Action/Adventure, Week 1: Mea Culpa (1/2)
Title: Mea Culpa
Author: kristen999
Prompt: Illegal
Word Count: ~12,000
Rating: T
Spoilers: Season 4 Before “Missing”
Warnings: Violence/Slight Language
Summary: Rodney and Ronon are captured by another galactic mad man. Sheppard and Teyla try not to self-destruct while trying to find them.
Teyla wakes up to the sounds of the infirmary: voices, machines, and the hum of activity. She rubs at her temples to ease a splitting headache while searching the other beds. The one directly in front of her hides the form of the colonel; that wild tuft of black hair eases some of her fear. Sheppard had taken two stunner blasts to the chest trying to cover them. Thankfully, Sergeant Martinez had grabbed him by the tac vest and dragged him through the wormhole. Teyla had lost sight of Ronon and Rodney before getting stunned herself.
There's no sign of the rest of her teammates among the wounded.
Major Lorne comes from out of nowhere, accompanied by a nurse, a thousand questions on his lips.
“It was an ambush. We do not know who attacked us,” she tells him.
Six hours later Teyla sits in a conference room, discussing a return trip to the planet. Sheppard grips his pen way too tightly; it’s the only sign of the tension in his body. He doesn't take a single note.
Twelve hours later they return from MXP-5771 with more questions than they had before. There’d been no strange energy signatures to follow or native people to question. All trace of their attackers has been covered up and worst of all, Ronon and Rodney have vanished.
“I'm going to take a jumper back and do another scan,” Sheppard informs everyone.
That should be a request in front of a superior officer, however Colonel Carter agrees as if it is one. She looks to her, and Teyla nods. “I'll go with you, John.”
Colonel Sheppard hasn't slept in the past twenty-four hours, the pain lines around his eyes indicative of a horrible migraine. Teyla takes aspirin for her own headache, offering him some that he dry swallows. Three hours later they return empty-handed after scanning a planet that's swallowed their friends whole.
They walk into Zelenka's lab; the physicist rubs his blood-shot eyes. “It's impossible to know where they could have been transported to. I've downloaded the last fifty gate addresses, but it could be any of them.”
“That's if whoever took them didn't dial the gate to another site.”
“Do you think that is what happened?” Teyla asks.
“It was expertly planned. These people had stunners in addition to projectile weapons. They hid their tracks and disappeared. Professionals would jump from gate to gate,” Sheppard explains in a dry, lifeless tone.
“What do we do now?” Zelenka inquires.
Sheppard's mouth is a thin line, his hand fidgety over his gun. “We kick over every rock until we find them.”
That idea is scrapped immediately when one of the Athosians contacts them about an audio device with a message for Atlantis is left outside their gate.
There is no light in their cell, but Ronon can tell the passage of time without it. His head is heavy; lifting it makes the room spin into a blur. The skin around his wrists is rubbed raw from the chains and the ones around his ankles force him to sit on the floor. They clank loudly when he wrestles with them, testing the strength behind each link.
“Will you stop that? I already have a headache,” McKay snaps.
His friend is hungry, bloodied and scared. Even after three years in the Pegasus galaxy, McKay is not cut out for this. Ronon rolls abused shoulder muscles, stiff from having his hands shackled above his head. Their prison is much like the Atlantis brig - clean, spare and controlled by a force field.
“You got a plan?” Ronon asks.
“Yes, not dying.”
“Can you get past the barrier?”
McKay whips his head around. “Maybe if I could move!”
The guards arrive in teams of four or five, always expecting trouble. Their stunning rods incapacitate quickly; they both have mild burns to show for it. Ronon needs a weapon, anything to prove their captors right about the need for numbers.
They hear the doors slide open, the heavy clomping of boots. Ronon smells Balish before the barrier is dropped; his guards surround him with rods poised and ready. The man always smells of strong, medicinal soap with tobacco on his breath.
McKay makes low, worried sounds deep in his throat, drawing the attention of their tormentor. “Doctor, have you changed your mind yet?”
“He hasn't. You'll get nothing from us,” Ronon snarls.
“Distracting me won't gain you anything, Mr. Dex. I'll get to you later.”
The interrogator takes out his favorite toy, a knife made entirely of steel, even the handle. Balish rubs the blade fondly over his bald head, down the side of his cheek. Their keeper taps the tip against clean, even teeth; his other hand smoothes down a single wrinkle in the crisp gray shirt of a very Genii-like uniform.
“Tell me what I want to know.”
McKay's answer is uncompromising. “No.”
Balish flicks the blade like a deadly dart across the cell.
“Oh, God!” the physicist panics.
The knife strikes the wall only an inch above McKay's head. Balish enjoys towering over his prisoners, to drive fear into others from a position of power. “It's a simple question.”
“And I've got the same answer.”
Ronon bristles as Balish deftly pulls out the knife, petting McKay's head while running the metal under the physicist's earlobe. “I studied anatomy when I was a boy; my father was the local mortician. The human body is amazing; so fragile yet able to endure so much damage before it succumbs to death.”
McKay huddles down as far as the chains will allow him. Balish traces the pointed edge of the blade along the outlines of the physicist's forehead, flicking his wrist to cut away a tuft of hair. McKay's face ashens, his voice lost within his strangled vocal cords.
“You'll scream for your life when I'm done with you,” Ronon promises.
Balish grins. “Bring him.”
The guards descend and Ronon shouts, yanking on his chains until his wrists pop. The soldiers drag McKay away. Balish stays behind, chuckling. “You'll get your chance soon enough, Mr. Dex.”
The message is delivered via New Athos, demanding a face-to-face. Sheppard walks out of the gate with an eight person strike force - nothing like bringing friendly persuasion. The tree line on either side of them is lush and thick, ideal for an ambush.
He nods at Sergeants Tanski and Graham, points to his eyes and to either side of the brush. Both Marines nod, covering the rows of timber with their P-90s. It's a perfect day, at the perfect planet for a little hostage negotiation
“They might be watching us,” Teyla says in a hushed voice.
The instructions have no coordinates. “We didn't get much intel about the layout from the MALP. If they didn't plan on meeting us at the 'gate then they had other ideas.”
“To draw us in,” she replied, eyes razor sharp.
Sheppard pulls out the life signs detector, scowling at the readings. “I'm not picking up McKay's sub-cu transmitter.”
“It could be disabled,” Teyla suggests.
“Or he's not here. I think something's blocking our instruments.”
A canopy of green, tan, and orange leaves masks the sky above a fairytale forest, the mysterious hideout off in the distance. The soft grass mutes the sound of their boots, the soil moist from a recent rain.
The warehouse looms ahead without a welcome wagon in sight. “Let's get as close as we can,” Sheppard orders, then turns to Tanski. “I want you to take three men to split off and go around back.”
The team creeps closer, seeking cover from the nearby woods, using the shadows for stealth. There's no cover in front of the warehouse; any approach exposes them all in the open. Sheppard squints into his binoculars. “No one on the perimeter,” he says.
Then click, and everything goes to Hell.
“Freeze! Nobody move!”
Sheppard's eyes flick at each of their positions, measuring the distance between each member, landing on the soldier furthest away from the group. Sergeant Graham's face drains of color as he stares at his boot.
Teyla is deathly still at Sheppard's right, eyes scouring the ground. “Booby trap,” she whispers knowingly.
“Yeah,” he says, not daring to move.
Sergeant Graham is a statue; he may be twenty-nine, but he's a pro. “Don't worry, sir. I can stand here all-”
The young Marine is blown to bits before Sheppard's eyes and he screams out, “No!”
Sergeant Tanski orders his men to stand their ground; everyone holds their collective breaths. Nothing else explodes, and Sheppard slaps his comm. “Lorne! Scan for energy signatures, anything to tell me how many mines are out here!”
“Already on it, Colonel!”
Teyla is equal parts rage and liquid calm. “Why did it go off? He did not move.”
“Could’ve triggered a timer....if the pressure didn't let up, it went off anyways...... Sonuvabitch!”
The warehouse looms ahead, uncovered and they are sitting ducks for an attack.
“Lorne!”
“Scans shows the entire path leading to the building is layered with mines.”
“Any of my team near 'em?”
“No! ....Sergeant Graham was the closest. You just entered the booby-trapped area.”
“Everyone begin backing away, now!” Sheppard orders.
They retreat, two meters, five, ten, twenty.
“Okay, Lorne. Fire at the mine field.” He turns to his team. “Everyone take cover.”
His ace in the hole is Lorne in a cloaked jumper; the craft blasts the ground, detonating the hazards that lay in wait. Two minutes later, the ground simmers with smoke, the body of their Marine burned to cinders.
They split up, surround an empty warehouse, and an hour later, leave with nothing. There are no clues to their missing teammates’ whereabouts and they return home with a body bag filled with ash.
Sheppard had underestimated the tenacity and ruthlessness of the enemy; he wouldn’t do it the next time-if there is one.
Rodney shivers, his t-shirt and BDUs feel too thin and worn. His stomach is a gaping chasm of hunger; it growls constantly and his head aches from lack of nourishment. The dizziness could also be the result of having his brains bounced against the back of his skull too many times.
He sucks at his fingertips, relishing the taste from the meager hunk of bread and dried-out alien rice. Ronon's company would be nice right now, but they’d dragged him out a while ago. Rodney counts the squares in the tiles of the floor to figure out how many total are in the room to pass the time.
His mind fills with escape-plan scenarios adding to the conversations he's already had with Ronon. He's even come up with codes words they can use when speaking, just in case they're being monitored.
The noise outside the door alerts him that the thug squad has arrived and they drag Ronon's limp body between them. They drop the Satedan to the floor, secure his wrists and ankles, and back away to encircle their master.
“You could stop all this, you know. Just answer the question,” Balish explains. He has the evil guy act down pat, never bothered by the cruel things he does. He's bored by their resistance, picks a piece of lint from his shoulder. “What will it be?”
Rodney juts his chin out.
“I have all the time in the world,” the brute says.
“How very Dr. Evil of you. I mean, really, do you all read from the same villain handbook?”
Balish crosses the room in a few strides and stomps hard on Rodney's foot. The pain rips a strangled curse from his lips.
“You're a criminal here; don't forget that!” Balish snarls before leaving.
Rodney can't rub his boot to make the pain go away. So he thinks about string theory and the quantum physics of dwarf stars until Ronon decides to wake up some time later. “Um...you alright?”
Blood drips from a split lip and Ronon's left eye is swollen shut. “I'm fine.”
“Is that code for you're not?”
Ronon glares.
“You were unconscious.”
“They stunned me afterward.”
“Oh, that makes it all better.” Silence settles between them and he tries not to think of the odds against getting out of here.
“Did you...um, get any food?”
“No.” Ronon looks over. “You?”
“The usual. Bread and a lumpy brown rice substance. I tried to hide some, but the guards found it.”
Ronon looks surprised that he’d tried to save him some which should tick him off. “It's okay. You need to eat.”
“They ask you anything tactical?” Rodney asks.
“No, just the address to contact Atlantis.”
Rodney ponders at the absurdity of such stupidity. “That's moronic. Why don't they ask us for more information? Why not how to break down our defenses or about our security?”
“Don't know.”
Rodney ignores stomach cramps and the muscles that scream from being stretched beyond their means. This whole situation is puzzling; the pieces don't add up. They're missing something vital and he's going to figure out what.
Sheppard survives on caffeine fumes alone; there was no sleeping after the ambush and the next morning brings another message and a box this time. After scans and every safety precaution, he opens the package to find a thick dreadlock and a few tufts of wispy hair. He fingers the strands before barricading the doors to his emotions.
They're still alive, a voice whispers in his head.
“The DNA results are positive. They belong to Dr. McKay and Ronon,” Keller tells them.
The message includes another planet, another meeting point and lacks details or instructions.
“I'm not sending you into what is likely a trap,” Carter informs him.
“And I won't wait for toes or fingers next,” Sheppard replies.
Teyla touches his arm but he pulls away. There's no room for comfort, not when he knows his friends are still out there because of his mistake. This enemy isn't a group of local yokels with fire and sticks. It takes cunning and ruthlessness to play this game.
They take triple the teams and jumpers and fly through the gate. The first thing he does is scan the area for every anomaly under the sun.
“There's interference.....the sensors can't lock in on anything,” he tells Teyla.
“How shall we proceed?”
Sheppard glances at her, marvels at her constant ability to be so poised under pressure. She still trusts him implicitly and he won't let her or his team down again. “We'll use gas.”
They uncloak and fire holes in the far ends of the ceiling to prevent injuring their teammates if they are there. He expertly hovers the jumper above, the back hatch opens, and one of the Marines scales down a rappelling line to drop bombs the size of bowling balls through. Lorne repeats the same action, each gas surprise able to spread through twenty thousand cubic feet of space.
Sheppard flies to a landing area hundreds of meters away, allowing the air-borne toxin to saturate the target area.
“Gear up,” he orders his people.
Teyla dons a mask as do the other eight Marines. He's about to land when the shuttle rocks unexpectedly, tossing them around inside.
“What the hell?”
“Colonel!”
Sheppard gets the jumper under control before peering at the view screen; the building is engulfed in flames.
“Is that from the gas?” Teyla exclaims.
God, he hopes not.
Once again, they scavenge the debris for clues to what happened. Zelenka is brought over with his geeks and they dredge through shrapnel and destruction. The smoke plumes into the air, creating a hazy cloud of pollution. He and Teyla help where they can, soot staining their faces, fumes tickling their lungs
“No one was ever here,” Zelenka reports.
“What do they want?” Teyla demands, her eyes burning. “Why are they doing this?”
Sheppard doesn't even know who 'they' are. “It was another damn trap?”
“Perhaps the bombs were motion sensitive, rigged to detonate once the team was inside. The mines were designed to explode on a delay- this could be similar technology.”
Twice they've been fed breadcrumbs, led down false trails of death. Two more days Rodney and Ronon have been left in the hands of those who use them as pawns in a deadly game.
On day three, Sheppard waits in the control room, scouring data logs for clues. They contact every ally, every trading partner. There's even a video conference with Ladon Radim who makes promises to help but offers no new leads.
After letting them all twist in the wind, on day four a third package arrives, addressed to Sheppard personally. After it’s been subjected to every test in the lab, he opens it to find a pile of bloody fingernails. Training keeps the bile down; anger churns the acid. Between the violent desire to punch holes in the wall and guilt trying to turn his guts inside out, he actually maintains a composed exterior for the others.
He tears open the envelope and reads the newest summons.
“What does it say?” Teyla demands.
Sheppard can tell she wants to rip it out of his hands. Colonel Carter, Major Lorne and Zelenka wait impatiently for his response.
“They want to meet with me. Alone.”
“No,” Teyla hisses before anyone else can.
Sheppard meets her gaze just as her sentiment is matched by everyone else in the room. It’s an echo of no all the way around. They don't understand that this isn't their decision to make.
Colonel Carter touches his shoulder and he flinches. She pulls away her hand, but her face is pure command. “I'm sorry, John. We're not going to allow you to--”
“--I'll take the risk. Ronon and McKay's lives may depend on-“
“--This isn't your risk to take,” Carter says.
“Yes, it is. They're demanding that I--”
She cuts him off again; Carter's tone becomes harder. “They? We don't even know who these people are, not to mention that we have no idea if Ronon and Rodney are even alive.”
Sheppard shakes the box in disgust. “This means they are!”
“The um...fingernails could have been taken when they were first captured...or even...postmortem,” Zelenka explains. “We still need to verify with DNA.”
Sheppard thrusts it towards him. “Then test 'em.”
Rodney's right hand throbs. The ends of each fingertip are a searing nub of fire, the bandages around them stained red. He wants painkillers, sedatives-- or hell, even ketamine. Anything to dull the shooting pain of raw, exposed nerves. Balish has allowed his injured hand to remain unshackled, a ‘show of compassion’ according to the bastard.
The fourth time he'd been brought to the torture room he’d known something was up. Balish had brought the instrument tray around after his limbs had been restrained in their usual fashion to the chair. He'd been asked about the ‘gate address out of habit more than anything. Then a bucket had been brought for him to puke his guts into after the procedure.
He's asleep when Ronon's brought back from being relieved of the nails on his right hand; the guards secure both the Satedan's wrists. There's no dinner this time, the only meal that's been allowed each day. Rodney craves the brown rice in the middle of the night and wakes up shaky and more disoriented.
“There are at least thirty guards here,” Ronon says, not outwardly disturbed by the latest in torture techniques.
“How do you know that?”
“Memorized their faces, counted them in between our sessions.”
Oh, of course. Ronon has to prove that he's still on the ball, not letting the mounting days distract him.
“Well, that's just great. We can just rush the guards and kill them with our bare hands, no problem.”
“I'm sure there are more outside; this place isn't just a prison. It's a small base. I've seen civilians, probably scientists.”
“How do you know? Were they wearing name tags?” Rodney understands this isn't helping, but he's grouchy from lack of food.
Ronon’s either used to him or doesn't feel like expressing his normal annoyance. “You've seen the doors, some of the technology around here. There's got to be smart people around running it all.”
Rodney's seen signs of ancient tech and what little he's seen outside their prison is much like a hospital or a lab. His thoughts stray to what they could steal or how to use any of this to their advantage.
“I'm sure Sheppard will find a way to--”
Rodney freezes. Ronon coils like a snake ready to strike at the sounds of the doors. Eight guards arrive this time; four cover them while the others march into the cell.
“Come, Balish will see you,” one of the hulking security force announces. “We can stun you, or you can walk.”
Rodney wonders if this is their chance. Ronon studies the situation and shakes his head. There are too many, and deep down inside Rodney knows he's not Sheppard or Teyla. He's not very helpful in a physical fight and curses himself at hindering the odds.
Everyone argues, voicing opinions on matters Sheppard's already gone over in his head. This enemy has advanced technology, including weapons, and unknown numbers. Lorne talks strategy, possible sting-type operations.
Teyla asks the question that really should be discussed. “Why you?”
“I don't know,” Sheppard says. “And I don't care.”
“Well, you should,” Carter retorts. “If this is personal--.”
“--More the reason I should go without any cloak and dagger. I can handle whatever happens.”
“No, I'm not going to risk your life. We don't negotiate with terrorists. They've killed one man already and ambushed your team twice.”
Sheppard faces Carter with images of mutilated fingers in his head. “We can't just stand by and do nothing.”
Teyla is an anchor, pulling him away from the riptide. “Each mission was booby trapped to kill us.... maybe just to kill you, John. You would never let Rodney or Ronon sacrifice themselves in this manner.” She glances at the others. “Maybe we could go with Major Lorne's plan. Put some of our black operations people with you. Their job is to hide, but you would not be unprotected.”
Wise words know how to calm raging waters. Carter weighs the options. “I don't like it, but if we can defend Colonel Sheppard, then I'll listen.”
He's been stripped of his ability to wage this war, allowing rage to boil and cook.
Their best men are sent out hours ahead of time, allowing him to follow at the designated time. Sheppard feels the heaviness of his tac vest; his arms rest on the butt of his P-90. Ten minutes pass, followed by an hour.
Sheppard's eyes dart to any strange sound, whispering in his comm that it isn't working. His watch feels like a betrayal, marking every moment that the ruse hasn't worked. They're dealing with someone too cunning for this, and he wonders if he’s signed the death warrants of his two friends.
After twelve hours the operation is called off. It takes Lorne and Teyla to drag him back to Atlantis; he won't meet anyone's eyes.
On day five, the next box is scanned, inspected and sits on top of Carter's desk. It is thick and heavy, wrapped with brown paper. She wants to open it; the last mission had been her call.
Sheppard can't stop the buzzing in his head; every one of his muscles is tied in knots. Teyla can't hide her anxiety, and Lorne's expression is a stoic slate.
The smell that assaults them all is strong, the odor of copper and decay.
“Oh, my God,” Carter gasps.
She slaps the box closed, face pale, cheeks tinged green.
“What is it?” Teyla demands.
Sheppard is a live wire; sparks of electricity fire through all his nerves. He opens his mouth, but Carter shakes her head.
Lorne is close enough to her side; he got a peek, and his eyes are wide in horror.
Teyla is impatient, Sheppard is numb.....numb and ill.
“We'll get Keller to verify... verify the contents.”
Sheppard should feel like throwing up, but he's gone away, deep inside himself.
When Carter has calmed enough, the shock still ice water in her veins, she tells them about the two hearts inside the box. There's another note inside.
You should have come alone, Colonel Sheppard.
Rodney and Ronon are led to a mess hall with both their hands bound tightly behind their backs. Balish sits at the head of a table laden with plates of food. Rodney's mouth waters at slices of roasted meats as the smoky aroma fills the air. There are dishes of vegetables in various colors with globs of butter, loaves of bread, and bowls of stew and soup. On the other end are cakes, puddings, cookies and other tasty treats. He resists staring at the feast, ignoring his growling stomach.
Balish grins, wiping at a droplet of sauce on his chin. “Care to eat?”
Rodney's proud of himself and speaks without staring at the obvious temptation. “And what's the cost of this all-you-can-eat buffet?”
Ronon seems as he always does - ready to rip people's throats out, not bothered by the extravagant meal.
“You know the ticket to admission.”
“Oh, for Pete's sake. You know what? I'm tired of all this insanity. We're not going to tell you the ‘gate address. Taunting us with food might give you some type of pleasure, but it won't give you the information.”
He takes a breath, all fires blazing, holding Balish's rapt attention. “In fact, I call bull on this whole thing. I'm not blind or stupid. You have stunners, doors that open by touch. You may be psychotic, but you're not an idiot. What's with all the charades? ‘Give me the ‘gate address?’ Why? You don't need it! If you planned on an invasion, you'd demand more information than a stupid address. If you wanted to ransom us then there are other means to contact our people!”
By the time his tirade is over, Rodney feels flushed from exertion, his breathing rough. Ronon studies him, probably pissed he didn't put this all together before or maybe the big man thinks he's gone postal.
“You're right.”
Rodney's face does a double take. “I am?”
Balish stands, his mouth drawn in a straight line, all six feet of muscle flexed in tension. “I never wanted either of you,” he growls.
“We weren't the targets,” Ronon says.
“No! The real target got away! I wanted to kill one the galaxy's greatest enemies.”
Rodney can't believe it; he should have freaking guessed. “Sheppard,” he blurts.
Balish's face turns three shades of crimson. “Yes! He brought the Wraith upon our heads! He's responsible for the death of tens of thousands, including most on my home world!”
“The Wraith have always culled worlds.”
“At manageable numbers,” Balish snarls at Ronon. “But Colonel Sheppard killed the keeper and in his arrogance, unleashed a plague of death upon us all!”
Ronon takes a step forward to defend his CO's honor while Balish stabs a finger in his face. “Of course you defend his genocidal actions; all of Atlantis is guilty. You all came here clueless, reckless with your technology and your superiority.”
“We've tried to help,” Rodney interrupts.
“Help? By cleaning up the mess you began? No, you will all pay the price and be brought to justice for your crimes. Beginning with Colonel Sheppard. He is the guiltiest of you all.”
Rodney doesn't try to reason with a mad man; it wouldn't work. He doesn't defend the colonel's actions or the good the expedition has done. They've all had their personal albatrosses to bear since stepping foot in Pegasus. He's lost count of the number of dead bodies that he's personally responsible for, countless faces on worlds destroyed by the Replicators because of his code modifications.
“So, we're bait?” Rodney blurts.
“Yes, a means to an end. Your butcher, however, has proved elusive.”
“Sheppard's too smart to fall for anything you set up,” Ronon says proudly.
“On the contrary, he's fallen easily into a few of my snares, slipping through the cracks at the last second. I've had to be more creative in my ways to lead him astray, but my patience wanes.”
The hair, the fingernails, all things to rattle Sheppard's cage.
“In fact, he thought he could outwit me this last time. I think it’s best to break his resolve; people who are blinded by anger tend to make mistakes.”
Balish knows nothing about John Sheppard, doesn't realize what happens when that switch inside him is flipped.
“Ask the Genii about the last time Sheppard got really pissed off,” Rodney huffs.
“The Genii think they can lead the way because they might know how to split the atom,” Balish eyes him, the calm exterior slipping back in place. “That is child's play, don't you think? My people were on the verge of what you call cold fusion, Doctor.”
“I highly doubt that,” Rodney mutters under his breath. Such a breakthrough is pure fantasy. “The Wraith would have culled your world ages before you had enough uranium.”
“We had our ways to hide from them until they became too desperate for food!” Balish screams. “You have no idea what good we could have brought to other worlds. The breakthroughs we were on the verge of...... Now it’s gone! Destroyed because of an outsider!”
Balish's whole body quakes with fury, but he smiles, the psychopathic coldness slipping back into place. “No matter. This works out even better. My original plan got rid of Colonel Sheppard. My new one means I can take days to inflict my revenge in person. And I'll be very creative, just wait and see. The both of you will get to witness the whole thing as part of your punishment.”
Balish pulls out his knife, enjoying his reflection within the blade. “Hold them.”
Four pairs of hands grip each of their shoulders, arms, and any other areas to keep them still. Ronon has knocked his guards to the ground, but they end up sitting on top of him.
“What now? Kill us?” Rodney, snips.
“No, I just need some of your blood. I could have used syringes for the donation, but you've annoyed me tonight. And ruined my fabulous dinner.”
Teyla shadows him down every corridor, silently keeping three steps behind, ghosting his moves right into the armory. She walks into the center of the room, fully aware that it'll make her presence known, but his body language says he's been aware for a while.
“I'm doing this alone,” Sheppard announces, not turning around.
“I'm going with you.”
He ignores her, pulling out ammo clips, snatching up a few generous chunks of C-4 and stuffing them all into various pockets. Teyla crosses the length of floor, grabs her tac vest, slips it on and arms for a war. Sheppard straps on an ankle holster, slides in a Beretta even though the Glock still rides on his thigh. He fingers a few flash bangs and pats down his vest but it looks like he’s run out of places to hold the remaining ordnance.
Teyla blocks emotions and tiny whispers that try to distract her from the goal ahead. If she allows her thoughts to wander those treacherous waters then she'd unravel at the seams. Her eyes linger on the row of lockers, at each person's name neatly stenciled on reusable labels.
Sheppard prepares with the concise, efficient motions of a cold, calculated soldier. His normally vibrant eyes stay hooded, concealing all the fire that burns within them. “I’m serious; you're not coming.”
“Yes, I am.”
Teyla will not back down; Sheppard doesn't hold the exclusive rights to grief and rage. He shifts to the right to brush past her and she blocks his path. He spins left, and she parries that as well.
“Colonel.”
“No.”
“John.”
“I said no!”
His eyes are obsidian; the vein in his left temple pulsates madly. “What I'm doing-“
“--Is to get revenge. They were my family, too.”
“There's no turning back. I'm disobeying orders.”
Teyla's emotions bubble to the surface. “They do not apply to me.”
Sheppard is close to shattering into tiny pieces, but she won't let him win this fight. “Grab two pairs of night vision goggles,” he says, finally relenting.
Teyla snags some out of the box, tossing a set to him. Sheppard catches them in mid-air, his reflexes stunningly quicker than she's ever seen. She shudders at his bearing - this isn't the same John Sheppard that Teyla has eaten with over the past three years or has joked and sparred with for hours on end.
Ronon and Rodney are gone, and she will not lose John, too--- even though a part of him is already dead.
“Will they not stop us?”
“Not in time,” he replies.
Getting to the jumper bay and stealing one of them is fairly easy. The colonel knows his men, has every one of their steps memorized. They dodge guards, slip past patrols and break in with ease.
Disabling all the security protocols takes only few keystrokes on a laptop. Rodney's expertise is sorely missed, but Sheppard hacks his way through, honoring the man's legacy by making it look like child's play.
“Jumper two, you are unauthorized for take off!”
The bay doors open, and, like criminals, they slip out effortlessly, the radio crackling the entire time.
“Colonel Sheppard, this is Carter. I know what you're feeling. I know how much this is killing you, but this isn't the way. Don't risk your career...don't risk your life---”
Static fills the air then dies along with the radio after John shuts it off.
Teyla trusts John implicitly, but they’d had nothing for five days, absolutely nothing. “How did you find out where the base was?”
“I bribed some people.”
There's no way to keep the anger out of her voice. “Who?”
Sheppard is all dark shadows, smudges under his eyes that blend with the stubble on his face. “The Genii.”
“What? We tried them. We asked Ladon...we....”
“Mercs for hire. I got the info from them.”
At what price? she wonders. What part of his soul? Teyla won't press; the intel has to be correct. They wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't.
They fly over endless landscapes to the coordinates entered into the computer.
“There's nothing here,” Teyla says, staring at the screen.
“I'm picking up movement. I bet the base is shielded,” Sheppard points out.
Teyla observes the dots on the HUD, commits their patterns to memory, knowing that the colonel is doing the same. They have the cover of night, the moon obscured by clouds, and the advantage of goggles that allow them to see everything in shades of green instead of black.
“There are four patrols of three. We'll target the east wing. There's an entrance three meters from this position.” He points to a yellow dot. “We'll use the three-minute window to secure a way inside before any one notices.” Sheppard's voice lacks any punch or feeling.
She knows not to touch his arm; he's too disconnected at this point. “Are you sure about this? It might not be too late.” The voice of her people speaks, clashing with that of the warrior inside.
“Ronon would want to be avenged. Rodney would want-” He swallows the bitterness. “He'd want it to have meaning.”
“His death?”
Sheppard doesn't look at her. “Yeah,” he whispers.
“Sometimes the deaths of loved ones are meaningless,” she says, all wise and reasonable.
The warrior side mocks her words.
“Then I'm going to find out why.”
Teyla watches as the shell of John Sheppard powers down the jumper, gathers a small backpack and re-clips his P-90.
Reason whispers now is the time to stop this. She joined Atlantis to fight the Wraith, to help her people and others in the galaxy. It's her duty towards the greater good.
Ronon and Rodney were her family; their absence is the cold blood that pumps through her heart. Athosians protect their own, and the only way to feel warmth again is to fight. In order to carry on, she has to rid the ice that flows in her veins and purge the guilt and need for vengeance out of her soul.
“You ready?”
Teyla knows that this won't bring them back, but it might save her and John's souls.
“Yes, I am.”
Continued in Part Two
Author: kristen999
Prompt: Illegal
Word Count: ~12,000
Rating: T
Spoilers: Season 4 Before “Missing”
Warnings: Violence/Slight Language
Summary: Rodney and Ronon are captured by another galactic mad man. Sheppard and Teyla try not to self-destruct while trying to find them.
Teyla wakes up to the sounds of the infirmary: voices, machines, and the hum of activity. She rubs at her temples to ease a splitting headache while searching the other beds. The one directly in front of her hides the form of the colonel; that wild tuft of black hair eases some of her fear. Sheppard had taken two stunner blasts to the chest trying to cover them. Thankfully, Sergeant Martinez had grabbed him by the tac vest and dragged him through the wormhole. Teyla had lost sight of Ronon and Rodney before getting stunned herself.
There's no sign of the rest of her teammates among the wounded.
Major Lorne comes from out of nowhere, accompanied by a nurse, a thousand questions on his lips.
“It was an ambush. We do not know who attacked us,” she tells him.
Six hours later Teyla sits in a conference room, discussing a return trip to the planet. Sheppard grips his pen way too tightly; it’s the only sign of the tension in his body. He doesn't take a single note.
Twelve hours later they return from MXP-5771 with more questions than they had before. There’d been no strange energy signatures to follow or native people to question. All trace of their attackers has been covered up and worst of all, Ronon and Rodney have vanished.
“I'm going to take a jumper back and do another scan,” Sheppard informs everyone.
That should be a request in front of a superior officer, however Colonel Carter agrees as if it is one. She looks to her, and Teyla nods. “I'll go with you, John.”
Colonel Sheppard hasn't slept in the past twenty-four hours, the pain lines around his eyes indicative of a horrible migraine. Teyla takes aspirin for her own headache, offering him some that he dry swallows. Three hours later they return empty-handed after scanning a planet that's swallowed their friends whole.
They walk into Zelenka's lab; the physicist rubs his blood-shot eyes. “It's impossible to know where they could have been transported to. I've downloaded the last fifty gate addresses, but it could be any of them.”
“That's if whoever took them didn't dial the gate to another site.”
“Do you think that is what happened?” Teyla asks.
“It was expertly planned. These people had stunners in addition to projectile weapons. They hid their tracks and disappeared. Professionals would jump from gate to gate,” Sheppard explains in a dry, lifeless tone.
“What do we do now?” Zelenka inquires.
Sheppard's mouth is a thin line, his hand fidgety over his gun. “We kick over every rock until we find them.”
That idea is scrapped immediately when one of the Athosians contacts them about an audio device with a message for Atlantis is left outside their gate.
There is no light in their cell, but Ronon can tell the passage of time without it. His head is heavy; lifting it makes the room spin into a blur. The skin around his wrists is rubbed raw from the chains and the ones around his ankles force him to sit on the floor. They clank loudly when he wrestles with them, testing the strength behind each link.
“Will you stop that? I already have a headache,” McKay snaps.
His friend is hungry, bloodied and scared. Even after three years in the Pegasus galaxy, McKay is not cut out for this. Ronon rolls abused shoulder muscles, stiff from having his hands shackled above his head. Their prison is much like the Atlantis brig - clean, spare and controlled by a force field.
“You got a plan?” Ronon asks.
“Yes, not dying.”
“Can you get past the barrier?”
McKay whips his head around. “Maybe if I could move!”
The guards arrive in teams of four or five, always expecting trouble. Their stunning rods incapacitate quickly; they both have mild burns to show for it. Ronon needs a weapon, anything to prove their captors right about the need for numbers.
They hear the doors slide open, the heavy clomping of boots. Ronon smells Balish before the barrier is dropped; his guards surround him with rods poised and ready. The man always smells of strong, medicinal soap with tobacco on his breath.
McKay makes low, worried sounds deep in his throat, drawing the attention of their tormentor. “Doctor, have you changed your mind yet?”
“He hasn't. You'll get nothing from us,” Ronon snarls.
“Distracting me won't gain you anything, Mr. Dex. I'll get to you later.”
The interrogator takes out his favorite toy, a knife made entirely of steel, even the handle. Balish rubs the blade fondly over his bald head, down the side of his cheek. Their keeper taps the tip against clean, even teeth; his other hand smoothes down a single wrinkle in the crisp gray shirt of a very Genii-like uniform.
“Tell me what I want to know.”
McKay's answer is uncompromising. “No.”
Balish flicks the blade like a deadly dart across the cell.
“Oh, God!” the physicist panics.
The knife strikes the wall only an inch above McKay's head. Balish enjoys towering over his prisoners, to drive fear into others from a position of power. “It's a simple question.”
“And I've got the same answer.”
Ronon bristles as Balish deftly pulls out the knife, petting McKay's head while running the metal under the physicist's earlobe. “I studied anatomy when I was a boy; my father was the local mortician. The human body is amazing; so fragile yet able to endure so much damage before it succumbs to death.”
McKay huddles down as far as the chains will allow him. Balish traces the pointed edge of the blade along the outlines of the physicist's forehead, flicking his wrist to cut away a tuft of hair. McKay's face ashens, his voice lost within his strangled vocal cords.
“You'll scream for your life when I'm done with you,” Ronon promises.
Balish grins. “Bring him.”
The guards descend and Ronon shouts, yanking on his chains until his wrists pop. The soldiers drag McKay away. Balish stays behind, chuckling. “You'll get your chance soon enough, Mr. Dex.”
The message is delivered via New Athos, demanding a face-to-face. Sheppard walks out of the gate with an eight person strike force - nothing like bringing friendly persuasion. The tree line on either side of them is lush and thick, ideal for an ambush.
He nods at Sergeants Tanski and Graham, points to his eyes and to either side of the brush. Both Marines nod, covering the rows of timber with their P-90s. It's a perfect day, at the perfect planet for a little hostage negotiation
“They might be watching us,” Teyla says in a hushed voice.
The instructions have no coordinates. “We didn't get much intel about the layout from the MALP. If they didn't plan on meeting us at the 'gate then they had other ideas.”
“To draw us in,” she replied, eyes razor sharp.
Sheppard pulls out the life signs detector, scowling at the readings. “I'm not picking up McKay's sub-cu transmitter.”
“It could be disabled,” Teyla suggests.
“Or he's not here. I think something's blocking our instruments.”
A canopy of green, tan, and orange leaves masks the sky above a fairytale forest, the mysterious hideout off in the distance. The soft grass mutes the sound of their boots, the soil moist from a recent rain.
The warehouse looms ahead without a welcome wagon in sight. “Let's get as close as we can,” Sheppard orders, then turns to Tanski. “I want you to take three men to split off and go around back.”
The team creeps closer, seeking cover from the nearby woods, using the shadows for stealth. There's no cover in front of the warehouse; any approach exposes them all in the open. Sheppard squints into his binoculars. “No one on the perimeter,” he says.
Then click, and everything goes to Hell.
“Freeze! Nobody move!”
Sheppard's eyes flick at each of their positions, measuring the distance between each member, landing on the soldier furthest away from the group. Sergeant Graham's face drains of color as he stares at his boot.
Teyla is deathly still at Sheppard's right, eyes scouring the ground. “Booby trap,” she whispers knowingly.
“Yeah,” he says, not daring to move.
Sergeant Graham is a statue; he may be twenty-nine, but he's a pro. “Don't worry, sir. I can stand here all-”
The young Marine is blown to bits before Sheppard's eyes and he screams out, “No!”
Sergeant Tanski orders his men to stand their ground; everyone holds their collective breaths. Nothing else explodes, and Sheppard slaps his comm. “Lorne! Scan for energy signatures, anything to tell me how many mines are out here!”
“Already on it, Colonel!”
Teyla is equal parts rage and liquid calm. “Why did it go off? He did not move.”
“Could’ve triggered a timer....if the pressure didn't let up, it went off anyways...... Sonuvabitch!”
The warehouse looms ahead, uncovered and they are sitting ducks for an attack.
“Lorne!”
“Scans shows the entire path leading to the building is layered with mines.”
“Any of my team near 'em?”
“No! ....Sergeant Graham was the closest. You just entered the booby-trapped area.”
“Everyone begin backing away, now!” Sheppard orders.
They retreat, two meters, five, ten, twenty.
“Okay, Lorne. Fire at the mine field.” He turns to his team. “Everyone take cover.”
His ace in the hole is Lorne in a cloaked jumper; the craft blasts the ground, detonating the hazards that lay in wait. Two minutes later, the ground simmers with smoke, the body of their Marine burned to cinders.
They split up, surround an empty warehouse, and an hour later, leave with nothing. There are no clues to their missing teammates’ whereabouts and they return home with a body bag filled with ash.
Sheppard had underestimated the tenacity and ruthlessness of the enemy; he wouldn’t do it the next time-if there is one.
Rodney shivers, his t-shirt and BDUs feel too thin and worn. His stomach is a gaping chasm of hunger; it growls constantly and his head aches from lack of nourishment. The dizziness could also be the result of having his brains bounced against the back of his skull too many times.
He sucks at his fingertips, relishing the taste from the meager hunk of bread and dried-out alien rice. Ronon's company would be nice right now, but they’d dragged him out a while ago. Rodney counts the squares in the tiles of the floor to figure out how many total are in the room to pass the time.
His mind fills with escape-plan scenarios adding to the conversations he's already had with Ronon. He's even come up with codes words they can use when speaking, just in case they're being monitored.
The noise outside the door alerts him that the thug squad has arrived and they drag Ronon's limp body between them. They drop the Satedan to the floor, secure his wrists and ankles, and back away to encircle their master.
“You could stop all this, you know. Just answer the question,” Balish explains. He has the evil guy act down pat, never bothered by the cruel things he does. He's bored by their resistance, picks a piece of lint from his shoulder. “What will it be?”
Rodney juts his chin out.
“I have all the time in the world,” the brute says.
“How very Dr. Evil of you. I mean, really, do you all read from the same villain handbook?”
Balish crosses the room in a few strides and stomps hard on Rodney's foot. The pain rips a strangled curse from his lips.
“You're a criminal here; don't forget that!” Balish snarls before leaving.
Rodney can't rub his boot to make the pain go away. So he thinks about string theory and the quantum physics of dwarf stars until Ronon decides to wake up some time later. “Um...you alright?”
Blood drips from a split lip and Ronon's left eye is swollen shut. “I'm fine.”
“Is that code for you're not?”
Ronon glares.
“You were unconscious.”
“They stunned me afterward.”
“Oh, that makes it all better.” Silence settles between them and he tries not to think of the odds against getting out of here.
“Did you...um, get any food?”
“No.” Ronon looks over. “You?”
“The usual. Bread and a lumpy brown rice substance. I tried to hide some, but the guards found it.”
Ronon looks surprised that he’d tried to save him some which should tick him off. “It's okay. You need to eat.”
“They ask you anything tactical?” Rodney asks.
“No, just the address to contact Atlantis.”
Rodney ponders at the absurdity of such stupidity. “That's moronic. Why don't they ask us for more information? Why not how to break down our defenses or about our security?”
“Don't know.”
Rodney ignores stomach cramps and the muscles that scream from being stretched beyond their means. This whole situation is puzzling; the pieces don't add up. They're missing something vital and he's going to figure out what.
Sheppard survives on caffeine fumes alone; there was no sleeping after the ambush and the next morning brings another message and a box this time. After scans and every safety precaution, he opens the package to find a thick dreadlock and a few tufts of wispy hair. He fingers the strands before barricading the doors to his emotions.
They're still alive, a voice whispers in his head.
“The DNA results are positive. They belong to Dr. McKay and Ronon,” Keller tells them.
The message includes another planet, another meeting point and lacks details or instructions.
“I'm not sending you into what is likely a trap,” Carter informs him.
“And I won't wait for toes or fingers next,” Sheppard replies.
Teyla touches his arm but he pulls away. There's no room for comfort, not when he knows his friends are still out there because of his mistake. This enemy isn't a group of local yokels with fire and sticks. It takes cunning and ruthlessness to play this game.
They take triple the teams and jumpers and fly through the gate. The first thing he does is scan the area for every anomaly under the sun.
“There's interference.....the sensors can't lock in on anything,” he tells Teyla.
“How shall we proceed?”
Sheppard glances at her, marvels at her constant ability to be so poised under pressure. She still trusts him implicitly and he won't let her or his team down again. “We'll use gas.”
They uncloak and fire holes in the far ends of the ceiling to prevent injuring their teammates if they are there. He expertly hovers the jumper above, the back hatch opens, and one of the Marines scales down a rappelling line to drop bombs the size of bowling balls through. Lorne repeats the same action, each gas surprise able to spread through twenty thousand cubic feet of space.
Sheppard flies to a landing area hundreds of meters away, allowing the air-borne toxin to saturate the target area.
“Gear up,” he orders his people.
Teyla dons a mask as do the other eight Marines. He's about to land when the shuttle rocks unexpectedly, tossing them around inside.
“What the hell?”
“Colonel!”
Sheppard gets the jumper under control before peering at the view screen; the building is engulfed in flames.
“Is that from the gas?” Teyla exclaims.
God, he hopes not.
Once again, they scavenge the debris for clues to what happened. Zelenka is brought over with his geeks and they dredge through shrapnel and destruction. The smoke plumes into the air, creating a hazy cloud of pollution. He and Teyla help where they can, soot staining their faces, fumes tickling their lungs
“No one was ever here,” Zelenka reports.
“What do they want?” Teyla demands, her eyes burning. “Why are they doing this?”
Sheppard doesn't even know who 'they' are. “It was another damn trap?”
“Perhaps the bombs were motion sensitive, rigged to detonate once the team was inside. The mines were designed to explode on a delay- this could be similar technology.”
Twice they've been fed breadcrumbs, led down false trails of death. Two more days Rodney and Ronon have been left in the hands of those who use them as pawns in a deadly game.
On day three, Sheppard waits in the control room, scouring data logs for clues. They contact every ally, every trading partner. There's even a video conference with Ladon Radim who makes promises to help but offers no new leads.
After letting them all twist in the wind, on day four a third package arrives, addressed to Sheppard personally. After it’s been subjected to every test in the lab, he opens it to find a pile of bloody fingernails. Training keeps the bile down; anger churns the acid. Between the violent desire to punch holes in the wall and guilt trying to turn his guts inside out, he actually maintains a composed exterior for the others.
He tears open the envelope and reads the newest summons.
“What does it say?” Teyla demands.
Sheppard can tell she wants to rip it out of his hands. Colonel Carter, Major Lorne and Zelenka wait impatiently for his response.
“They want to meet with me. Alone.”
“No,” Teyla hisses before anyone else can.
Sheppard meets her gaze just as her sentiment is matched by everyone else in the room. It’s an echo of no all the way around. They don't understand that this isn't their decision to make.
Colonel Carter touches his shoulder and he flinches. She pulls away her hand, but her face is pure command. “I'm sorry, John. We're not going to allow you to--”
“--I'll take the risk. Ronon and McKay's lives may depend on-“
“--This isn't your risk to take,” Carter says.
“Yes, it is. They're demanding that I--”
She cuts him off again; Carter's tone becomes harder. “They? We don't even know who these people are, not to mention that we have no idea if Ronon and Rodney are even alive.”
Sheppard shakes the box in disgust. “This means they are!”
“The um...fingernails could have been taken when they were first captured...or even...postmortem,” Zelenka explains. “We still need to verify with DNA.”
Sheppard thrusts it towards him. “Then test 'em.”
Rodney's right hand throbs. The ends of each fingertip are a searing nub of fire, the bandages around them stained red. He wants painkillers, sedatives-- or hell, even ketamine. Anything to dull the shooting pain of raw, exposed nerves. Balish has allowed his injured hand to remain unshackled, a ‘show of compassion’ according to the bastard.
The fourth time he'd been brought to the torture room he’d known something was up. Balish had brought the instrument tray around after his limbs had been restrained in their usual fashion to the chair. He'd been asked about the ‘gate address out of habit more than anything. Then a bucket had been brought for him to puke his guts into after the procedure.
He's asleep when Ronon's brought back from being relieved of the nails on his right hand; the guards secure both the Satedan's wrists. There's no dinner this time, the only meal that's been allowed each day. Rodney craves the brown rice in the middle of the night and wakes up shaky and more disoriented.
“There are at least thirty guards here,” Ronon says, not outwardly disturbed by the latest in torture techniques.
“How do you know that?”
“Memorized their faces, counted them in between our sessions.”
Oh, of course. Ronon has to prove that he's still on the ball, not letting the mounting days distract him.
“Well, that's just great. We can just rush the guards and kill them with our bare hands, no problem.”
“I'm sure there are more outside; this place isn't just a prison. It's a small base. I've seen civilians, probably scientists.”
“How do you know? Were they wearing name tags?” Rodney understands this isn't helping, but he's grouchy from lack of food.
Ronon’s either used to him or doesn't feel like expressing his normal annoyance. “You've seen the doors, some of the technology around here. There's got to be smart people around running it all.”
Rodney's seen signs of ancient tech and what little he's seen outside their prison is much like a hospital or a lab. His thoughts stray to what they could steal or how to use any of this to their advantage.
“I'm sure Sheppard will find a way to--”
Rodney freezes. Ronon coils like a snake ready to strike at the sounds of the doors. Eight guards arrive this time; four cover them while the others march into the cell.
“Come, Balish will see you,” one of the hulking security force announces. “We can stun you, or you can walk.”
Rodney wonders if this is their chance. Ronon studies the situation and shakes his head. There are too many, and deep down inside Rodney knows he's not Sheppard or Teyla. He's not very helpful in a physical fight and curses himself at hindering the odds.
Everyone argues, voicing opinions on matters Sheppard's already gone over in his head. This enemy has advanced technology, including weapons, and unknown numbers. Lorne talks strategy, possible sting-type operations.
Teyla asks the question that really should be discussed. “Why you?”
“I don't know,” Sheppard says. “And I don't care.”
“Well, you should,” Carter retorts. “If this is personal--.”
“--More the reason I should go without any cloak and dagger. I can handle whatever happens.”
“No, I'm not going to risk your life. We don't negotiate with terrorists. They've killed one man already and ambushed your team twice.”
Sheppard faces Carter with images of mutilated fingers in his head. “We can't just stand by and do nothing.”
Teyla is an anchor, pulling him away from the riptide. “Each mission was booby trapped to kill us.... maybe just to kill you, John. You would never let Rodney or Ronon sacrifice themselves in this manner.” She glances at the others. “Maybe we could go with Major Lorne's plan. Put some of our black operations people with you. Their job is to hide, but you would not be unprotected.”
Wise words know how to calm raging waters. Carter weighs the options. “I don't like it, but if we can defend Colonel Sheppard, then I'll listen.”
He's been stripped of his ability to wage this war, allowing rage to boil and cook.
Their best men are sent out hours ahead of time, allowing him to follow at the designated time. Sheppard feels the heaviness of his tac vest; his arms rest on the butt of his P-90. Ten minutes pass, followed by an hour.
Sheppard's eyes dart to any strange sound, whispering in his comm that it isn't working. His watch feels like a betrayal, marking every moment that the ruse hasn't worked. They're dealing with someone too cunning for this, and he wonders if he’s signed the death warrants of his two friends.
After twelve hours the operation is called off. It takes Lorne and Teyla to drag him back to Atlantis; he won't meet anyone's eyes.
On day five, the next box is scanned, inspected and sits on top of Carter's desk. It is thick and heavy, wrapped with brown paper. She wants to open it; the last mission had been her call.
Sheppard can't stop the buzzing in his head; every one of his muscles is tied in knots. Teyla can't hide her anxiety, and Lorne's expression is a stoic slate.
The smell that assaults them all is strong, the odor of copper and decay.
“Oh, my God,” Carter gasps.
She slaps the box closed, face pale, cheeks tinged green.
“What is it?” Teyla demands.
Sheppard is a live wire; sparks of electricity fire through all his nerves. He opens his mouth, but Carter shakes her head.
Lorne is close enough to her side; he got a peek, and his eyes are wide in horror.
Teyla is impatient, Sheppard is numb.....numb and ill.
“We'll get Keller to verify... verify the contents.”
Sheppard should feel like throwing up, but he's gone away, deep inside himself.
When Carter has calmed enough, the shock still ice water in her veins, she tells them about the two hearts inside the box. There's another note inside.
You should have come alone, Colonel Sheppard.
Rodney and Ronon are led to a mess hall with both their hands bound tightly behind their backs. Balish sits at the head of a table laden with plates of food. Rodney's mouth waters at slices of roasted meats as the smoky aroma fills the air. There are dishes of vegetables in various colors with globs of butter, loaves of bread, and bowls of stew and soup. On the other end are cakes, puddings, cookies and other tasty treats. He resists staring at the feast, ignoring his growling stomach.
Balish grins, wiping at a droplet of sauce on his chin. “Care to eat?”
Rodney's proud of himself and speaks without staring at the obvious temptation. “And what's the cost of this all-you-can-eat buffet?”
Ronon seems as he always does - ready to rip people's throats out, not bothered by the extravagant meal.
“You know the ticket to admission.”
“Oh, for Pete's sake. You know what? I'm tired of all this insanity. We're not going to tell you the ‘gate address. Taunting us with food might give you some type of pleasure, but it won't give you the information.”
He takes a breath, all fires blazing, holding Balish's rapt attention. “In fact, I call bull on this whole thing. I'm not blind or stupid. You have stunners, doors that open by touch. You may be psychotic, but you're not an idiot. What's with all the charades? ‘Give me the ‘gate address?’ Why? You don't need it! If you planned on an invasion, you'd demand more information than a stupid address. If you wanted to ransom us then there are other means to contact our people!”
By the time his tirade is over, Rodney feels flushed from exertion, his breathing rough. Ronon studies him, probably pissed he didn't put this all together before or maybe the big man thinks he's gone postal.
“You're right.”
Rodney's face does a double take. “I am?”
Balish stands, his mouth drawn in a straight line, all six feet of muscle flexed in tension. “I never wanted either of you,” he growls.
“We weren't the targets,” Ronon says.
“No! The real target got away! I wanted to kill one the galaxy's greatest enemies.”
Rodney can't believe it; he should have freaking guessed. “Sheppard,” he blurts.
Balish's face turns three shades of crimson. “Yes! He brought the Wraith upon our heads! He's responsible for the death of tens of thousands, including most on my home world!”
“The Wraith have always culled worlds.”
“At manageable numbers,” Balish snarls at Ronon. “But Colonel Sheppard killed the keeper and in his arrogance, unleashed a plague of death upon us all!”
Ronon takes a step forward to defend his CO's honor while Balish stabs a finger in his face. “Of course you defend his genocidal actions; all of Atlantis is guilty. You all came here clueless, reckless with your technology and your superiority.”
“We've tried to help,” Rodney interrupts.
“Help? By cleaning up the mess you began? No, you will all pay the price and be brought to justice for your crimes. Beginning with Colonel Sheppard. He is the guiltiest of you all.”
Rodney doesn't try to reason with a mad man; it wouldn't work. He doesn't defend the colonel's actions or the good the expedition has done. They've all had their personal albatrosses to bear since stepping foot in Pegasus. He's lost count of the number of dead bodies that he's personally responsible for, countless faces on worlds destroyed by the Replicators because of his code modifications.
“So, we're bait?” Rodney blurts.
“Yes, a means to an end. Your butcher, however, has proved elusive.”
“Sheppard's too smart to fall for anything you set up,” Ronon says proudly.
“On the contrary, he's fallen easily into a few of my snares, slipping through the cracks at the last second. I've had to be more creative in my ways to lead him astray, but my patience wanes.”
The hair, the fingernails, all things to rattle Sheppard's cage.
“In fact, he thought he could outwit me this last time. I think it’s best to break his resolve; people who are blinded by anger tend to make mistakes.”
Balish knows nothing about John Sheppard, doesn't realize what happens when that switch inside him is flipped.
“Ask the Genii about the last time Sheppard got really pissed off,” Rodney huffs.
“The Genii think they can lead the way because they might know how to split the atom,” Balish eyes him, the calm exterior slipping back in place. “That is child's play, don't you think? My people were on the verge of what you call cold fusion, Doctor.”
“I highly doubt that,” Rodney mutters under his breath. Such a breakthrough is pure fantasy. “The Wraith would have culled your world ages before you had enough uranium.”
“We had our ways to hide from them until they became too desperate for food!” Balish screams. “You have no idea what good we could have brought to other worlds. The breakthroughs we were on the verge of...... Now it’s gone! Destroyed because of an outsider!”
Balish's whole body quakes with fury, but he smiles, the psychopathic coldness slipping back into place. “No matter. This works out even better. My original plan got rid of Colonel Sheppard. My new one means I can take days to inflict my revenge in person. And I'll be very creative, just wait and see. The both of you will get to witness the whole thing as part of your punishment.”
Balish pulls out his knife, enjoying his reflection within the blade. “Hold them.”
Four pairs of hands grip each of their shoulders, arms, and any other areas to keep them still. Ronon has knocked his guards to the ground, but they end up sitting on top of him.
“What now? Kill us?” Rodney, snips.
“No, I just need some of your blood. I could have used syringes for the donation, but you've annoyed me tonight. And ruined my fabulous dinner.”
Teyla shadows him down every corridor, silently keeping three steps behind, ghosting his moves right into the armory. She walks into the center of the room, fully aware that it'll make her presence known, but his body language says he's been aware for a while.
“I'm doing this alone,” Sheppard announces, not turning around.
“I'm going with you.”
He ignores her, pulling out ammo clips, snatching up a few generous chunks of C-4 and stuffing them all into various pockets. Teyla crosses the length of floor, grabs her tac vest, slips it on and arms for a war. Sheppard straps on an ankle holster, slides in a Beretta even though the Glock still rides on his thigh. He fingers a few flash bangs and pats down his vest but it looks like he’s run out of places to hold the remaining ordnance.
Teyla blocks emotions and tiny whispers that try to distract her from the goal ahead. If she allows her thoughts to wander those treacherous waters then she'd unravel at the seams. Her eyes linger on the row of lockers, at each person's name neatly stenciled on reusable labels.
Sheppard prepares with the concise, efficient motions of a cold, calculated soldier. His normally vibrant eyes stay hooded, concealing all the fire that burns within them. “I’m serious; you're not coming.”
“Yes, I am.”
Teyla will not back down; Sheppard doesn't hold the exclusive rights to grief and rage. He shifts to the right to brush past her and she blocks his path. He spins left, and she parries that as well.
“Colonel.”
“No.”
“John.”
“I said no!”
His eyes are obsidian; the vein in his left temple pulsates madly. “What I'm doing-“
“--Is to get revenge. They were my family, too.”
“There's no turning back. I'm disobeying orders.”
Teyla's emotions bubble to the surface. “They do not apply to me.”
Sheppard is close to shattering into tiny pieces, but she won't let him win this fight. “Grab two pairs of night vision goggles,” he says, finally relenting.
Teyla snags some out of the box, tossing a set to him. Sheppard catches them in mid-air, his reflexes stunningly quicker than she's ever seen. She shudders at his bearing - this isn't the same John Sheppard that Teyla has eaten with over the past three years or has joked and sparred with for hours on end.
Ronon and Rodney are gone, and she will not lose John, too--- even though a part of him is already dead.
“Will they not stop us?”
“Not in time,” he replies.
Getting to the jumper bay and stealing one of them is fairly easy. The colonel knows his men, has every one of their steps memorized. They dodge guards, slip past patrols and break in with ease.
Disabling all the security protocols takes only few keystrokes on a laptop. Rodney's expertise is sorely missed, but Sheppard hacks his way through, honoring the man's legacy by making it look like child's play.
“Jumper two, you are unauthorized for take off!”
The bay doors open, and, like criminals, they slip out effortlessly, the radio crackling the entire time.
“Colonel Sheppard, this is Carter. I know what you're feeling. I know how much this is killing you, but this isn't the way. Don't risk your career...don't risk your life---”
Static fills the air then dies along with the radio after John shuts it off.
Teyla trusts John implicitly, but they’d had nothing for five days, absolutely nothing. “How did you find out where the base was?”
“I bribed some people.”
There's no way to keep the anger out of her voice. “Who?”
Sheppard is all dark shadows, smudges under his eyes that blend with the stubble on his face. “The Genii.”
“What? We tried them. We asked Ladon...we....”
“Mercs for hire. I got the info from them.”
At what price? she wonders. What part of his soul? Teyla won't press; the intel has to be correct. They wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't.
They fly over endless landscapes to the coordinates entered into the computer.
“There's nothing here,” Teyla says, staring at the screen.
“I'm picking up movement. I bet the base is shielded,” Sheppard points out.
Teyla observes the dots on the HUD, commits their patterns to memory, knowing that the colonel is doing the same. They have the cover of night, the moon obscured by clouds, and the advantage of goggles that allow them to see everything in shades of green instead of black.
“There are four patrols of three. We'll target the east wing. There's an entrance three meters from this position.” He points to a yellow dot. “We'll use the three-minute window to secure a way inside before any one notices.” Sheppard's voice lacks any punch or feeling.
She knows not to touch his arm; he's too disconnected at this point. “Are you sure about this? It might not be too late.” The voice of her people speaks, clashing with that of the warrior inside.
“Ronon would want to be avenged. Rodney would want-” He swallows the bitterness. “He'd want it to have meaning.”
“His death?”
Sheppard doesn't look at her. “Yeah,” he whispers.
“Sometimes the deaths of loved ones are meaningless,” she says, all wise and reasonable.
The warrior side mocks her words.
“Then I'm going to find out why.”
Teyla watches as the shell of John Sheppard powers down the jumper, gathers a small backpack and re-clips his P-90.
Reason whispers now is the time to stop this. She joined Atlantis to fight the Wraith, to help her people and others in the galaxy. It's her duty towards the greater good.
Ronon and Rodney were her family; their absence is the cold blood that pumps through her heart. Athosians protect their own, and the only way to feel warmth again is to fight. In order to carry on, she has to rid the ice that flows in her veins and purge the guilt and need for vengeance out of her soul.
“You ready?”
Teyla knows that this won't bring them back, but it might save her and John's souls.
“Yes, I am.”
Continued in Part Two