“Red Sands” (7/15)
Jun. 23rd, 2010 09:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “Red Sands” (7/15)
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together.
“Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
---
John embraced the dark, crawling further inside the cave by using touch and feel. There was no pier to disappear by, no city sensors to fool or catwalks to run over. There were push-ups, and if he did one more, maybe he’d be able to distract himself long enough to forget the reason for dragging himself in here.
Ten, twenty, thirty reps. Not too hard, not too fast, or he’d over-perspire, and people maimed and killed over drops of water.
But idle hands lead to idle thoughts.
So, he did ten more, relishing burning biceps and a racing pulse. Limited exercise wasn’t distracting enough and his head filled with the nameless faces that stalked him.
And he did ten more and ten more after that.
In Atlantis he’d run until his legs couldn’t carry him, forcing all his mental baggage to the blackest corners of his mind. But this wasn’t home; it was eternal damnation. John forced all his weight upwards, elbows straight, shoulders locked, and held them there.
He counted the seconds, then minutes. Sweat poured down his face and while his mind screamed, wasting, wasting, wasting, he couldn’t reach the head space that a runner’s high carried him after eight brutal miles.
He wouldn’t budge and tendons strained and muscles burned.
“Sheppard?”
“John?”
“What?” John growled.
“You were yelling.” Ronon’s outline came into the darkness.
“Just, ya know… got carried away.”
“You sure?”
“Never better. You shouldn’t have come this far. You doing alright?”
“Fine.”
John’s arms finally gave out and he collapsed to the ground, breathing in dust and grit, and pressed his forehead into the sandstone. “Think I’m gonna sleep back here tonight, buddy. Got a long day tomorrow.”
It would be the third time harvesting romari, another day with Hemma and Juka and the ghost between them.
“If you’re sure,” Ronon said, minus the sounds of actually leaving.
“Go, big guy.” John didn’t hear anything and lost his patience. “That wasn’t a request!”
When Ronon dragged himself away, John flipped onto his back and pushed his palms into his eyes. He lay there for what felt like hours, freaking days, waiting for sleep. John couldn’t remember a time without nightmares or being plagued by the same thoughts when he was awake.
There were brief reprieves without dreams, when his mind cracked open and all his troubles spilled out. Combat situations often warranted pharmaceutical help. Yellow pills to wind you up and white ones to knock you out. A hand sought his ace in the hole concealed inside a pants pocket. Ten needles controlled appetite, fifteen reduced anxiety. He‘d found out about that by accident. Self-medicating was a treacherous tightrope, but he was on the front lines where the choices were never black and white.
John pinched several spines, spreading the oil across the pads of his fingers and licking the residue without thinking. God, all he wanted was a little peace, a few hours to get things back in focus and concentrate on the next march into the fire.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he started to solve the Riemann hypothesis, but his math kept drifting toward statistics. Suma to dunka ratios and rations per pound of body weight. Factoring battle casualty rate was instinct and John’s walls went up, his mouth filling with the bitter aftertaste of orris.
Spittle flew from Ketra’s mouth as he yelled at John, hands waving in obscene gestures. “Useless! You’re a complete waste of water!”
John waited for the merchant to run out of breath, letting the white noise wash over him. Juka stood right outside the shadow of the cave, and his father sat on the ground to cool down.
“You deaf?...I oughta…I’d be better off….how did you ever…”
“You gonna pay me?” John growled.
“What?” Ketra asked, dumbstruck.
John stepped closer, ignoring the overpowering perfumed oil. “I have things to do. We done?”
Ketra laughed as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, removing his blue turban to mop his brow. “I said to double yesterday’s.”
“We tripled our first haul.”
“That was two cycles ago. This is now. Maybe I’ll hold onto your payment until you meet your quota.”
The merchant turned his back on him and John snagged a handful of linen and yanked Ketra hard, spinning him around. “I’m not a farmer; that’s not why I was hired.” Ketra’s body shook, in anger, perhaps fear. John gave the man a shove. “I’m paid to handle problems,” he said, rubbing at a bruise over his eye from ‘protecting’ their haul earlier. “Right?”
A minute later he walked away with a sackful of romari, his wheels spinning over where to bury it. In a couple of hours the transport would touch down and he didn’t want to have to make the trip to the cave twice. That’s when it dawned on him that he hadn’t bothered asking his business partner about tomorrow.
They both knew he’d be back.
Funny how the most fucked up things became routine. Lying to your wife about calls in the middle of the night. Battling alien vampires millions of miles away then being deemed the foremost expert on them. Finding new ways to fight toward a water faucet and cutting down those in your way.
John plotted the weakest targets to take out, mapping the quickest routes toward the tanker when it arrived. In the meantime he tallied green and red painted faces to avoid, noticing how they‘d doubled.
“Why’s the circus in town?” John growled under his breath. A man covered in wraps of yellow cloth snorted next to him and John returned the gaze. “Any idea when the clown cars show up?” he laughed and kept chuckling even when no one else got the joke.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, eying him oddly.
“I get that a lot,” John replied, watching thirty Spraza play chicken against dozens of Jad. “Guess they’re not done fighting.”
“Ziffka cut off the Spraza supply of topra ‘cuz of the price of fernandi.”
“That bad?”
“Spraza rule with numbers. Members die. It’s hard to jump new prisoners without topra.” The man’s goggles blinded John with the sun’s reflection. “Did the Spraza not come for you before?”
Before what?
“I think so,” John replied, unsure. He didn’t dwell on yesterdays.
“New prisoners are rebellious. It’s easier to subdue them by using topra dust. Less risk.”
And no fighting back.
John elbowed his way toward the front of the milling crowd, studious of the powder keg between both gangs circling like packs of wild dogs.
They were all voices and gang colors.
“The Jad are nothing without orris!”
“Crawl on your knees and beg like women!”
“Tell Kadar we will fill our mouths with his water!”
“Come closer and tell us!”
“Suck our--”
Not all explosions were the result of chemicals, but this reaction was just as volatile. Fists, rocks, knives; pure violence. People scattered, bodies crashed, and you got away or were trapped and trampled.
John ignored the screams and broke through the thinnest area of people, honing in on a single sound above the chaos: the tanker hovering at the horizon. He staked out his position with the others, avoiding the insurrection between the powerhouses.
The fighting and blood loss between gangs benefited him. As the transport touched down, John didn’t care about anything else.
Ronon knew fighting – hand-to-hand, blade or gun, and a combination of all three. He understood survival, adapted to hostile environments, and learned how to turn the tables on the Wraith and hunt them in return. Boredom was a foreign state of mind and his constant companion. Sometimes he missed the hours of heavy sleep his illness had provided.
Raising a boulder for the thirtieth time, he strengthened biceps and triceps used to rigorous workout routines. Sheppard had lugged one weighing over fifty pounds inside, but Ronon longed for something double or triple the size.
On days like today, his blood pulsed hot with envy at Sheppard’s ability to come and go. It wasn’t until Sheppard returned the way he did that such jealousy was knocked straight out of him. It didn’t stop the flames from smoldering when John deprived him of the knowledge of the outside world.
Ronon never recalled a time when another person’s words meant so much and were divvied out so little.
Harvesting romari and success at the transports resulted in a small surplus of supplies. The trade wars benefited them since Sheppard’s payment was an item of increasing value. If the main staple of diet was unaffordable, it made romari a prized treasure. There was enough food and water to last over a week and they’d increased their rations slightly.
Sheppard came back from his sixth harvest and Ronon wondered which version of his friend would show up.
“Look what I have!” Sheppard said, in a way of greeting.
It was talkative Sheppard.
“What is it?” Ronon asked eagerly.
Sheppard thrust something at him in the wrong direction since his vision hadn’t adjusted to darkness. Whatever it was had to be pretty exciting. Ronon grabbed the object, studying a pole…not of metal, but some sort of strong plastic alloy.
“It can take a lot of weight, not sure what it was part of, but I got it from one of those scavengers,” John blurted.
Ronon swung it around like a sword.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, buddy.” Sheppard snatched it from him and shoved one end into the ground. “It’s a cane.”
Ronon didn’t dare cry.
“I also traded for fabric with a type of elastic quality to it. Thought maybe we could use it to keep the bones in place.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard around the shoulders and squeezed him into a bear hug.
And hoped this Sheppard would stay.
Helplessness wasn’t in Ronon’s native vocabulary. ‘Help’ and ‘less’ existed, just not in conjunction with one another. For days Ronon lived and breathed in a state undefined in Satedan. No more. Now he had a road map and a tool to sever his shackles.
Running had taught him to snag any opportunity and exploit it to the fullest. Each new day was a way to build on the last and standing on both his legs was finally within reach. The galaxy also taught him about balance, what Earthers called yin and yang. The very person who’d torn down a wall to his prison was sealing himself into his own.
Sheppard returned from the transports as he always did, much like soldiers trained in the Satedan military to execute the deadliest black ops. The men who didn’t have loved ones to face after doing the dirtiest missions, ones trained to dismiss words that did exist in his language. Remorse, guilt, empathy.
Sheppard was a great soldier, made tough choices, but he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as those specially trained not to be haunted by their decisions. Internal conflict left physical wounds.
“Things go good?” Ronon asked.
“Peachy.” But Sheppard’s body language betrayed the lie.
Ronon expected this, the joy of obtaining the cane a distant memory. “The gangs still fighting?”
“Oh, yeah. Today it made things…a challenge.”
Sheppard was doing that vacant stare thing again, his back against the cave wall, water containers discarded by his boots. He looked like hell. Ronon’s dreads had become mangy and knotted and he’d cut the ends off to keep them manageable. The lack of a mirror hadn’t hindered his ability to know the curves of his own face and he used the knife to shave.
One day he carved teeth out of a cactus shell Sheppard had brought back to use as a comb. Despite the efforts at grooming, Sheppard’s hair reminded him of one of those Earth porcupine animals and his full beard served as another barrier to hide behind.
Ronon stopped asking his friend if he was okay weeks ago, his eyes examining Sheppard daily for signs of injury instead. He spotted the way Sheppard protected his right arm and Ronon invaded his CO’s personal space without an invitation.
“Lemme see,” Ronon said, his tone brooking no quarter.
Sheppard gave himself a mental shake and stared where his fingers were cradling his bicep. “Um…sure.”
Ronon took the offered arm and rolled up the baggy sleeve expecting a knife wound, but not the two rows of teeth marks. “Someone bit you?” he growled in outrage.
Sheppard glanced down. “They did?”
“You didn’t notice?” Ronon accused.
“No,” Sheppard snarled. “Was kinda busy.”
“Too busy to feel teeth? You’ve got to stop this!”
“Stop what? Getting water? Gathering food?”
“No! But you can’t lose yourself out there, John! When we get home, you’ve got to face yourself in the mirror again,” Ronon snapped. “Whatever place you’re in now, it can’t shield you forever.”
“Last I checked Atlantis has no way to grab us. The Saurin blocked the ‘gate to their home world and they transported us to parts unknown!”
“Sounds like you’ve given up already,” Ronon accused, fighting off the desire to clock Sheppard one to knock some sense into him.
“I haven’t given up! Christ, I’m just trying to get by.” All the fight left Sheppard and he pulled up his knees and bowed his head with a resigned, “Fuck.”
“We’ll find a way back. You taught me about the light at the end of the tunnel.” And they were lost in a very long freaking tunnel. Time healed wounds, not all of them, but months or years eased the pain. “We need to clean this before it gets infected,” Ronon said, indicating the wound and changing subjects.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Ronon wasn’t sure what he found more frightening – how easily Sheppard angered, or how quickly he succumbed.
Being an optimist was a draining task; it felt odd, like wearing someone else’s skin. Thinking about the future in a positive light vs. dealing with the here and now with detached realism was the biggest challenge Ronon had faced so far on this planet.
Grinning and bearing the pain of physical therapy was far easier. Walking wouldn’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, there were other things to do.
“How many steps from the market to the Jad lair?” Ronon quizzed his friend.
“Four hundred and thirty-six.”
Ronon drew a circle in yellow and went back over it with a crystalline piece that rubbed blue.
“Green for the Jad, cute,” Sheppard humphed with a drink of water.
Ronon had found minerals that left streaks in the three primary colors after a week of testing every piece of rock near him. He sketched a skull and crossbones above the circle to signify the landmark. “You’ve never gone further north of their lair?”
“No, but I can show you where some of their hidey-holes are scattered to jump people.”
“You’ve counted steps between them?”
“Yeah.”
Ronon smiled.
Steps were a terrible scale; energy and stamina affected stride, but it was the only measurement they had. Sheppard was good at feeling out the length of a klick, which they used as a comparison measure, but it could be inaccurate, too.
The map sprawled out of control, morphing into a mosaic of artistic renderings. He drew his visions of the Shan’ka, phantoms in layered blue robes, eyes, and skin as the symbol above the depository.
“Creepy,” Sheppard muttered.
Ronon might have spent too much time on the fuzzy hairs of the caterpillar things they ate and he really wanted different shades to represent the patchwork of fabrics sold by the merchants.
“You know you could just draw a big box and label it with the word market.”
“I can write English, but I don’t wanna hear you bitch about my spelling.” Ronon could’ve drawn a normal map, but this gave him something to do.
It took a couple days to map the residential areas in relation to the market and all the other important destinations. The Shan’ka’s water stockpile, the buildings claimed by the Spraza, and anything between their shelter and the path toward the communal areas.
Sheppard returned from each trip outside with new coordinates. Sites where neutral romari was planted, more intel on the borderlines of Spraza terrain. There were still large pockets of uncharted territory that frustrated Ronon. “The only way we’re gonna find a way to use the resources here to our advantage is to know where everything is,” he growled at the map.
“The Spraza control most of the romari areas, except for random pockets,” Sheppard said, attempting to sew a tear in his shirt with a newly acquired bone needle. “They’ve bullied their way into controlling most of the food crops. Roots, trumalites, lompson, you name it, they have people patrolling the places to catch or farm the things.”
Ronon wondered if the bone used to be a finger. “Do you even know how to sew?”
“Not really.”
Ronon sighed. “I’ll fix it later.” He focused on the map. “That leaves the Tharsqin Sands and the…”
“The Void, not to mention the area south of us, but that’s where the Jad farm their drugs,” Sheppard answered, throwing the needle down.
Ronon shook his head at his friend’s impatience. He wouldn’t complain; creating the map was the only time they’d spoken without tension. Ever since their recent confrontation, Sheppard was too calm and matter–of-fact about everything.
He hated it. No one had ever agreed with Ronon as much as Sheppard had the past few days. “You forget how to think for yourself?” he barbed.
“I wish I could,” Sheppard replied cryptically.
Today Ronon was going to walk outside. He was supposed to wait until Sheppard got back from harvesting to help support his other side, but once he’d put on his socks and shoes in anticipation, his feet feeling familiar leather, he couldn’t wait. Pulling on his goggles, he shoved his cane into the ground and emerged from the cave. The sun beat down on his face as he rose to his full height, limbs trembling, his right leg threatening to buckle. Shifting his weight, he leaned more onto the plastic pole, and the shaking eased.
Finally he was out of his prison and Ronon hobbled, loving the exertion. He’d never take being vertical for granted again as vertebrae snapped when his back stretched. Staring off at the horizon, he gazed at the white and orange wasteland. It smelled of dirt and sand and…metal?
“Nice day for a walk,” a familiar voice echoed off the canyon wall.
Ronon spun around, almost falling in the process. A bulky guy stood in a gray robe that hung a couple inches short of his ankles, revealing black pants and leather boots. The hood was baggy; layers of fabric concealed his entire face, but there was no mistaking that build or smug voice.
“Malvick,” Ronon growled.
“Awww, you learned my name. I‘m touched,” Malvick chuckled. “No need introducin’ yourself. I know yours, Ronon. And before you ask, your friend said it loudly enough times for the whole Void to hear.”
That must have been when he was sick and Sheppard had been frantically trying to wake him. Ronon didn’t want to lean any heavier on his cane, revealing his weakness, but the toll of staying perfectly still when his leg wanted to fold was immense.
“You ever tell your friend about the last time you came out here?” Even under the hood Ronon knew the guy was smirking.
“You gonna to tell me why you care?”
“What’s the fun in that?”
Buckets poured down Ronon’s face and Malvick leaned against the cave entrance. “Aren’t ya gonna invite me in? We can stare at each other in the dark.”
Ronon gestured for Malvick to go first, following right behind him. They settled opposite one another, Ronon’s leg screaming in relief and Malvick perfectly at ease. “Why are you here?” Ronon asked, getting straight to the point.
“I was gonna check out the fresh meat arriving later and thought I’d say hello to my neighbor,” Malvick replied, pulling down his hood.
Ronon wanted a razor that shaved a head that perfectly smooth. “What fresh meat?”
“The newbies getting booted out later. Happens every forty cycles.”
“Another prison transport?” Ronon leaned closer. “They come on a schedule?”
Malvick’s laugh was a loud rumble. “For years. Got to have a place to throw people away.”
“But the Saurin live in secret. Where are they getting all the prisoners?”
“Who were you and your friend? Another group that told them no when they wanted to ‘trade’. Not that most planets have anything other than sticks and knives. But there are always natural resources to exploit, bits of Ancestor tech here and there.” Malvick ran a meaty hand over his domed head. “How do you think they got so smart? They take what they want.”
“Not everyone here’s a criminal?” Ronon asked, confused by the brutality of the other prisoners.
“Define criminal? Is it a crime to survive?” Malvick smiled. “Some of the others are thieves and murderers from the worlds the Saurin steal from. They stick around, grabbin’ every scrap of technology from a city….then take out the trash for the betterment of the worlds they’re on,” Malvick spat.
“I can’t wait to kill them,” Ronon replied.
“Get in line.”
Malvick laced his fingers behind his head, the sleeves rolling down to reveal tattoos on his bulging arms. Ronon glanced at the detailed designs and grunted his approval.
Malvick gestured at the wall behind Ronon. “I see you like art.”
“Maybe,” Ronon growled defensively.
“Inked these myself,” Malvick said, pulling out his hands from where they’d made a pillow and flexed his biceps. “Gotta take pride in somethin’.”
Ronon found himself nodding.
“Looks like you got the scale pretty good,” Malvick said, studying the map.
Ronon shifted out of the way; this was an intel session. “Wasn’t sure about that.”
Malvick cocked his head. “Prison transport’s comin’. We’ll have to chat another time.”
“You take some of the prisoners?” Ronon asked, not hearing any engines.
“I just watch. Like to see all the fresh faces.”
It was a bald-faced lie, but Ronon wasn’t going to push. He’d get nothing truthful.
Malvick got to a crouch, still studying the map. “These areas are romari plots.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know the locations?”
Ronon thought about lying, but decided not to. “That’s where Sheppard’s harvested them.”
Malvick removed his goggles and stared closer, tapping a finger on one of the dots. “He’s picking romari here?”
“Yeah.” Ronon’s gut twisted. “Why?”
“Cuz…” Malvick paused, putting his goggles back on. “Those three spots are fine,” he indicated the closer dots, “but these three are deep in Spraza territory. They’re not the main fields, probably hidden stashes.”
“No, you’re wrong. He goes with two others; they said it was on the border,” Ronon growled.
“They’re lying.” Malvick traced a wavy line down the middle of the six dots. “This is where the Spraza border starts.”
Ronon’s heart slammed against his ribcage, the beating drowned out by approaching engine noise.
“Gotta go.”
“Wait!” Ronon turned his head, but Malvick was gone.
And he was left staring at Sheppard’s position in enemy territory with no way to warn him.
John was filthy, covered head to toe in orange dust. A small sandstorm had kicked up on the way back and he’d be spitting dust out of his mouth for days. They’d hit pay dirt and he’d swapped two fat sacks of romari for supplies, some of that burning oil for light, and a flint rock to start a flame.
The world shimmered in shades of gray behind his goggles and he was adjusting the straps over his shoulders when the front of his body was plowed into rock.
His chin bounced off sandstone, along with his shoulders and knees. Fingers yanked his scalp back, and slammed his forehead into the canyon wall. Pain ricocheted through his skull and his assailant wrenched his hair back for another bounce off the rock. John managed to swing an elbow and connected with flesh, forcing the bastard to let go of his hair.
Blood roared in his ears and the world spun dizzyingly. A large body behind him blocked any attempt to get away and he lashed out wildly, his fist slamming an iron jaw. There was a grunt and the mass staggered back enough for John to get away from the wall, but not before a thick band of muscle wrapped around his throat, throttling him.
He didn’t get to take a good breath before his larynx started to get crushed. John flailed, body bucking and squirming. And another arm joined the first and squeezed harder.
Dots danced across his vision and muscles forgot how to work, but he dropped his hand and tingling fingers curled around a handle. His feet were lifted slowly off the soil and an internal voice screamed knife, knife, knife!
Endorphins or sheer force of will. There was no telling what gave him that last burst of energy. One second he was circling the drain, and the next, he’d sunk the blade into his foe‘s forearm.
The scream deafened his left ear, but John didn’t stop there. The knife was still buried in muscle, so he twisted it, and the screaming became blood-curdling shrieks. The choke-hold was released and John fell to his knees as air rushed into his lungs.
Then hands grabbed him from everywhere.
“No!” he rasped.
“Get him on the ground!”
Screw that. Elbows, hands, and knees pinned him down. John kicked and writhed against the collective weight, but all his energy was depleted.
His goggles had been knocked down and he squinted at the six pairs staring down at him. Droplets of sweat rolled off those looming above, splashing on his cheeks and chin. The sunlight washed out everyone into fuzzy blobs, but John didn’t need to see the stripes of red paint to confirm he was totally fucked.
“Killing me…is…against the law,” he panted.
“Who said we were gonna kill ya?”
It was Kadar. The leader of the Spraza crouched in John’s line of sight, blocking out the sun, running the side of his chin against a boulder bigger than his hand.
“You‘re not?” John quipped.
“We’re gonna smash your knees.” John froze in horror and Kadar smiled. “Hold his left leg still.”
GOD, NO.
John jackknifed, jerking both legs enough that the first blow glanced painfully off the side of his patella bone.
“Idiots! Sit on them if you have ‘ta.”
Suddenly his shins were rooted in place and John screamed so loud, he started to go hoarse.
“That’s it,” Kadar purred.
“Let him go!” someone shouted.
“What business is it of yours?” Kadar snarled.
Who the hell was that? John knew that voice, but he couldn’t budge.
“We’re makin’ it ours.”
We? John craned his neck, seeing only sunspots.
“This is retribution,” Kadar hissed.
“We defend our friends.”
Ziffka? What the hell?
“We’re owed justice. Go back to your hole.”
Several bastards still sat on John and he could barely breathe. “Justice for what?” he croaked.
Someone whopped him in the jaw. “Shudup.”
“He has a point. What crime has this man committed?”
John knew that voice, too. The representative from the Shan’ka had joined the ruckus, making John the party favor.
“You brought him? What game is this, Ziffka?” Kadar hissed.
“Let 45482 go,” Misha ordered.
Oxygen was a sweet, sweet thing and John sucked every drop as he scrambled to his feet. The world tilted sideways and he swayed before standing to his full height. Ow. The blow to his knee was going to cost him.
He fumbled for goggles that still hung around his neck, forcing the swelling joint to straighten. “Wanna tell me what this was about?”
“You took romari from our territory,” Kadar accused.
But there was more to it. John had disgraced the man in front of fresh recruits and his number two. The man wanted blood. “Would that be a recognized territory? With a border crossing or two?”
“You dare mock me?” Kadar spat on the ground. “You stole from the Spraza.”
“What proof do you have of this?” Misha inquired.
John couldn’t believe his ears. “On what map?”
“Silence!” Misha snapped. He was judge and jury in layers of sanctimonious blue fabric. “There is only one law here. And that is of the Shan’ka.” The Spraza bristled. “But. The Shan’ka respect the rules that have kept order. It is known what lands have been claimed by certain groups. Did you take the property of the Spraza, prisoner 45482?”
“No,” John replied vehemently.
“Really?” Kadar smiled.
With a quick snap of his fingers a small hunched figure came out from behind a couple of larger Spraza. Hemma hobbled over slowly; the last days of harvesting had not been kind to him. “I informed Kadar of the theft. I saw it with my own eyes,” he informed Misha.
The old man looked at John without words, but none were needed. They all did what they had to do for survival. Didn’t they?
Kadar hummed in anticipation. “You heard the man. He’s guilty. We‘ve been wronged.”
This wasn’t Earth. It was tribal law Medena style.
“It would appear so,” Misha stated when John made no attempt to defend himself.
The Spraza started to surround him. This was it, but John wouldn’t go down without a fight. His knife had gotten lost in the scuffle, but maybe he’d get a few licks before they maimed him.
“Enough!” Misha growled, stepping forward, causing the Spraza to back off. “Why did you wait to seek your justice? Why not in the act?”
“To show others what happens when you defy us,” Kadar announced.
“It seems we are at a crossroads,” Misha said.
“If I may suggest something to the one who has the ear of the Shan’ka,” Ziffka said, nearly curtseying in front of Misha.
The Jad had been so silent that John had nearly forgotten their presence.
“Go on,” Misha encouraged.
John got a sinking feeling when Ziffka paraded forward. “There is Shan’ka law and there’s the law of the Medena . When there are problems, the balick matches have solved them.”
“The matches are near,” Misha agreed. “Would this be satisfactory to the Spraza?”
Kadar’s clenched jaw was evidence enough that he’d prefer his earlier plan, but John got the feeling Misha’s offer wasn‘t a suggestion. “Fine.”
“Then it is settled,” Misha announced.
John’s brain still felt smashed against the front of his skull. He hadn’t a clue what was going on. “What’s settled?”
“Our vengeance will be made between the lines of the balick matches,” Kadar said, staring at John in zeal. “You can’t hide near the Void anymore.”
“Don’t think he has anything to hide from,” Ziffka said, toeing a large sprawled body with his boot. “Looks like you lost another member.”
Kadar snorted. “Just a recruit who failed his test. There’ll be more.”
Misha knelt down next to the large corpse, the spreading blood pool saturating the ends of his blue robes. “This should have been collected properly.” John had hit an artery and his attacker had bled out. “Possessions and water will be transferred to 45482,” Misha said, inspecting the body and recovering the bloodied knife. “This is yours.”
John curled his fingers around the handle without sparing the corpse a second glance. “You’re talking about a fight?” Nothing like old-fashioned methods to solve your differences. “Like boxing?”
Kadar grinned and his hyena entourage followed him toward their lair or wherever gangs hung out. The Jad milled about whispering to each other, but Misha stood in front of John, which was weird because didn’t he have a body to wrap up in a tarp for his overlords?
“The balick matches have no rules. The person left standing is the winner.”
John was more interested in the Jad and their secret conversations.
“The matches can be good, though. They calm tensions, release the need for violence,” Misha kept explaining.
Hemma waited in the shade of the canyon. Funny how he hadn’t left with the Spraza. The leader of the Jad handed the old man a suma of water.
“Sometimes leaders have used them to end disputes, even rivalries,” Misha droned on.
John walked away from the Shan’ka puppet and stopped in front of Hemma. “The Spraza didn‘t put you up to this, did they?”
Hemma struggled with the suma of water. “No.”
Ziffka's eyes danced in excitement and he snapped at one of his minions. “Pick up his fallen supplies. We want him strong for the balick matches.”
Two Jad brought over John’s container of water and knapsack with Ziffka fluttering about in nervous energy behind them. “My men could carry it for you. No need to waste energy.”
Misha hung back in silence, watching in the distance as the Shan’ka approached to retrieve the dead body.
John knew if he decked the drug leader it’d earn him a beat down. “Seems like a lotta effort to get me into a fight. I do that every day. Don’t think it’ll solve your turf war.”
“You are wrong, my friend. You will win your match, injuring or killing Spraza. And once you win, you cannot stop. Those are the rules.”
John’s head whirled; he wasn’t sure if he was more pissed, terrified, or maybe none of the above.
Ziffka wrapped a bony arm around John‘s shoulders, oblivious to his revulsion. “A champion fights until he loses or until all five balick matches end. Whichever is first. Either way, the Jad win.”
John had graduated from hired thug to mercenary. A pawn in a gang war. He’d take out the stronger members of the Spraza and the Jad wouldn’t have to risk a single member to dwindle down the numbers of their enemies.
“Chapter Eight”
Author:Kristen999
Word Count: 125,000~
Rating: PG-15
Genre: Gen, Drama, Action, H/C
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Violence and coarse language
Summary: Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.
Notes: This is not a WIP. A chapter will be posted every other day until complete.
I wanted to thank
d_odyssey for her amazing support and advice during the writing of this. I also wanted to thank my awesome betas wildcat88 and everybetty for their time, patience, and bucket-loads of red ink. It was their honesty and willingness to tear this story apart that allowed it to finally come together. “Previous Chapters”
Feedback is always appreciated.
---
John embraced the dark, crawling further inside the cave by using touch and feel. There was no pier to disappear by, no city sensors to fool or catwalks to run over. There were push-ups, and if he did one more, maybe he’d be able to distract himself long enough to forget the reason for dragging himself in here.
Ten, twenty, thirty reps. Not too hard, not too fast, or he’d over-perspire, and people maimed and killed over drops of water.
But idle hands lead to idle thoughts.
So, he did ten more, relishing burning biceps and a racing pulse. Limited exercise wasn’t distracting enough and his head filled with the nameless faces that stalked him.
And he did ten more and ten more after that.
In Atlantis he’d run until his legs couldn’t carry him, forcing all his mental baggage to the blackest corners of his mind. But this wasn’t home; it was eternal damnation. John forced all his weight upwards, elbows straight, shoulders locked, and held them there.
He counted the seconds, then minutes. Sweat poured down his face and while his mind screamed, wasting, wasting, wasting, he couldn’t reach the head space that a runner’s high carried him after eight brutal miles.
He wouldn’t budge and tendons strained and muscles burned.
“Sheppard?”
“John?”
“What?” John growled.
“You were yelling.” Ronon’s outline came into the darkness.
“Just, ya know… got carried away.”
“You sure?”
“Never better. You shouldn’t have come this far. You doing alright?”
“Fine.”
John’s arms finally gave out and he collapsed to the ground, breathing in dust and grit, and pressed his forehead into the sandstone. “Think I’m gonna sleep back here tonight, buddy. Got a long day tomorrow.”
It would be the third time harvesting romari, another day with Hemma and Juka and the ghost between them.
“If you’re sure,” Ronon said, minus the sounds of actually leaving.
“Go, big guy.” John didn’t hear anything and lost his patience. “That wasn’t a request!”
When Ronon dragged himself away, John flipped onto his back and pushed his palms into his eyes. He lay there for what felt like hours, freaking days, waiting for sleep. John couldn’t remember a time without nightmares or being plagued by the same thoughts when he was awake.
There were brief reprieves without dreams, when his mind cracked open and all his troubles spilled out. Combat situations often warranted pharmaceutical help. Yellow pills to wind you up and white ones to knock you out. A hand sought his ace in the hole concealed inside a pants pocket. Ten needles controlled appetite, fifteen reduced anxiety. He‘d found out about that by accident. Self-medicating was a treacherous tightrope, but he was on the front lines where the choices were never black and white.
John pinched several spines, spreading the oil across the pads of his fingers and licking the residue without thinking. God, all he wanted was a little peace, a few hours to get things back in focus and concentrate on the next march into the fire.
Squeezing his eyes closed, he started to solve the Riemann hypothesis, but his math kept drifting toward statistics. Suma to dunka ratios and rations per pound of body weight. Factoring battle casualty rate was instinct and John’s walls went up, his mouth filling with the bitter aftertaste of orris.
Spittle flew from Ketra’s mouth as he yelled at John, hands waving in obscene gestures. “Useless! You’re a complete waste of water!”
John waited for the merchant to run out of breath, letting the white noise wash over him. Juka stood right outside the shadow of the cave, and his father sat on the ground to cool down.
“You deaf?...I oughta…I’d be better off….how did you ever…”
“You gonna pay me?” John growled.
“What?” Ketra asked, dumbstruck.
John stepped closer, ignoring the overpowering perfumed oil. “I have things to do. We done?”
Ketra laughed as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard, removing his blue turban to mop his brow. “I said to double yesterday’s.”
“We tripled our first haul.”
“That was two cycles ago. This is now. Maybe I’ll hold onto your payment until you meet your quota.”
The merchant turned his back on him and John snagged a handful of linen and yanked Ketra hard, spinning him around. “I’m not a farmer; that’s not why I was hired.” Ketra’s body shook, in anger, perhaps fear. John gave the man a shove. “I’m paid to handle problems,” he said, rubbing at a bruise over his eye from ‘protecting’ their haul earlier. “Right?”
A minute later he walked away with a sackful of romari, his wheels spinning over where to bury it. In a couple of hours the transport would touch down and he didn’t want to have to make the trip to the cave twice. That’s when it dawned on him that he hadn’t bothered asking his business partner about tomorrow.
They both knew he’d be back.
Funny how the most fucked up things became routine. Lying to your wife about calls in the middle of the night. Battling alien vampires millions of miles away then being deemed the foremost expert on them. Finding new ways to fight toward a water faucet and cutting down those in your way.
John plotted the weakest targets to take out, mapping the quickest routes toward the tanker when it arrived. In the meantime he tallied green and red painted faces to avoid, noticing how they‘d doubled.
“Why’s the circus in town?” John growled under his breath. A man covered in wraps of yellow cloth snorted next to him and John returned the gaze. “Any idea when the clown cars show up?” he laughed and kept chuckling even when no one else got the joke.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said, eying him oddly.
“I get that a lot,” John replied, watching thirty Spraza play chicken against dozens of Jad. “Guess they’re not done fighting.”
“Ziffka cut off the Spraza supply of topra ‘cuz of the price of fernandi.”
“That bad?”
“Spraza rule with numbers. Members die. It’s hard to jump new prisoners without topra.” The man’s goggles blinded John with the sun’s reflection. “Did the Spraza not come for you before?”
Before what?
“I think so,” John replied, unsure. He didn’t dwell on yesterdays.
“New prisoners are rebellious. It’s easier to subdue them by using topra dust. Less risk.”
And no fighting back.
John elbowed his way toward the front of the milling crowd, studious of the powder keg between both gangs circling like packs of wild dogs.
They were all voices and gang colors.
“The Jad are nothing without orris!”
“Crawl on your knees and beg like women!”
“Tell Kadar we will fill our mouths with his water!”
“Come closer and tell us!”
“Suck our--”
Not all explosions were the result of chemicals, but this reaction was just as volatile. Fists, rocks, knives; pure violence. People scattered, bodies crashed, and you got away or were trapped and trampled.
John ignored the screams and broke through the thinnest area of people, honing in on a single sound above the chaos: the tanker hovering at the horizon. He staked out his position with the others, avoiding the insurrection between the powerhouses.
The fighting and blood loss between gangs benefited him. As the transport touched down, John didn’t care about anything else.
Ronon knew fighting – hand-to-hand, blade or gun, and a combination of all three. He understood survival, adapted to hostile environments, and learned how to turn the tables on the Wraith and hunt them in return. Boredom was a foreign state of mind and his constant companion. Sometimes he missed the hours of heavy sleep his illness had provided.
Raising a boulder for the thirtieth time, he strengthened biceps and triceps used to rigorous workout routines. Sheppard had lugged one weighing over fifty pounds inside, but Ronon longed for something double or triple the size.
On days like today, his blood pulsed hot with envy at Sheppard’s ability to come and go. It wasn’t until Sheppard returned the way he did that such jealousy was knocked straight out of him. It didn’t stop the flames from smoldering when John deprived him of the knowledge of the outside world.
Ronon never recalled a time when another person’s words meant so much and were divvied out so little.
Harvesting romari and success at the transports resulted in a small surplus of supplies. The trade wars benefited them since Sheppard’s payment was an item of increasing value. If the main staple of diet was unaffordable, it made romari a prized treasure. There was enough food and water to last over a week and they’d increased their rations slightly.
Sheppard came back from his sixth harvest and Ronon wondered which version of his friend would show up.
“Look what I have!” Sheppard said, in a way of greeting.
It was talkative Sheppard.
“What is it?” Ronon asked eagerly.
Sheppard thrust something at him in the wrong direction since his vision hadn’t adjusted to darkness. Whatever it was had to be pretty exciting. Ronon grabbed the object, studying a pole…not of metal, but some sort of strong plastic alloy.
“It can take a lot of weight, not sure what it was part of, but I got it from one of those scavengers,” John blurted.
Ronon swung it around like a sword.
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking, buddy.” Sheppard snatched it from him and shoved one end into the ground. “It’s a cane.”
Ronon didn’t dare cry.
“I also traded for fabric with a type of elastic quality to it. Thought maybe we could use it to keep the bones in place.”
Ronon grabbed Sheppard around the shoulders and squeezed him into a bear hug.
And hoped this Sheppard would stay.
Helplessness wasn’t in Ronon’s native vocabulary. ‘Help’ and ‘less’ existed, just not in conjunction with one another. For days Ronon lived and breathed in a state undefined in Satedan. No more. Now he had a road map and a tool to sever his shackles.
Running had taught him to snag any opportunity and exploit it to the fullest. Each new day was a way to build on the last and standing on both his legs was finally within reach. The galaxy also taught him about balance, what Earthers called yin and yang. The very person who’d torn down a wall to his prison was sealing himself into his own.
Sheppard returned from the transports as he always did, much like soldiers trained in the Satedan military to execute the deadliest black ops. The men who didn’t have loved ones to face after doing the dirtiest missions, ones trained to dismiss words that did exist in his language. Remorse, guilt, empathy.
Sheppard was a great soldier, made tough choices, but he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as those specially trained not to be haunted by their decisions. Internal conflict left physical wounds.
“Things go good?” Ronon asked.
“Peachy.” But Sheppard’s body language betrayed the lie.
Ronon expected this, the joy of obtaining the cane a distant memory. “The gangs still fighting?”
“Oh, yeah. Today it made things…a challenge.”
Sheppard was doing that vacant stare thing again, his back against the cave wall, water containers discarded by his boots. He looked like hell. Ronon’s dreads had become mangy and knotted and he’d cut the ends off to keep them manageable. The lack of a mirror hadn’t hindered his ability to know the curves of his own face and he used the knife to shave.
One day he carved teeth out of a cactus shell Sheppard had brought back to use as a comb. Despite the efforts at grooming, Sheppard’s hair reminded him of one of those Earth porcupine animals and his full beard served as another barrier to hide behind.
Ronon stopped asking his friend if he was okay weeks ago, his eyes examining Sheppard daily for signs of injury instead. He spotted the way Sheppard protected his right arm and Ronon invaded his CO’s personal space without an invitation.
“Lemme see,” Ronon said, his tone brooking no quarter.
Sheppard gave himself a mental shake and stared where his fingers were cradling his bicep. “Um…sure.”
Ronon took the offered arm and rolled up the baggy sleeve expecting a knife wound, but not the two rows of teeth marks. “Someone bit you?” he growled in outrage.
Sheppard glanced down. “They did?”
“You didn’t notice?” Ronon accused.
“No,” Sheppard snarled. “Was kinda busy.”
“Too busy to feel teeth? You’ve got to stop this!”
“Stop what? Getting water? Gathering food?”
“No! But you can’t lose yourself out there, John! When we get home, you’ve got to face yourself in the mirror again,” Ronon snapped. “Whatever place you’re in now, it can’t shield you forever.”
“Last I checked Atlantis has no way to grab us. The Saurin blocked the ‘gate to their home world and they transported us to parts unknown!”
“Sounds like you’ve given up already,” Ronon accused, fighting off the desire to clock Sheppard one to knock some sense into him.
“I haven’t given up! Christ, I’m just trying to get by.” All the fight left Sheppard and he pulled up his knees and bowed his head with a resigned, “Fuck.”
“We’ll find a way back. You taught me about the light at the end of the tunnel.” And they were lost in a very long freaking tunnel. Time healed wounds, not all of them, but months or years eased the pain. “We need to clean this before it gets infected,” Ronon said, indicating the wound and changing subjects.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Ronon wasn’t sure what he found more frightening – how easily Sheppard angered, or how quickly he succumbed.
Being an optimist was a draining task; it felt odd, like wearing someone else’s skin. Thinking about the future in a positive light vs. dealing with the here and now with detached realism was the biggest challenge Ronon had faced so far on this planet.
Grinning and bearing the pain of physical therapy was far easier. Walking wouldn’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, there were other things to do.
“How many steps from the market to the Jad lair?” Ronon quizzed his friend.
“Four hundred and thirty-six.”
Ronon drew a circle in yellow and went back over it with a crystalline piece that rubbed blue.
“Green for the Jad, cute,” Sheppard humphed with a drink of water.
Ronon had found minerals that left streaks in the three primary colors after a week of testing every piece of rock near him. He sketched a skull and crossbones above the circle to signify the landmark. “You’ve never gone further north of their lair?”
“No, but I can show you where some of their hidey-holes are scattered to jump people.”
“You’ve counted steps between them?”
“Yeah.”
Ronon smiled.
Steps were a terrible scale; energy and stamina affected stride, but it was the only measurement they had. Sheppard was good at feeling out the length of a klick, which they used as a comparison measure, but it could be inaccurate, too.
The map sprawled out of control, morphing into a mosaic of artistic renderings. He drew his visions of the Shan’ka, phantoms in layered blue robes, eyes, and skin as the symbol above the depository.
“Creepy,” Sheppard muttered.
Ronon might have spent too much time on the fuzzy hairs of the caterpillar things they ate and he really wanted different shades to represent the patchwork of fabrics sold by the merchants.
“You know you could just draw a big box and label it with the word market.”
“I can write English, but I don’t wanna hear you bitch about my spelling.” Ronon could’ve drawn a normal map, but this gave him something to do.
It took a couple days to map the residential areas in relation to the market and all the other important destinations. The Shan’ka’s water stockpile, the buildings claimed by the Spraza, and anything between their shelter and the path toward the communal areas.
Sheppard returned from each trip outside with new coordinates. Sites where neutral romari was planted, more intel on the borderlines of Spraza terrain. There were still large pockets of uncharted territory that frustrated Ronon. “The only way we’re gonna find a way to use the resources here to our advantage is to know where everything is,” he growled at the map.
“The Spraza control most of the romari areas, except for random pockets,” Sheppard said, attempting to sew a tear in his shirt with a newly acquired bone needle. “They’ve bullied their way into controlling most of the food crops. Roots, trumalites, lompson, you name it, they have people patrolling the places to catch or farm the things.”
Ronon wondered if the bone used to be a finger. “Do you even know how to sew?”
“Not really.”
Ronon sighed. “I’ll fix it later.” He focused on the map. “That leaves the Tharsqin Sands and the…”
“The Void, not to mention the area south of us, but that’s where the Jad farm their drugs,” Sheppard answered, throwing the needle down.
Ronon shook his head at his friend’s impatience. He wouldn’t complain; creating the map was the only time they’d spoken without tension. Ever since their recent confrontation, Sheppard was too calm and matter–of-fact about everything.
He hated it. No one had ever agreed with Ronon as much as Sheppard had the past few days. “You forget how to think for yourself?” he barbed.
“I wish I could,” Sheppard replied cryptically.
Today Ronon was going to walk outside. He was supposed to wait until Sheppard got back from harvesting to help support his other side, but once he’d put on his socks and shoes in anticipation, his feet feeling familiar leather, he couldn’t wait. Pulling on his goggles, he shoved his cane into the ground and emerged from the cave. The sun beat down on his face as he rose to his full height, limbs trembling, his right leg threatening to buckle. Shifting his weight, he leaned more onto the plastic pole, and the shaking eased.
Finally he was out of his prison and Ronon hobbled, loving the exertion. He’d never take being vertical for granted again as vertebrae snapped when his back stretched. Staring off at the horizon, he gazed at the white and orange wasteland. It smelled of dirt and sand and…metal?
“Nice day for a walk,” a familiar voice echoed off the canyon wall.
Ronon spun around, almost falling in the process. A bulky guy stood in a gray robe that hung a couple inches short of his ankles, revealing black pants and leather boots. The hood was baggy; layers of fabric concealed his entire face, but there was no mistaking that build or smug voice.
“Malvick,” Ronon growled.
“Awww, you learned my name. I‘m touched,” Malvick chuckled. “No need introducin’ yourself. I know yours, Ronon. And before you ask, your friend said it loudly enough times for the whole Void to hear.”
That must have been when he was sick and Sheppard had been frantically trying to wake him. Ronon didn’t want to lean any heavier on his cane, revealing his weakness, but the toll of staying perfectly still when his leg wanted to fold was immense.
“You ever tell your friend about the last time you came out here?” Even under the hood Ronon knew the guy was smirking.
“You gonna to tell me why you care?”
“What’s the fun in that?”
Buckets poured down Ronon’s face and Malvick leaned against the cave entrance. “Aren’t ya gonna invite me in? We can stare at each other in the dark.”
Ronon gestured for Malvick to go first, following right behind him. They settled opposite one another, Ronon’s leg screaming in relief and Malvick perfectly at ease. “Why are you here?” Ronon asked, getting straight to the point.
“I was gonna check out the fresh meat arriving later and thought I’d say hello to my neighbor,” Malvick replied, pulling down his hood.
Ronon wanted a razor that shaved a head that perfectly smooth. “What fresh meat?”
“The newbies getting booted out later. Happens every forty cycles.”
“Another prison transport?” Ronon leaned closer. “They come on a schedule?”
Malvick’s laugh was a loud rumble. “For years. Got to have a place to throw people away.”
“But the Saurin live in secret. Where are they getting all the prisoners?”
“Who were you and your friend? Another group that told them no when they wanted to ‘trade’. Not that most planets have anything other than sticks and knives. But there are always natural resources to exploit, bits of Ancestor tech here and there.” Malvick ran a meaty hand over his domed head. “How do you think they got so smart? They take what they want.”
“Not everyone here’s a criminal?” Ronon asked, confused by the brutality of the other prisoners.
“Define criminal? Is it a crime to survive?” Malvick smiled. “Some of the others are thieves and murderers from the worlds the Saurin steal from. They stick around, grabbin’ every scrap of technology from a city….then take out the trash for the betterment of the worlds they’re on,” Malvick spat.
“I can’t wait to kill them,” Ronon replied.
“Get in line.”
Malvick laced his fingers behind his head, the sleeves rolling down to reveal tattoos on his bulging arms. Ronon glanced at the detailed designs and grunted his approval.
Malvick gestured at the wall behind Ronon. “I see you like art.”
“Maybe,” Ronon growled defensively.
“Inked these myself,” Malvick said, pulling out his hands from where they’d made a pillow and flexed his biceps. “Gotta take pride in somethin’.”
Ronon found himself nodding.
“Looks like you got the scale pretty good,” Malvick said, studying the map.
Ronon shifted out of the way; this was an intel session. “Wasn’t sure about that.”
Malvick cocked his head. “Prison transport’s comin’. We’ll have to chat another time.”
“You take some of the prisoners?” Ronon asked, not hearing any engines.
“I just watch. Like to see all the fresh faces.”
It was a bald-faced lie, but Ronon wasn’t going to push. He’d get nothing truthful.
Malvick got to a crouch, still studying the map. “These areas are romari plots.”
“Yeah.”
“How do you know the locations?”
Ronon thought about lying, but decided not to. “That’s where Sheppard’s harvested them.”
Malvick removed his goggles and stared closer, tapping a finger on one of the dots. “He’s picking romari here?”
“Yeah.” Ronon’s gut twisted. “Why?”
“Cuz…” Malvick paused, putting his goggles back on. “Those three spots are fine,” he indicated the closer dots, “but these three are deep in Spraza territory. They’re not the main fields, probably hidden stashes.”
“No, you’re wrong. He goes with two others; they said it was on the border,” Ronon growled.
“They’re lying.” Malvick traced a wavy line down the middle of the six dots. “This is where the Spraza border starts.”
Ronon’s heart slammed against his ribcage, the beating drowned out by approaching engine noise.
“Gotta go.”
“Wait!” Ronon turned his head, but Malvick was gone.
And he was left staring at Sheppard’s position in enemy territory with no way to warn him.
John was filthy, covered head to toe in orange dust. A small sandstorm had kicked up on the way back and he’d be spitting dust out of his mouth for days. They’d hit pay dirt and he’d swapped two fat sacks of romari for supplies, some of that burning oil for light, and a flint rock to start a flame.
The world shimmered in shades of gray behind his goggles and he was adjusting the straps over his shoulders when the front of his body was plowed into rock.
His chin bounced off sandstone, along with his shoulders and knees. Fingers yanked his scalp back, and slammed his forehead into the canyon wall. Pain ricocheted through his skull and his assailant wrenched his hair back for another bounce off the rock. John managed to swing an elbow and connected with flesh, forcing the bastard to let go of his hair.
Blood roared in his ears and the world spun dizzyingly. A large body behind him blocked any attempt to get away and he lashed out wildly, his fist slamming an iron jaw. There was a grunt and the mass staggered back enough for John to get away from the wall, but not before a thick band of muscle wrapped around his throat, throttling him.
He didn’t get to take a good breath before his larynx started to get crushed. John flailed, body bucking and squirming. And another arm joined the first and squeezed harder.
Dots danced across his vision and muscles forgot how to work, but he dropped his hand and tingling fingers curled around a handle. His feet were lifted slowly off the soil and an internal voice screamed knife, knife, knife!
Endorphins or sheer force of will. There was no telling what gave him that last burst of energy. One second he was circling the drain, and the next, he’d sunk the blade into his foe‘s forearm.
The scream deafened his left ear, but John didn’t stop there. The knife was still buried in muscle, so he twisted it, and the screaming became blood-curdling shrieks. The choke-hold was released and John fell to his knees as air rushed into his lungs.
Then hands grabbed him from everywhere.
“No!” he rasped.
“Get him on the ground!”
Screw that. Elbows, hands, and knees pinned him down. John kicked and writhed against the collective weight, but all his energy was depleted.
His goggles had been knocked down and he squinted at the six pairs staring down at him. Droplets of sweat rolled off those looming above, splashing on his cheeks and chin. The sunlight washed out everyone into fuzzy blobs, but John didn’t need to see the stripes of red paint to confirm he was totally fucked.
“Killing me…is…against the law,” he panted.
“Who said we were gonna kill ya?”
It was Kadar. The leader of the Spraza crouched in John’s line of sight, blocking out the sun, running the side of his chin against a boulder bigger than his hand.
“You‘re not?” John quipped.
“We’re gonna smash your knees.” John froze in horror and Kadar smiled. “Hold his left leg still.”
GOD, NO.
John jackknifed, jerking both legs enough that the first blow glanced painfully off the side of his patella bone.
“Idiots! Sit on them if you have ‘ta.”
Suddenly his shins were rooted in place and John screamed so loud, he started to go hoarse.
“That’s it,” Kadar purred.
“Let him go!” someone shouted.
“What business is it of yours?” Kadar snarled.
Who the hell was that? John knew that voice, but he couldn’t budge.
“We’re makin’ it ours.”
We? John craned his neck, seeing only sunspots.
“This is retribution,” Kadar hissed.
“We defend our friends.”
Ziffka? What the hell?
“We’re owed justice. Go back to your hole.”
Several bastards still sat on John and he could barely breathe. “Justice for what?” he croaked.
Someone whopped him in the jaw. “Shudup.”
“He has a point. What crime has this man committed?”
John knew that voice, too. The representative from the Shan’ka had joined the ruckus, making John the party favor.
“You brought him? What game is this, Ziffka?” Kadar hissed.
“Let 45482 go,” Misha ordered.
Oxygen was a sweet, sweet thing and John sucked every drop as he scrambled to his feet. The world tilted sideways and he swayed before standing to his full height. Ow. The blow to his knee was going to cost him.
He fumbled for goggles that still hung around his neck, forcing the swelling joint to straighten. “Wanna tell me what this was about?”
“You took romari from our territory,” Kadar accused.
But there was more to it. John had disgraced the man in front of fresh recruits and his number two. The man wanted blood. “Would that be a recognized territory? With a border crossing or two?”
“You dare mock me?” Kadar spat on the ground. “You stole from the Spraza.”
“What proof do you have of this?” Misha inquired.
John couldn’t believe his ears. “On what map?”
“Silence!” Misha snapped. He was judge and jury in layers of sanctimonious blue fabric. “There is only one law here. And that is of the Shan’ka.” The Spraza bristled. “But. The Shan’ka respect the rules that have kept order. It is known what lands have been claimed by certain groups. Did you take the property of the Spraza, prisoner 45482?”
“No,” John replied vehemently.
“Really?” Kadar smiled.
With a quick snap of his fingers a small hunched figure came out from behind a couple of larger Spraza. Hemma hobbled over slowly; the last days of harvesting had not been kind to him. “I informed Kadar of the theft. I saw it with my own eyes,” he informed Misha.
The old man looked at John without words, but none were needed. They all did what they had to do for survival. Didn’t they?
Kadar hummed in anticipation. “You heard the man. He’s guilty. We‘ve been wronged.”
This wasn’t Earth. It was tribal law Medena style.
“It would appear so,” Misha stated when John made no attempt to defend himself.
The Spraza started to surround him. This was it, but John wouldn’t go down without a fight. His knife had gotten lost in the scuffle, but maybe he’d get a few licks before they maimed him.
“Enough!” Misha growled, stepping forward, causing the Spraza to back off. “Why did you wait to seek your justice? Why not in the act?”
“To show others what happens when you defy us,” Kadar announced.
“It seems we are at a crossroads,” Misha said.
“If I may suggest something to the one who has the ear of the Shan’ka,” Ziffka said, nearly curtseying in front of Misha.
The Jad had been so silent that John had nearly forgotten their presence.
“Go on,” Misha encouraged.
John got a sinking feeling when Ziffka paraded forward. “There is Shan’ka law and there’s the law of the Medena . When there are problems, the balick matches have solved them.”
“The matches are near,” Misha agreed. “Would this be satisfactory to the Spraza?”
Kadar’s clenched jaw was evidence enough that he’d prefer his earlier plan, but John got the feeling Misha’s offer wasn‘t a suggestion. “Fine.”
“Then it is settled,” Misha announced.
John’s brain still felt smashed against the front of his skull. He hadn’t a clue what was going on. “What’s settled?”
“Our vengeance will be made between the lines of the balick matches,” Kadar said, staring at John in zeal. “You can’t hide near the Void anymore.”
“Don’t think he has anything to hide from,” Ziffka said, toeing a large sprawled body with his boot. “Looks like you lost another member.”
Kadar snorted. “Just a recruit who failed his test. There’ll be more.”
Misha knelt down next to the large corpse, the spreading blood pool saturating the ends of his blue robes. “This should have been collected properly.” John had hit an artery and his attacker had bled out. “Possessions and water will be transferred to 45482,” Misha said, inspecting the body and recovering the bloodied knife. “This is yours.”
John curled his fingers around the handle without sparing the corpse a second glance. “You’re talking about a fight?” Nothing like old-fashioned methods to solve your differences. “Like boxing?”
Kadar grinned and his hyena entourage followed him toward their lair or wherever gangs hung out. The Jad milled about whispering to each other, but Misha stood in front of John, which was weird because didn’t he have a body to wrap up in a tarp for his overlords?
“The balick matches have no rules. The person left standing is the winner.”
John was more interested in the Jad and their secret conversations.
“The matches can be good, though. They calm tensions, release the need for violence,” Misha kept explaining.
Hemma waited in the shade of the canyon. Funny how he hadn’t left with the Spraza. The leader of the Jad handed the old man a suma of water.
“Sometimes leaders have used them to end disputes, even rivalries,” Misha droned on.
John walked away from the Shan’ka puppet and stopped in front of Hemma. “The Spraza didn‘t put you up to this, did they?”
Hemma struggled with the suma of water. “No.”
Ziffka's eyes danced in excitement and he snapped at one of his minions. “Pick up his fallen supplies. We want him strong for the balick matches.”
Two Jad brought over John’s container of water and knapsack with Ziffka fluttering about in nervous energy behind them. “My men could carry it for you. No need to waste energy.”
Misha hung back in silence, watching in the distance as the Shan’ka approached to retrieve the dead body.
John knew if he decked the drug leader it’d earn him a beat down. “Seems like a lotta effort to get me into a fight. I do that every day. Don’t think it’ll solve your turf war.”
“You are wrong, my friend. You will win your match, injuring or killing Spraza. And once you win, you cannot stop. Those are the rules.”
John’s head whirled; he wasn’t sure if he was more pissed, terrified, or maybe none of the above.
Ziffka wrapped a bony arm around John‘s shoulders, oblivious to his revulsion. “A champion fights until he loses or until all five balick matches end. Whichever is first. Either way, the Jad win.”
John had graduated from hired thug to mercenary. A pawn in a gang war. He’d take out the stronger members of the Spraza and the Jad wouldn’t have to risk a single member to dwindle down the numbers of their enemies.
“Chapter Eight”
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 12:30 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 03:42 pm (UTC)The depiction of John is wonderful and sad. There's no more getting by on endorphins. The few defense mechanisms that he had are crumbling, leaving his inner world almost as desolate and harsh as the world around him. The only peace he can find is in the orris.
I love how much is going on between Ronon and John, and particularly that it is done with a minimal exchange of words. Seeing John's strain and the mood swings through Ronon's eyes is heartbreaking both in terms of what is happening to John and in terms of its impact on Ronon, especially the line "Ronon never recalled a time when another person’s words meant so much and were divvied out so little."
I just knew those balick matches were in John's future when they were mentioned earlier in the story. This can't be good...
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 12:41 am (UTC)I love how much is going on between Ronon and John, and particularly that it is done with a minimal exchange of words. Seeing John's strain and the mood swings through Ronon's eyes is heartbreaking both in terms of what is happening to John and in terms of its impact on Ronon, especially the line "Ronon never recalled a time when another person’s words meant so much and were divvied out so little.
I complained on my writing updates about the difficulty of writing tow characters who didn't talk very much and I focused a lot on non-communication. I'm so glad it worked and I thought it more powerful to 'show' John's mood swings from Ronon's POV vs some internal monologue of Sheppard's and was pleased when it was effective.--Oh and once again you quoted one of my favorite lines :D
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 12:43 am (UTC)I hope John remembers all the techniques Ronon taught him sparring and that he's not too tired to fight!
Hmmm, I think you'll like the next chapter for a few reasons :D
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 08:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 12:48 am (UTC)And you know how much I love creating a senee of increased tension :D Thank you so much hon!!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 12:53 am (UTC)Thank you so much!!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-23 10:15 pm (UTC)I can't imagine John will come out of those balick matches very well physically, but I'm afraid this is going to add even more anguish mentally to psychological barriers that are already weak and barely holding up. He's about to be forced into situations of intense, personal violence that I don't think he can dehumanize and block. Eeeee!! You've got me all worked up and nervous!
Very interesting to see how Ronon is dealing with his situation. Insanely frustrated, yes, but his immobility and lack of contact with anyone but John seems to be making him more and more emotionally connected and in tune with his surroundings. You can certainly see him moving in one directly psychologically while John moves in the other. I love how he went all out with the map, using colors and making it a piece of art than just something utilitarian.
I'm so worried for Sheppard! How are they going to get off this planet? Looking forward to Friday!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:03 am (UTC)You can certainly see him moving in one directly psychologically while John moves in the other.
That is a huge undercurrent of the story, the different directions each of them go in this are emotionally based on how they've both learned to adapt and deal with things in life.
The map was very important for Ronon, something of a release for him creatively as well as tactical tool for them to use, thus giving him a feeling of usefulness.
Thank you!!!
*gasp*
Date: 2010-06-24 04:02 am (UTC)Re: *gasp*
Date: 2010-06-25 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-24 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:05 am (UTC)Thank you very much, I'm thrilled you're enjoying this.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-24 07:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-24 02:23 pm (UTC)I'm glad Ronon is getting better.
Looking forward next ep on friday!
saludos
SA
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-24 04:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 01:11 am (UTC)Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-09 03:21 am (UTC)Do you realize how late I stayed up last night? LOL I had to *peel* myself away from the computer. LOL
I think "wow" has become my word of choice. The story is WOW!!!
Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.
OMG. That one simple line said so much and just pulled me right into Sheppard’s plight. Wow.
John fighting then succumbing to drugs… wow. I really was wow’d by how his attitude towards the other people around him, especially for water, just changed. His sympathy went away and the desperation of the situation hardened him in ways that, while fitting to his character’s tendencies, were unexpected but so real. And yet, you never lost sight of who Sheppard really is. The humanity was still there, even if he had to detach himself from it for his survival and for Ronon’s.
I love this story… really. It’s just simply amazing in so many ways, I’m just in awe of your writing.
And lets not forget Ronon’s desperation here! OMG! The way both characters are deteriorating is heartwrenching. And their recovery, what John does to save Ronon, its… wow.
Hmmm…. Very interesting role reversal going on in chapter 7. I like it. It opens several avenues to explore the characters more thoroughly when they’re pulled outside their normal element or “role.” It’s one of my favorite ways to do character explorations.
You have accomplished a fantastic character study on both of them. Seriously in awe here. Seriously.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-10 09:20 pm (UTC)I also wanted to play with the idea of role reversals and that was source of great fun and challenge when it came to writing Ronon.
Okay, enough rambling. Thank you a thousand times over. I'm glad you enjoyed this.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-10 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 03:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 05:29 pm (UTC)It's amazing that the Sheppard of "Hide and Seek" is the same guy in "The Storm/Eye" etc...
If you're going to be a cop, yeah, you have to learn how to flip that switch and I hope your friend listens.
no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 05:23 pm (UTC)