolya looked more like Mola Ram clutching a dazed Short Round after his and Indy’s thrashing in the Temple of Doom.
“Leave the kid alone!” Was he channeling Indy or Sheppard?
“Let me assure you, Doctor McKay. This mere dishrag of a boy won’t be missed. He’s a local beggar. Vermin. I’d be doing this community a service by ridding them of him and the rest of his kind. Quite the little Wraith snack, don’t you think? All huge, soulful eyes like a wounded puppy. Can you bear to see this pathetic, unloved little waif shrivel before your eyes, too agonized to even scream, because believe me, Doctor, I’ll have your head in a brace and your eyes sewn open to force you to watch.”
“You’re all heart, just like your brother. I see the resemblance now. I won’t let you harm a child on pain of, well, pain.” Rodney winced.
Kolya chuckled, but his eyes remained predatory. Rodney conjured up the unwelcome mental image of a shark. A Great White. Funny that Sheppard kept trying to coax him into surfing, oblivious as ever of danger or impending doom. He’d seen Jaws when it first came out, and had refused to set toe into any sea since nineteen seventy wheneveritwas. Plus Sheppard constantly insisted on humming the theme music whenever he ventured near a body of water. Between Jaws, Moby Dick and Sheppard, Rodney’s mind was a mess.
“You are quite entertaining, Doctor McKay. As for pain, it won’t be yours, so why the concern?”
“That’s cold. It’ll be Sheppard’s pain. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“Believe me, Doctor, he does. This is about family honor. Surely you have some concept of it on your homeworld.”
Rodney was aware that wasn’t a question.
“John Sheppard is my family… "
“How touching. Come, let’s find out how much of a friend or brother you are, and how much of a marksman. You are clearly not military, so this should be interesting. On with the show. Bring him.”
“Wait! What about Short Round?”
“The beggar child? You never cease to amuse me. He remains here as collateral.”
Kolya pushed the boy to the floor, and he started to bawl. At that, Teyla snapped out of her fugue, looked wide-eyed at the boy, then drew him close. The boy’s tears began to abate, and he melted in her arms. He closed his eyes with the hint of a smile on his face, and Teyla made soothing noises as she stroked his ratty hair back from his pale face. Her mothering instinct would be her salvation, her redemption. But what of him?
***
Rodney was dragged deeper into the complex, the catacombs of the Wraith outpost, the sharp incline telling him he was heading down. Before long, he could hear groaning and snuffling coming from somewhere further into the gloom, and towards his left. He knew the sound. He’d know it anywhere. He’d heard it many times over the years in the Pegasus Galaxy. It was Sheppard. His cries of agony were as familiar to him as his wicked laughter if not more so, and for some reason, Rodney felt a melancholy. When he was pushed into the Wraith-style torture chamber, and first caught sight of what was left of his best friend in two galaxies, he promptly fain- passed out…
The next thing Rodney knew, he was tied to a chair with one hand free. Well, not exactly free, as he’d somehow acquired an appendage. Strapped to his right hand was a gun not unlike Ronon’s stunner. Fancy that. Under other circumstances, it’d be way cool to finally get to fondle one, but not today. Strung up before him was Sheppard. The man was pale, his head was bowed, and he was tipped so far forward he could see the state of his back. Teyla had done this to him? Their Teyla? Little wonder she was catatonic. John’s legs were buckled. The strain on the man’s arms and shoulders was painfully obvious. His muscles were bunched and the skin on his shoulder blades was either blotchy or white, as if whatever blood remained had been forced to pool due to the position he had been left in. Rodney looked at his steadily bleeding lacerations. Whip marks. So, pins and needles were the least of Sheppard’s worries. Rodney desperately wanted to lift him down, ease his friend’s suffering, but he was trapped. He was starting to get pins and needles himself in several important places, but then again -
“John… “
Sheppard lifted his head, and looked up at him through glazed eyes. His pain was palpable, even though he was out of it. Then he flashed a lop-sided grin, which morphed into a frown as he struggled to his feet. Sheppard was as ever the stoical hero.
“Rod… “
“I’m not as cool as him. Am I?”
“..ney?”
“Oh, so not Rod, then. Okay, I’m rambling. Uh, how are you? Dumb question, I know. As you are clearly not doing so great.” Rodney squirmed. He found it hard to talk without the use of his hands.
“No, ‘m not… You… okay? How’s… Tey - “
Rodney’s expression must’ve given something away for John’s head sank again. “’M sorry,” he mumbled. There were times Rodney wished he wasn’t so readable.
“You’re sorry?! I should be rescuing you!”
“Ro…non?”
“What, with us or rescuing us?”
“McKay! Please… I -”
“Not with us. He’s out there, John.”
John raised his head, the glimmer of a smile on his battered face.
“Stay p-pos… “ and his head sank again. His legs were shaking, but at least he was upright.
“Ah, Colonel Sheppard. You are with us once more. Glad you could join us. I want you awake for this.”
“You know, Kolya, the badass thing is getting old.” Rodney rolled his eyes.
Kolya folded his arms, but looked more amused than pissy.
“Shoot him.”
“Whuh?! You want me to do what now?!” Rodney eyed the Inspector Gadget gadget thingy that was strapped arch-nemesis-like to his right forearm.
“Think only of the poor, dear little orphan currently nestled in the arms of Miss Emmagan. You might also consider the fate of Miss Emmagan herself.”
Rodney fishmouthed. John jerked his head up, and glared at Kolya. John was furious, judging by the way his chest was heaving with each breath.
“I see how to get a rise from you, Colonel Sheppard. Threaten your friends. Or is it family? Waifs? Strays? The downtrodden? The oppressed? I suspect there is little need to suggest a similar fate might yet await the good doctor here. Bear in mind many of my men have been stationed here for almost a year, and their sexual appetite knows no bounds.”
“You bast… “
Kolya marched over to John, stood in front of him for a long moment, then slowly, painstakingly, donned a leather glove. John didn’t tear his gaze away, though his fixed expression told Rodney he knew what was coming in a ‘been there, done that’ kind of way. John looked sick to his stomach.
“Never speak ill of a Kolya, Colonel Sheppard. I am an honorable man as was my brother, and you would do well to remember that. Allow me to demonstrate how to bow before every last one of us.”
Kolya backhanded John several times. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto the floor. John was moaning softly now, and his head jerked briefly. John spat blood on the floor, and raised his head high on a wobbly neck in a demonstration of defiance. John’s face was badly grazed, and his right cheek was a swollen mess. He blinked his right eye over and over again, and his eyelid finally drooped to half staff, then puffed up in almost imperceptible increments. A single tear trickled down his face. That was when Rodney wanted to pass out again. And not from manly hunger. Kolya turned to face him in a dastardly sort of way.
“The gun you are holding contains seven capsules. Each capsule contains acid. I suggest you aim wisely. You could take an eye out with that thing.” Kolya began to chuckle.
Rodney was released by some oddly handy goons, and hauled upright. He could barely stand. He was shaking from head to toe. Fire on John? Should he engage in rapid-fire and get it over with? Should he aim at uninjured spots on John’s abused torso of which there were few? Aim for his boxers, the only item of clothing the man was wearing yet which might provide a modicum of protection? His dog tags, which might deflect the bulk of the acid? He looked at John, his eyes full of apology.
“There’s this little boy, “ he began, his voice quaking. “I called him Short Round. Is it okay I got to name something? I mean, someone? It’s not like it’s a puddlejumper or anything. Kolya said he would - “
“Do it!” John growled, as he made brief eye contact. Rodney guessed rampant fury was the only thing keeping John upright. Or alive.
Rodney raised the gun, and aimed. John nodded slowly. Then Rodney did the only thing he knew how. He turned away and scrunched up his eyes. And fired all seven rounds. The screams that ensued would haunt him forever. Oh, God. What had he done? Kolya’s goons led him away, but he felt oddly detached from his body, like he was floating back to the cell. He had just caused untold agony for his best friend. How was this a vendetta? This was torture pure and simple. For all of them. And where the hell was Ronon?
***
The crawling sensation of melting flesh was as nasty-assed as the sensation of trickling blood, only agonizingly hot instead of body temperature. The acid seared him like he’d been flipped like a still live fish on a barbecue turned up high. Rodney had fired off the whole damn Bugsy Malone splurge gun, giving him no time to brace himself, reminding him of when Ronon pulled the rebar from his right flank without warning. The agony was as instant then as it was now, and it ripped a scream from his throat, then a whooping intake of breath, then another scream, then another whooping intake. He must’ve screamed himself hoarse, because now when he tried to speak, no sound came out. He was close to begging the guards for water. Anything to quench his thirst, or to dull the agony if only for one blessed moment. The entire payload had hit him in his upper right arm - was there some fucking unwritten rule about symmetrical scars in this galaxy? The acid had dripped onto his flank then trickled down to his hip to his thigh, thankfully bypassing anything more, uh - vital... He seriously had to be grateful Rodney had missed his eyes and his nuts. He really needed to up the ante on the geek firearm training. It would be high on his agenda if he ever made it home.
Home. Atlantis. He could feel her even from this distance, her cries of anguish reaching far across the galaxy.
Family. Teyla, Rodney, Ronon. Lorne, Zelenka, Woolsey. John loved them all, and would die for any one of them.
Friends - he got friends. Loads. They just mostly happened to be dead. And John was about to join them.
He squirmed. Just a little. It started up a whole barrage of pain, but he had to move, keep his blood flowing. Prove to himself he was still alive, that he wasn’t just a slab of meat in cold storage, awaiting the next barbecue.
It was growing cold. Or maybe Kolya had turned down the heating on him. Kolya wanted him to die slowly after all. Hah, his plan was working, that much was a dead cert. John reckoned he didn’t have much time left. At least - if this Kolya was truly an honorable man as he constantly claimed - Teyla and Rodney would get to go home, and with any luck, take his broken body with them. He wanted to be entombed on Atlantis. Which brought him back to -
Home. He was back to home.
John was losing it. His mind was running some crazy cycle like a washing machine on speed. Dial. Speed dial.
Still, he got loads of friends.
Washloads.
Something was off kilter, making the drum inside his head rattle like an overload of towels on spin. What? What was it? Was there something he was missing? His one-shot at freedom?! Gah! John shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then it occurred to him. Ronon. Ronon hadn’t done anything to him yet. He had to hope. Stay positive, that his good buddy had escaped, gone for back-up. There was nothing else left him, not even his body, his outer casing, and as the heat cranked up, he thought maybe his motor was on burnout. Time for an overhaul.
John screamed again. But nothing came out of his mouth beyond a sick, half-assed wheeze. He looked up and around, anything to reach equilibrium, and spied the missing link. Not the Missing Link, as Rodney would call him, but the missing link to his conundrum. His Conon. Drum…
Ronon.
***
“Got captured.”
Ronon offered that much to Sheppard but got no response. His CO and good buddy just hung there, lifeless. Ronon couldn’t believe his own stupidity. A stun bubble? This far down in a Wraith outpost? As he’d heard on some TV show from Sheppard’s freaky-weird, screwed-up home planet, who’d’athunkit? Not even the Wraith had ever caught him. Not in seven years as a runner. He must be off his game. Captured by Wraith worshippers. It stunk.
“Mr Dex. So glad you could join us. I’m sure Colonel Sheppard will be equally delighted.”
“Uh… “
“No need to articulate, Mr Dex. I happened to know you are part of the colonel’s team, and as such, you shall be complicit in his timely demise.”
“Whuh?”
“You get to help kill him.”
“Uh. Don’t think so.”
“Really? Turn around, if you would be so kind.”
Ronon obliged by swinging his upper body left then right, pivoting on his hips, leaving his legs in place. That way, he could do a sweep, but still be ready to charge into the fray.
“So?”
“These are your friends, are they not?”
“Nah. Just some freedom fighters I hooked up with. Do it all the time. No big deal.”
“Really.” Kolya stared at him long and hard, then broke into a sly grin.
Ronon was squirming inwardly. He kept his face as inscrutable as ever. Sheppard’s life was at stake. As was Teyla’s and McKay’s and some ragged little kid. Sheppard called it his hero movie poker face. What the look on his face had to do with pokers was something he’d have to ask him someday during some down time, maybe over coffee in the mess, though it wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Right now, Teyla and McKay were manacled to poles. The little kid was shackled to one. He was curled up on the floor, snuggling up to if not tangled up in Teyla’s ... Teyla’s… some pieced vest of Teyla’s. The kid looked okay, but Ronon reckoned that wouldn’t last long. Time to suss out his odds of breaking them all free. They weren’t great, but he’d take what he could. The Wraith worshipper paraded up and down. He’d declared himself a Kolya. Ronon had more respect for Acastus than he could ever have for this piece of ‘chorkum’. If there was anything he hated more than the Wraith, it was a sell-out.
Ronon snarled. Then tempered his ire. Time enough to kick ass.
“Whaddya want from me?” He found himself shuffling on the spot. And watching Sheppard for signs of life.
“Ro… n?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“T’l’r’dney?”
“Quit talking.”
“On.. it… “
“So, Mr Dex, now you have elicited a modicum of complicity - now you ‘got your buddy to go along with you’ - I suggest you listen very carefully indeed.”
“Gonna… self-dest… self-destruct… in five… s-s… “
“Shut up, Sheppard.”
“H-Hoist… “
“Hoist?”
“With his… own… petard.”
“That better mean ‘strung up by the balls’, Sheppard.”
“Sure. Thinnngg… Aagh… “
“Sheppard! Quit writhing, too.”
“Hnngh… “
“Does he live or does he die? Remember, Mr Dex, this all plays out per your sense of decency. And mine. I once more declare myself an honorable man.”
“Screw you, Kolya.”
Kolya circumnavigated him. It took all his willpower not to beat the crap out of him or even flinch, or rush to check Sheppard’s pulse. His buddy looked dead. Since nearly all his knives had been confiscated, and he’d been overpowered twenty to one, Ronon was short of options. Ten to one would have been decent odds. Ronon stood stock still. He knew what was coming next. He could tell by the way this Wraith worshipper was eyeing him up. A challenge.
“Mr Dex, what say you we wager?” Kolya raised a bushy eyebrow. Family trait, like the pock-marked face. Yup.
“What’s the deal?” Ronon folded his arms, and threw all his weight onto one leg. He needed to look nonchalant.
“You cast every single one of these seventeen knives we found upon your person. At Sheppard. To within a finger-breadth of his skin. Too far out, and you forfeit his life. You hit him - and we all revel in his blood-curdling screams. You win, and Sheppard lives. You lose, and you go home with a body to bury, but you get to take these three with you. Do we have a deal? There shall, of course, be minor obstacles, but nothing you cannot potentially overcome. Do we have a deal?”
Ronon looked over at Sheppard, the man who had given him a second chance, the man who had become his friend. His brother.
“I asked you a simple question, Mr Dex, involving a mere five syllables. Do. We. Have. A. Deal?”
”Deal,” he growled.
“Then remove your restrictive clothing, Mr Dex.”
Ronon stripped himself off from his leather outerwear without further ado. No big deal. He stood four-square in nothing but a loincloth. Good thing the rest of his knives were tucked into his dreads.
“Hang in there, buddy.” Ronon thought out loud.
“Whuh? 'M'hangin'...” John tutted, and rolled his eyes.
“Ronon here. John. Gotta ask you to quit squirming. Just keep still. Count to one thousand, buddy. Getting you outta here.” When did he start calling him John?
“Good… t’ knowww…. Ronon? Buddy? Thanks. For tryin’… Th’nks f’r everyth’nngg… ’S’been… a pleasure.“
“Gah!” Sheppard was about to quit on him! Ronon charged up and down, fuming, slapping his own face, and pummeling his chest. It wouldn’t help Sheppard, but if nothing else, it would keep him reasonably awake for the trial ahead.
Ronon glanced left and right. Then front and back. He even checked overhead. Before him lay his vast array of throw knives on a small table. Kolya had ordered Sheppard restrained against a target. The fucking bastard had determined a fingerbreadth leeway, if the paint lines around his body were anything to go by. With only a pass/fail. Sheppard looked pathetic enough to rival the kid curled up behind him. Ronon must’ve turned around to glance at the boy, as Sheppard nodded slowly. Gah! There were times when he wanted to beat his sorry ass, and declare to him how much he… how much he was.. . Mostly he wanted to give him a bear hug. Whatever a bear was. It sounded pretty much like a Satedan worrohgug. A toothclaw. Tooth. Claw. Worroh. Gug. Right now he wanted to string him right back up like a clucking p’kaah. Sheppard drove him crazy. He wanted Sheppard around to drive him crazy some more.
“Mr Dex!”
Ronon threw right then and there in ten seconds flat. Knife after knife. Then came the onslaught. His back! His arms! His thighs! What the fuck? Ronon turned to face his tormentors.
“Mr Dex. You have successfully thrown ten knives without even giving Colonel Sheppard a close shave. For your final seven throws, you must compensate.”
“For what?”
“Why, the distraction you just experienced. Courtesy of my Wraith worshippers. Four of them. And each shall be wielding a stave. For each of your last seven throws.”
***
John heard a steady whooshing sound. He had to lift his head. He had to. Each miserable fraction of an inch cost him a multitude of throbs in his skull, front and back. Ronon was out there. Ronon. His good buddy. He tried to bring his legs under him, but he most likely no longer possessed limbs. Who took his legs? When did they amputate his arms? Something skimmed his left ear. Ronon? He willed Ronon to forgive him. For not keeping them all safe. To maybe take his body home. Then something struck his left temple. From the weight of it, it was stuck there, dragging his head down. He heard Ronon cry out in anguish, or even pain.
John shook his head to rid himself of Ronon’s knife, to stay the hell awake, and did a quick shimmy to increase blood flow to his extremities. Yep, still there. He barely suppressed a scream as blood rushed back into his restrained arms and legs. There were no more knives coming his way. The one that struck him was the last of them. John forced himself to stand, forced himself to bear testimony to the integrity of Atlantis. He represented Atlantis, who was still keening in his ear. He prayed she wouldn’t have to mourn him.
As best he could while still restrained, John Sheppard stood tall and proud.
“You win, Mr Dex.”
John could scarcely believe it. He was finally released from his bonds. Hands were all over him, but he was too weak to slap them away. He had no energy to even open his eyes, let alone fight back. He had to admit he was pretty much half dead. They laid him out on a slab like a fish ready for gutting.
The last words he heard were, “Prep him for transport.”
As he sank into oblivion, he hoped that meant transport home, though he doubted it.