One Thing Left to Do / SGA
Title: One Thing Left to Do
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: "It was noon and nothing is concluded..."
Summary: The labs were empty... too empty.
The labs were suspiciously empty, especially for it being noon, and Rodney McKay was both absurdly happy and incredibly displeased about this. On one hand, he had the opportunity to work alone without stupid questions and distractions; on the other hand, was he expected to do all the work by himself?
He tapped his right index finger against the side of his laptop. Normally, he’d take this blessing and run with it, but Radek was absent as well. That was unusual. That was weird. They were both work addicts; Radek took days off when Rodney took days off, which was never.
His finger tapped faster. Something was amiss.
He absently began the simulation he’d been tweaking for the past hour. It would take at least forty-five minutes to run; that would give him enough to time to grab some real food, and maybe (coincidentally, just-you know-while he was out) check to see if Radek was okay.
He passed by two people on his way to the mess hall, and when he arrived, there was only one cook on staff. The tables were empty. There wasn’t a line. There were extra desserts not taken.
He turned to the cook.
“Did the Rapture happen while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, swiping one of the blue Jello cups and a plastic spoon. The cook-Kerry? Carrie? Mary? Marie?-looked up from her novel (a romance, undoubtedly borrowed from Cadman) and shrugged, popping her bubblegum.
“Nah. I just don’t like fighting.”
Rodney blinked, Jello halfway to his mouth. “Beg pardon?”
“They’re all sparring. Half say Teyla’ll win, the other half are betting their Crunch bars on Ronon. It’s a tie, but I don’t particularly enjoy stick fighting. I get enough of that on mandatory training days, thanks.”
Rodney shoveled in the rest of the Jello, tossed the cup into the trash, and after a moment of consideration, took another. If the heathens prefered to watch barbaric fighting rather than eat lunch, was that his fault? First come, first serve.
Spoon and Jello in hand, Rodney made his way down empty halls until he reached the training room, the noise of which could be heard before he ever spotted the crowd outside. It was like a concert or popular night club; there was actually a line, with people craning their necks to see the proceedings. The luckier ones were actually inside, squished together like sardines and cheering (or jeering) the warriors on, exchanging Atlantean gray-market goods as the stakes changed.
Rodney rolled his eyes. It was ridiculous. He peeled off the cup's aluminum lid, trying to ignore the excited chants of the spectators. He ought to go back to the labs, check on his experiment (which still had half an hour to finish, but it was the principle of the thing), and chew out the scientists who were wasting their time here instead of researching like they were paid to do.
“Col-onel! Col-onel!”
Rodney frowned at the cheer. Was Colonel Sheppard taking part in the ridiculous beating game? If so, then that would explain his conspicuous “hey, what does this do?” absence in the lab. Rodney turned and strained to see within the room.
He saw a flash of Sheppard, then Lorne, then some sticks.
Great. A testosterone war. Just what the city needed.
Rodney began pushing his way through the crowd. Some turned to see who was trying to shoulder their way in, but when they discovered it was Rodney McKay, they moved without being asked twice. It only took two minutes, two peeved looks (and two subsequent snappy comebacks) before Rodney was standing in front of the tiny arena, watching Lorne lose to the Colonel.
The sharp sound of stick-on-stick was irritating, not to mention the heavy smell of sweat. How did this ever get approved by Elizabeth?
He watched, only vaguely interested, before Lorne finally lost both his sticks. The soldier held his hands up, admitting defeat, and John grinned victoriously. Rodney resisted rolling his eyes again; the Wraith could attack and these morons wouldn't even know.
“Hey Rodney!” John called, grinning even wider from his place on the platform. “You next?”
“Ha ha. Yes, I can’t wait to willingly throw myself in front of imminent injury. What the hell are you doing?”
“Letting off some steam.”
“Right. Well, you’ve taken some of my scientists-oh, wait, all my scientists. Do you plan on wrapping this up any time soon?”
“Eventually. Zelenka’s still trying to win back his Wormhole Xtreme DVDs, so he might not be back in the lab anytime soon. Isn’t that right, Dr. Z?”
Rodney’s mouth fell open as he turned to see Radek making his way towards him, muttering “excuse me” and “sorry” as he bumped into armed men who were two feet taller and two-hundred pounds heavier than him. They simply nodded him through.
“You bet those DVDs?” Rodney asked, practically scandalized. “Did you give away your first-born, too?”
Radek looked shame-faced, embarrassed, and sad. “It looked like Lorne was winning. I was hedging for Star Trek.”
“Wait, someone here has Star Trek?”
“Entire first season.”
“The original?”
“I would bet for nothing less.”
Huh. Well. Rodney could kinda see where Radek was coming from, but still.
“And now?”
“Now someone must win against Colonel. So far, that has only been Teyla, and she refuses on grounds of fairness.”
“Wanna give it a try, Rodney?” John asked, tapping his two sticks together. “Attempt to win back some DVDs and honor?”
“Like I want a gun to my head, Sheppard. I’m sure there’s someone here who’s willing to test his manliness and fight with the caveman clubs.”
Rodney’s words met silence. Lorne was, of course, in no shape to fight again, the soldiers knew they’d only lose, and the scientists were in no position to take on the Colonel.
“Oh, come on. Isn’t there anyone? You, Jolly Green Giant,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing towards a significantly muscled Lieutenant, “You can take on the skinny bastard, can’t you?”
The soldier shrugged. “I’m not very graceful. I only fight the battles I can win, sir.”
“Smart man,” John commended, turning to Rodney again. “Come on, McKay. I’ll go easy on you.”
“Sure you will. I bruise easily, you know.”
“Very, very easy. Think of Radek’s DVDs. Think of Star Trek. The entire first season.”
God, he hated Sheppard. He hated Radek for betting his treasured belongings. He hated the Athosians for creating this ridiculous form of fighting.
And he hated himself for accepting.
“Fine,” he spat out, “Fine. On the impossible chance that I win, Radek gets his DVDs and I get Star Trek. Deal?”
“Deal!” Cadman called, who was currently holding the two boxed sets as though they might be snatched at any moment. “Let’s see what you’re made of, McKay!”
“May I remind everyone that I’m a scientist,” he said, accepting Lorne's pair of sticks, “And that I train once a week; less, if I can get out of it. I have no military skills whatsoever. Also, I abhor violence, especially when it’s aimed at me.”
“We get that, McKay,” John replied, hiding a grin. “Are you done with the disclaimer?”
“If you hurt my brain, this city is doomed.”
“Okay.”
“Carson’s going to kill you for this.”
“Duly noted.”
“And I really, really hate you right now, with a loathing you can’t even imagine.”
“Normal day, then. Ready?”
Rodney rolled his head, stretching his neck, trying to remember all the things Teyla had told him. Hold the weapons tightly; don’t let them go under any circumstance. He gripped them with clenched fists. Steady your feet and straighten your posture. Done. Ready your mind. When wasn’t it ready?
She hadn’t told him how to ignore a hundred pairs of eyes with the risk of losing Wormhold Xtreme forever.
“Ready?” John asked again, raising an eyebrow. “Should I take a coffee break?”
Coffee. Now that would be nice.
“No,” Rodney snapped, “Let’s just get this over with.”
“All right then!” Cadman cheerily called. “On my mark! Ready, set, fight!”
An instant, deafening cheer rose from the crowd, and Rodney was suddenly reminded of high school gym class. He hated it then, and apparently, he hated it now.
John was quick; his right stick flew faster than Rodney anticipated, slamming against Rodney’s wrist. Rodney bit his tongue and refused to complain-it wasn’t like anyone would be able to hear it, anyway-and simply ignored the throbbing pain shooting up his arm. He hadn’t let go of his weapon, though, and knew Teyla would be proud.
“Sorry,” John mouthed, but his expression didn’t match the sentiment.
They circled around each other while Rodney tried to figure out John’s attack plan: if he was striking and then backing away, then he was aiming to break Rodney down bit by bit. Which, clearly, wasn’t an option. Rodney took a deep breath.
John’s hand suddenly lashed out again, but Rodney saw it coming; he held up his stick to block the blow, and…
It worked.
He blinked. John blinked.
Rodney had actually stopped the attack.
Cool.
They began pacing again, only Rodney was a bit more focused this time, beginning to create his own plan. The Colonel was fast, but Rodney was strong, and it occurred to him that there was a possibility-small, nearly microscopic-that he could win. One in several million, but not impossible.
His eyes caught John’s twitching wrist; a millisecond later, John was attacking once more, this time using both sticks and hitting a whole lot harder. Rodney wanted to say hey, you promised to take it easy, but he was too busy blocking the blows as they came, almost expertly. Each attempted strike was met with a solid defense; there was the sharp sound of wood against wood, an alarming noise that usually drove Rodney away, but was reassuring instead. He was afraid he wasn’t fast enough, agile enough, but this proved that he was.
When your opponent is occupied, attack; try to hit their most sensitive spots repeatedly. The point is to overwhelm.
Overwhelm. Rodney did that with science, not self-defense.
John’s eyebrows were furrowed now. He looked as though he was concentrating, but Rodney could see traces of surprise as well. He knew the Colonel wasn’t going to be so light on him. Rodney braced himself.
John moved forward in a sudden, smooth motion; he smacked Rodney’s left him before he could react. Rodney refused to acknowledge that pain and urged his body to go faster. He saw John’s weapon draw back for another strike, and the subsequent opening; he took his own stick and slammed it against the back of John’s knee. John, in retaliation, moved to hit his arm, but Rodney was fast enough to block it and duck away before John could gain back his equilibrium.
The cheers were fading, but Rodney didn’t notice. All he could see was John, turning quickly, no longer trying to baby him through. It was much more ferocious and exciting. Their moves were swift and strong. John fought by instinct, while Rodney fought by science; he measured the distances, the odds, and went with them. There was a chance John would do ______, but there was a larger chance he’d do ______. He was right, most of the time, and paid for miscalculations when John’s weapon unapologetically hit one extremity or another.
John paid for that by having Rodney return the moves in kind.
It was fast and furious. Attack, withdraw, defend, attack, over and over until Rodney, too, began depending on reflexes. There wasn’t time to think. He hit hard enough for John to make a pained face and discovered the joys of aggression. His own adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and when the Colonel attempted one move, Rodney attempted his own, fueled by testosterone and determination and the knowledge that he wasn’t the meek hypochondriac who talked under torture, who never got the girl, who ran away from his own shadow.
He belonged on Atlantis. He could prove it by winning this fight. Maybe that was what this whole thing was about.
John moved to make a high strike. Rodney realized too late that it was aimed above his head; by the time he moved to block it, John had redirected his target and struck Rodney's gut. His other stick came down against Rodney's shoulder with the same intensity.
He doubled over. John hit him in the back, which had Rodney on the floor two seconds later.
Ignore the pain, Teyla had said. It means nothing.
Except-wow-that hurt.
The crowd was silent. Even Cadman.
“Uncle?” John asked, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Rodney was gasping, too; they both reeked with sweat, and his blue scientist shirt was soaked.
“Give?” he asked again, raising his stick to strike should Rodney say no. Rodney flinched only slightly. He recognized that this was now Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, military leader of Atlantis, who took no prisoners. He was no exception.
“Jesus Christ, Sheppard,” Rodney wheezed, not lifting his head and gripping his sticks until his knuckles were white. “Warn a man, would you?”
“Anything to win a war, McKay.”
“Fine, then.” He could barely breathe. “Guess there’s only one thing to do.”
He could almost see John’s grin and Radek’s disappointment, but if they didn’t expect more from him (which they should, because three years was a long time to work together), then they didn’t know him very well.
From his position on the floor, Rodney saw Sheppard’s knees bend slightly. The Colonel's feet closed together a bit. He was loosening up.
He was relaxing.
Perfect.
Rodney smacked the side of John’s knee first. He looked up just in time to see John tense (realizing that Rodney wasn't, in fact, surrendering) and raise his other stick, but Rodney struck beneath John’s arm; his right hand went back to John’s elbow; his left abandoned the underarm and banged the other knee. Rodney jumped back up and immediately belted John’s wrist. John was biting his lip in pain, but Rodney, like the Colonel, took no prisoners.
Rodney took both sticks and banged them against John’s elbows; one of the Colonel’s sticks hit the floor. He kicked it away so that John couldn’t reach and lunged forward. John tried to move away, but Rodney predicted the manuver and unapologetically slammed John against the wall, one stick against the Colonel’s throat as he tore the Colonel's other away and tossed it into the crowd.
“Guess the only thing left to do,” he huffed, fighting for breath, “Is kick your ass.”
FIN.
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: "It was noon and nothing is concluded..."
Summary: The labs were empty... too empty.
The labs were suspiciously empty, especially for it being noon, and Rodney McKay was both absurdly happy and incredibly displeased about this. On one hand, he had the opportunity to work alone without stupid questions and distractions; on the other hand, was he expected to do all the work by himself?
He tapped his right index finger against the side of his laptop. Normally, he’d take this blessing and run with it, but Radek was absent as well. That was unusual. That was weird. They were both work addicts; Radek took days off when Rodney took days off, which was never.
His finger tapped faster. Something was amiss.
He absently began the simulation he’d been tweaking for the past hour. It would take at least forty-five minutes to run; that would give him enough to time to grab some real food, and maybe (coincidentally, just-you know-while he was out) check to see if Radek was okay.
He passed by two people on his way to the mess hall, and when he arrived, there was only one cook on staff. The tables were empty. There wasn’t a line. There were extra desserts not taken.
He turned to the cook.
“Did the Rapture happen while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, swiping one of the blue Jello cups and a plastic spoon. The cook-Kerry? Carrie? Mary? Marie?-looked up from her novel (a romance, undoubtedly borrowed from Cadman) and shrugged, popping her bubblegum.
“Nah. I just don’t like fighting.”
Rodney blinked, Jello halfway to his mouth. “Beg pardon?”
“They’re all sparring. Half say Teyla’ll win, the other half are betting their Crunch bars on Ronon. It’s a tie, but I don’t particularly enjoy stick fighting. I get enough of that on mandatory training days, thanks.”
Rodney shoveled in the rest of the Jello, tossed the cup into the trash, and after a moment of consideration, took another. If the heathens prefered to watch barbaric fighting rather than eat lunch, was that his fault? First come, first serve.
Spoon and Jello in hand, Rodney made his way down empty halls until he reached the training room, the noise of which could be heard before he ever spotted the crowd outside. It was like a concert or popular night club; there was actually a line, with people craning their necks to see the proceedings. The luckier ones were actually inside, squished together like sardines and cheering (or jeering) the warriors on, exchanging Atlantean gray-market goods as the stakes changed.
Rodney rolled his eyes. It was ridiculous. He peeled off the cup's aluminum lid, trying to ignore the excited chants of the spectators. He ought to go back to the labs, check on his experiment (which still had half an hour to finish, but it was the principle of the thing), and chew out the scientists who were wasting their time here instead of researching like they were paid to do.
“Col-onel! Col-onel!”
Rodney frowned at the cheer. Was Colonel Sheppard taking part in the ridiculous beating game? If so, then that would explain his conspicuous “hey, what does this do?” absence in the lab. Rodney turned and strained to see within the room.
He saw a flash of Sheppard, then Lorne, then some sticks.
Great. A testosterone war. Just what the city needed.
Rodney began pushing his way through the crowd. Some turned to see who was trying to shoulder their way in, but when they discovered it was Rodney McKay, they moved without being asked twice. It only took two minutes, two peeved looks (and two subsequent snappy comebacks) before Rodney was standing in front of the tiny arena, watching Lorne lose to the Colonel.
The sharp sound of stick-on-stick was irritating, not to mention the heavy smell of sweat. How did this ever get approved by Elizabeth?
He watched, only vaguely interested, before Lorne finally lost both his sticks. The soldier held his hands up, admitting defeat, and John grinned victoriously. Rodney resisted rolling his eyes again; the Wraith could attack and these morons wouldn't even know.
“Hey Rodney!” John called, grinning even wider from his place on the platform. “You next?”
“Ha ha. Yes, I can’t wait to willingly throw myself in front of imminent injury. What the hell are you doing?”
“Letting off some steam.”
“Right. Well, you’ve taken some of my scientists-oh, wait, all my scientists. Do you plan on wrapping this up any time soon?”
“Eventually. Zelenka’s still trying to win back his Wormhole Xtreme DVDs, so he might not be back in the lab anytime soon. Isn’t that right, Dr. Z?”
Rodney’s mouth fell open as he turned to see Radek making his way towards him, muttering “excuse me” and “sorry” as he bumped into armed men who were two feet taller and two-hundred pounds heavier than him. They simply nodded him through.
“You bet those DVDs?” Rodney asked, practically scandalized. “Did you give away your first-born, too?”
Radek looked shame-faced, embarrassed, and sad. “It looked like Lorne was winning. I was hedging for Star Trek.”
“Wait, someone here has Star Trek?”
“Entire first season.”
“The original?”
“I would bet for nothing less.”
Huh. Well. Rodney could kinda see where Radek was coming from, but still.
“And now?”
“Now someone must win against Colonel. So far, that has only been Teyla, and she refuses on grounds of fairness.”
“Wanna give it a try, Rodney?” John asked, tapping his two sticks together. “Attempt to win back some DVDs and honor?”
“Like I want a gun to my head, Sheppard. I’m sure there’s someone here who’s willing to test his manliness and fight with the caveman clubs.”
Rodney’s words met silence. Lorne was, of course, in no shape to fight again, the soldiers knew they’d only lose, and the scientists were in no position to take on the Colonel.
“Oh, come on. Isn’t there anyone? You, Jolly Green Giant,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing towards a significantly muscled Lieutenant, “You can take on the skinny bastard, can’t you?”
The soldier shrugged. “I’m not very graceful. I only fight the battles I can win, sir.”
“Smart man,” John commended, turning to Rodney again. “Come on, McKay. I’ll go easy on you.”
“Sure you will. I bruise easily, you know.”
“Very, very easy. Think of Radek’s DVDs. Think of Star Trek. The entire first season.”
God, he hated Sheppard. He hated Radek for betting his treasured belongings. He hated the Athosians for creating this ridiculous form of fighting.
And he hated himself for accepting.
“Fine,” he spat out, “Fine. On the impossible chance that I win, Radek gets his DVDs and I get Star Trek. Deal?”
“Deal!” Cadman called, who was currently holding the two boxed sets as though they might be snatched at any moment. “Let’s see what you’re made of, McKay!”
“May I remind everyone that I’m a scientist,” he said, accepting Lorne's pair of sticks, “And that I train once a week; less, if I can get out of it. I have no military skills whatsoever. Also, I abhor violence, especially when it’s aimed at me.”
“We get that, McKay,” John replied, hiding a grin. “Are you done with the disclaimer?”
“If you hurt my brain, this city is doomed.”
“Okay.”
“Carson’s going to kill you for this.”
“Duly noted.”
“And I really, really hate you right now, with a loathing you can’t even imagine.”
“Normal day, then. Ready?”
Rodney rolled his head, stretching his neck, trying to remember all the things Teyla had told him. Hold the weapons tightly; don’t let them go under any circumstance. He gripped them with clenched fists. Steady your feet and straighten your posture. Done. Ready your mind. When wasn’t it ready?
She hadn’t told him how to ignore a hundred pairs of eyes with the risk of losing Wormhold Xtreme forever.
“Ready?” John asked again, raising an eyebrow. “Should I take a coffee break?”
Coffee. Now that would be nice.
“No,” Rodney snapped, “Let’s just get this over with.”
“All right then!” Cadman cheerily called. “On my mark! Ready, set, fight!”
An instant, deafening cheer rose from the crowd, and Rodney was suddenly reminded of high school gym class. He hated it then, and apparently, he hated it now.
John was quick; his right stick flew faster than Rodney anticipated, slamming against Rodney’s wrist. Rodney bit his tongue and refused to complain-it wasn’t like anyone would be able to hear it, anyway-and simply ignored the throbbing pain shooting up his arm. He hadn’t let go of his weapon, though, and knew Teyla would be proud.
“Sorry,” John mouthed, but his expression didn’t match the sentiment.
They circled around each other while Rodney tried to figure out John’s attack plan: if he was striking and then backing away, then he was aiming to break Rodney down bit by bit. Which, clearly, wasn’t an option. Rodney took a deep breath.
John’s hand suddenly lashed out again, but Rodney saw it coming; he held up his stick to block the blow, and…
It worked.
He blinked. John blinked.
Rodney had actually stopped the attack.
Cool.
They began pacing again, only Rodney was a bit more focused this time, beginning to create his own plan. The Colonel was fast, but Rodney was strong, and it occurred to him that there was a possibility-small, nearly microscopic-that he could win. One in several million, but not impossible.
His eyes caught John’s twitching wrist; a millisecond later, John was attacking once more, this time using both sticks and hitting a whole lot harder. Rodney wanted to say hey, you promised to take it easy, but he was too busy blocking the blows as they came, almost expertly. Each attempted strike was met with a solid defense; there was the sharp sound of wood against wood, an alarming noise that usually drove Rodney away, but was reassuring instead. He was afraid he wasn’t fast enough, agile enough, but this proved that he was.
When your opponent is occupied, attack; try to hit their most sensitive spots repeatedly. The point is to overwhelm.
Overwhelm. Rodney did that with science, not self-defense.
John’s eyebrows were furrowed now. He looked as though he was concentrating, but Rodney could see traces of surprise as well. He knew the Colonel wasn’t going to be so light on him. Rodney braced himself.
John moved forward in a sudden, smooth motion; he smacked Rodney’s left him before he could react. Rodney refused to acknowledge that pain and urged his body to go faster. He saw John’s weapon draw back for another strike, and the subsequent opening; he took his own stick and slammed it against the back of John’s knee. John, in retaliation, moved to hit his arm, but Rodney was fast enough to block it and duck away before John could gain back his equilibrium.
The cheers were fading, but Rodney didn’t notice. All he could see was John, turning quickly, no longer trying to baby him through. It was much more ferocious and exciting. Their moves were swift and strong. John fought by instinct, while Rodney fought by science; he measured the distances, the odds, and went with them. There was a chance John would do ______, but there was a larger chance he’d do ______. He was right, most of the time, and paid for miscalculations when John’s weapon unapologetically hit one extremity or another.
John paid for that by having Rodney return the moves in kind.
It was fast and furious. Attack, withdraw, defend, attack, over and over until Rodney, too, began depending on reflexes. There wasn’t time to think. He hit hard enough for John to make a pained face and discovered the joys of aggression. His own adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and when the Colonel attempted one move, Rodney attempted his own, fueled by testosterone and determination and the knowledge that he wasn’t the meek hypochondriac who talked under torture, who never got the girl, who ran away from his own shadow.
He belonged on Atlantis. He could prove it by winning this fight. Maybe that was what this whole thing was about.
John moved to make a high strike. Rodney realized too late that it was aimed above his head; by the time he moved to block it, John had redirected his target and struck Rodney's gut. His other stick came down against Rodney's shoulder with the same intensity.
He doubled over. John hit him in the back, which had Rodney on the floor two seconds later.
Ignore the pain, Teyla had said. It means nothing.
Except-wow-that hurt.
The crowd was silent. Even Cadman.
“Uncle?” John asked, chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Rodney was gasping, too; they both reeked with sweat, and his blue scientist shirt was soaked.
“Give?” he asked again, raising his stick to strike should Rodney say no. Rodney flinched only slightly. He recognized that this was now Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, military leader of Atlantis, who took no prisoners. He was no exception.
“Jesus Christ, Sheppard,” Rodney wheezed, not lifting his head and gripping his sticks until his knuckles were white. “Warn a man, would you?”
“Anything to win a war, McKay.”
“Fine, then.” He could barely breathe. “Guess there’s only one thing to do.”
He could almost see John’s grin and Radek’s disappointment, but if they didn’t expect more from him (which they should, because three years was a long time to work together), then they didn’t know him very well.
From his position on the floor, Rodney saw Sheppard’s knees bend slightly. The Colonel's feet closed together a bit. He was loosening up.
He was relaxing.
Perfect.
Rodney smacked the side of John’s knee first. He looked up just in time to see John tense (realizing that Rodney wasn't, in fact, surrendering) and raise his other stick, but Rodney struck beneath John’s arm; his right hand went back to John’s elbow; his left abandoned the underarm and banged the other knee. Rodney jumped back up and immediately belted John’s wrist. John was biting his lip in pain, but Rodney, like the Colonel, took no prisoners.
Rodney took both sticks and banged them against John’s elbows; one of the Colonel’s sticks hit the floor. He kicked it away so that John couldn’t reach and lunged forward. John tried to move away, but Rodney predicted the manuver and unapologetically slammed John against the wall, one stick against the Colonel’s throat as he tore the Colonel's other away and tossed it into the crowd.
“Guess the only thing left to do,” he huffed, fighting for breath, “Is kick your ass.”
FIN.