"Red Sands" Chapter Eight Part B
Jun. 25th, 2010 09:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999The flesh across his knuckles was split and broken, the middle two fingers of his right hand puffy and swollen. Flexing them, John took his newly purchased piece of fabric, a quilt of mustards and browns stitched together, and folded the cottony material in half.
Ronon lowered himself to the ground across from him. “Hey.”
“Hey,” John said absently.
“Whatcha making?”
“A keffiyeh.”
Ronon stared at him; he did that a lot lately.
“Keeps the sunlight off your head and face. A Taliban informant taught me how to fold one. Got you one too.” He gestured at a pile of fabric next to him.
John placed the cloth on top his head like a towel, allowing both ends to hang down his shoulders. He pinched the fabric over his left ear, wrapped the length across his nose and mouth like a bandit, then pulled the wrap of material behind his head, tucking it on itself. With the piece from the other side, he repeated the process, pinching the fabric by his right ear, going the opposite way under his chin and tucking it in behind his head.
The cave was twenty degrees cooler, but it was still like being trapped inside a car with all the windows rolled up during a heat wave. He’d try any trick to keep comfortable, but Ronon was wearing the same odd look. “Something wrong?” he asked, pulling the fabric away from his face.
“No.”
“You already finish burying the water?”
“Yeah.”
“Told you I’d help.”
“Said I’d do it.”
“No. You wouldn’t let me,” John snapped, finally glancing up to look him in the eye.
Ronon pointed at John’s leg stretched out in front of him. “You need to stay off your knee.”
“The last I checked, your leg was broken.”
“And you have to go out tomorrow for another match.”
“Actually, I’m going out today.”
“Why?”
“Supplies.”
“I just stored twenty gallons of water.”
John stared at his bruised hands; eyes roamed the busted veins beneath the skin. “Won more than that.” There were only so many trips back and forth from the depository he could make. “We need stuff here, where it’s safe. Cut the Shan'ka out of the equation. It won’t evaporate stored underground and containers here are harder to steal than a necklace.”
“Said I agreed earlier.”
Rubbing at the back of his neck, John grunted, “I remember. Look I’m going to get you material for a robe. You’ll be walking around soon and need proper protection.”
“I know what you’re doing. Gathering reserves. You stockpiled enough dried roots for weeks and plants to start a garden.”
“Growing food means less to scour for. And I bought seeds for sherbus plants. It takes dozens to harvest thread, but these produce an orange color. Maybe you could figure out how to spin enough to trade for--”
“Sheppard.”
“Don’t,” John growled.
He wasn’t thinking about it, no matter how many times Ronon tried to bring it up. There was no need to discuss how he broke his opponents and how the throngs cheered him on. Or how the whole time he stood outside himself, watching an animal masquerading as a human decimate another.
Three matches down and two to go. And he was getting so damn tired.
His knee throbbed when he stood; his hand and ribs and back and anything that flexed or moved, ached along with it. Ronon was speaking, pinning John with accusations and expressions of displeasure.
John slipped on his goggles, adjusting layers of his keffiyeh around his face. “I’ll be back soon.” And left without hearing the reply.
His newest garb itched, six patches of fabrics held together by hundreds of uneven stitches, the rest of his clothes a stinking pile in the back of the cave. He’d planned on salvaging them, rubbing the grit and sweat away, and turning the fabric into a thin bedroll. If he didn’t make it back this time, Ronon could make a go of it alone, use all the tools and resources without having to share them and find a way home.
He’d accepted all his dirty deeds, an idea that had once plagued him, had scratched the inside of his brain while he lay awake below a ceiling of rock. If he slipped up and the images came back to haunt him, they all went away with a few chewy needles and the dreamless sleep they induced.
Crossing the desert didn’t bother him anymore either, neither did the thug squad that escorted him to Medena’s nasty underground game. Standing in the middle of the ring, he became a wall of stone, the name of his opponent bouncing uselessly off him. He’d learned a powerful lesson from his first fight and pulled his robe off, leaving him bare-chested, and gave it to Ziffka. John wore pants to these fights, his knife hanging in a handmade sheath that Ronon had sewn together from dried out fernandi skins. More roars than jeers greeted his introduction and he handed over his blade to Malvick out of habit.
Fighter number four was all muscle and bone, lean and agile like himself. Images of John’s doppelganger flashed through his head as they circled one another. The cave was hotter than before, more people crammed inside the space, sending vibrations throughout the room.
The Spraza was all flash and no bite, his skinny neck easy to throttle from behind. Fingernails raked over John’s arms as legs twitched and convulsed, eyes bugging out from a blue face.
John wasn’t sure how long he’d held the man’s throat between his arm muscles, until Malvick shouted, “Victor!” and raised John’s arm again, the body slumping to the floor.
Jad bustled about him, smoking and drinking fermented romari wine, spilling the quaff all over him when a stampede of onlookers swarmed over. People wanted to touch John; others were ready to take a swing at him. It was a soccer thrum, cascades of men dog-piling the ring, shuffling and pushing.
“Calm my friends, calm!” Ziffka shouted over them. “For those celebrating the Jad fortune, all shall enjoy orris at half price!”
“Freza! You lower the price today and double it tomorrow!” Kadar stormed over, shoving others aside, a dozen more Spraza behind him.
“Kadar, you look thirsty. Where’s all your water?” Ziffka cackled. “Oh, yeah. You lost it all.”
“This man isn’t even part of the Jad!” Rull stepped out from behind his boss. “By what right do you receive the spoils, Ziffka?”
“I merely hold my friend’s winnings,” Ziffka crooned with a squeeze to John’s arm. “As you can see by his new robe,” he said, returning the clothing to John, “he is well compensated. Look at him? Does he appear weak? No, he’ll be the first to win all five balick matches in over six hundred cycles.”
The crowds stomped their feet in approval. Ziffka fingered the dozens of necklaces around his neck, kissing one of the suma stones. “Besides, nothing says I can’t bet on any fighter. It’s not my fault that the stranger here has beaten all your men.” Rull bristled and Ziffka upped the ante. “The Spraza ranks are weak; you are not as powerful as you used to be.”
“The Spraza will crush you like ants. What’s orris if you don’t have enough food to eat? Your bodies will blow away with the dust storms,” Rull snarled, stepping forward.
“This is just the beginning. Without topra, jumping prisoners isn’t easy. Your numbers are frail.” Ziffka scanned those mumbling in agreement and lifted his chin. “All your best fighters have gone down. Who do you have left?”
“Me,” Kadar said, standing tall. “No thief steals from our lands. This stranger owes me his life’s water and I’ll spill it all over the ring.”
Ziffka was struck speechless, his face a flip-screen of emotion, ending with a slight uptick of his lips. The crowds had hushed upon the announcement; the Spraza rallied around their leader, heckling the Jad and taunting them with rude hand gestures. Rull stood back from the pack, his face an unreadable slate, eyes flicking about all the players, and landing on John’s in a gaze of pure fire.
Amazement boiled into a new frenzy of rumor and anticipation. Bets already started among the various groups; men elbowed their way over to inspect both fighters’ physicality. Beyond the gawking and power plays, John stood there, impervious to all the extra attention, pulling his garb over his head, ignoring the protests.
“What are you doing?” Ziffka hissed in his ear.
“Leaving.”
“You’re not just walking away.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” John challenged with a calm smile, the one that pissed people off.
“You tok. Your final match is against the leader of the Spraza. Do you know what that means?’
“It means you’re gonna get out of my way.”
Ziffka stepped aside, his errand boy, Pullo, instantly behind John as he started for the exit. As much as both leaders probably wanted to hang him by the balls, this would be the only time where he felt safe going home. Killing him was bound to trigger an all-out war, so he exercised what little control he had left by giving the asshole who dragged him into this a symbolic middle finger.
Malvick hung out in the tunnel, absently whistling a tune. At John’s approach, he pulled out Ronon’s blade and handed it over. “You don’t seem too concerned about your upcoming match.”
“Should I?”
Malvick got into John’s face, slowly, methodically, practically breathing his air. “The man’s a cold-blooded killer. Are you?” He took a long sniff around John‘s face, pressing a finger to John‘s lips, silencing his reply. “That‘s for you to figure out.”
Mind whirling, John sparred back. “Why do you care? Everyone’s got an angle; what’s yours?”
“Who says I have one? Maybe I’m just fulfilling a needed role.”
John pulled out the cloth folded under his arm and wrapped the keffiyeh around his head. “At least you know what yours is.”
“Sometimes we’re not meant to understand our place,” was Malvick’s reply.
Ronon hobbled outside on crutches he had fashioned out of the poles, crude armrests painfully digging under his armpits. Sheppard had bought him the second one yesterday, along with a new loose-fitting robe that allowed air to billow between cloth and skin.
The prison transport had arrived a while ago and Sheppard wanted to use the diversion to go into town without attracting unwanted attention. While he collected his surplus of water from the matches, Ronon was going to do something more useful than basic physical activity.
Searching for an area suitable for growing anything in this arid climate was an exercise in patience. Fertile soil was nonexistent; sand lacked nutrients or water for growing. Yet flowers bloomed out there from reedy plants, providing fabric, dye and food. All deserts produced some rain, not in gigantic storms, but in squeezed-out bits of moisture.
Ronon pushed down his goggles, peering at gray patches over the untouchable mountains. Clouds were puffy forms of water, and if there was a place to harbor life, it was beneath those dark skies and no amount of rock would prevent him from getting there.
Right now, he scouted a place for seeds. Sheppard was right about the need to cultivate their own resources, but wrong in other ways. Ronon’s leg would be fully healed by the time they grew anything and ready to cross into the Void, possibly to seek a way home.
Atlantis.
Sheppard hadn’t mentioned the city in days, maybe a week. No matter how dire the situation had ever been, how ridiculous the chance of surviving a battle, his CO had never doubted returning home. Never stopped strategizing a way to make it back, be it stuck underground or below water, hive ship or energy field. There had always been a plan.
Except recently.
“You a farmer now?”
The scent of metal and musk told him Malvick had been hovering nearby. Ronon leaned lightly enough against the sandstone so it wouldn’t burn through his clothes. “I’m what I have to be.”
“Basic tenet of survival. Man after my own heart.” Malvick didn’t move like most people, his steps reminding Ronon of a spirit animal. He was next to him in seconds, the air moving with him. “Always do what’s needed. Never second guess yourself.”
Ronon nodded at a footpath leading into the darkness. “Must be boring living up there.”
Humming to himself, Malvick perched on a ledge of slate. “I enjoy solitude.”
“So, that’s a no?”
“You gettin’ around on those things?”
Scoring a point, Ronon didn’t answer, crutching away to test a theory. Sure enough, the most feared man of Medena shadowed him under a large outcropping. It was one of the few places protected by shadow where he could stay outside and breathe in fresh air for more than a few minutes. “Why do you oversee the balick matches?”
“Because I can’t fight in ‘em.”
“Why not?”
“Used to a long time ago. Got bored.”
“Why not take over one of the gangs? Rule over all the weak?”
“I don’t herd animals.”
Ronon wasn’t a talker; if there were vital questions, he had ways of getting intel out of people. But forging relationships seemed to be the most direct route to gathering information, a first in his book.
“Your friend. Think he can beat Kadar?”
“You’ve seen him in the ring. What do you think?” Ronon fired back. He couldn’t remember Kadar, but Sheppard was a fighter under layers of false softness. It was surviving the aftermath that scared him.
“What will you do if he wins?”
“The same as we always do.”
“And what would--” Malvick’s head snapped around, muscles coiled, hand on the hilt of his blade.
Ronon tensed, senses straining to pick up what had his companion amped up. Squinting against the sunlight reflecting off endless sand, he listened to a rumbling echo as the prison ship took off. This was the first time he’d been outside when the transport flew by, its flight path over the mountain range.
“Does it always fly so low?” he wondered out loud, mind racing about positions on top of the mountain and the proximity to the ground.
“Why? You gonna hitch a ride somehow?”
“Maybe. Depending on how close it gets.” Ronon studied the vessel, wondering why it wasn’t higher in the sky. “You ever try?”
“Try what?”
Malvick stared at him like he was crazy and maybe Ronon was. There were no jumpers or weapons to take it down. But it was the only possible ticket available off this rock. “To see if you could get on board.”
“You’ve been a passenger; they kick out the prisoners without landing. They stay too high for rope or chain, for leaping off the perfect ledge.”
“Then you’ve tried.”
“I’ve done every single thing in my power to escape this pit. There are only so many failures before you give up. Accept what you are.”
Ronon believed Malvick’s past actions, but not his words. Not the way dark goggles fixated on the ship’s trajectory over the Void. Ronon counted the seconds, calculating how long it remained in a low orbit, eyes narrowing when the whir of engines didn’t fade.
Eyes attuned to Malvick’s facial expressions, the two of them studied the same things. Ronon’s ears didn’t deceive him and he balled up his fists, wishing for a weapon. “It’s still at a low altitude.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“Why? What’s it doing in the Void?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
His crutches fell to the ground and Ronon stood on both legs, suppressing the urge to holler in pain, crossing the small distance between them. “Don’t tell me what I want to know. Don’t act like you know me.”
“You’re so damn curious about the Void?” Malvick took both of Ronon’s shoulders in his massive hands. “Heal up. Make sure your pal wins the match and stays alive. And I’ll show ya.”
Ronon saw himself in the man daring him. All power and strength. Confidence and gall. Thriving on control with nothing to show for it. “If you’re so interested, you could do something about that.”
Malvick laughed, kicking up dust as he left. “Maybe I have already.”
They didn’t train much today, not after Sheppard’s trek to bring back food and water, and the last match looming tomorrow. Ronon’s fingers were raw from planting seeds, but that didn’t stop him building a frame to weave fabric out of leftover pieces from his crutches.
“They really charge four dunkas for clothes?” Ronon inquired, mind fascinated by what lay outside his current walls.
“Yeah, guess because it exchanges so many hands. The Jad control the fields for those plants, or if you grow your own, like nine out of every ten die. Then you have the guy who turns the threads into cloth and one more person if they don’t know how to sew,” Sheppard said, sipping from a pouch.
After today’s exchange at the depository, they had twenty-five gallons of water secured in the cave and enough material for Ronon to make them shorts for wearing inside. If he had any fabric left over, he’d create simple cloth for trade. If Sheppard skipped the water tanker before and after the final balick match for safety, they had about a month‘s worth of rationed water. Factor in what they needed to barter for food and basic needs, and that gave them a little over two weeks of supplies.
Dinner was juicy insects the size of lobsters, a rare find discovered by those searching for food during the recent trade wars between the gangs. Sheppard had cooked it in a tiny fire pit doused with burning oil outside, layering the meat on a bed of dried leaves. “This is good,” Ronon said, trying not to dampen the mood. At least for the next ten minutes.
“I want to leave the knife with you,” Sheppard said.
There went sharing a meal in peace.
“Beating Kadar’s gonna cause havoc. You’ll need it for defense,” Ronon countered.
Sheppard had bought the smelly burning oil the other day, the fumes like hazy days getting drunk off Satedan ale. He swore his CO burned it on purpose to relax him into submission. “If you don’t take it’ll, I’ll follow you.” At Sheppard’s irritated expression, Ronon added, “And you know I will.”
Two, three weeks at most, and he’d be able to walk some.
“You add everything to the map? Names of the people I barter with? What they look like?”
Sheppard wasn’t as clever as he thought. “Yep, and you’ll introduce me soon enough.”
Ronon mulled over the conversation with Malvick, about how the prison transport went over the Void. For whatever reason he didn’t know, but now wasn‘t the time to bring that up.
When focused on a fight, there was nothing else.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Ronon pointed at the remains of Sheppard’s dinner.
“I finished most of it; you can have the rest.”
They had two meals a day. Roots and something else, fruit or leafy things, when they woke up, and dried fernandi or a variety of large insects for dinner. “You’re not hungry? After walking all day and back?” Ronon always wanted to eat.
“Guess I don’t have much of an appetite with tomorrow,” Sheppard admitted, staring at his empty dunka pouch.
“Your biggest meal should be the night before a battle,” Ronon insisted.
“I think sleeping a lot is the most important thing.” With a long stretch, Sheppard picked up his dunka container again and stared at it as if he’d forgotten it was empty.
Ronon’s had a quarter left and the lobster-insect thing was really juicy. “Here, have some of mine.”
There wasn’t any hesitation; a slow swallow or two, then Sheppard wiped at his mouth as if embarrassed at being thirsty. They still only consumed two dunkas a day, Sheppard three when he went out to make up for the loss of fluids. It was a fraction of what they should take in, but they sipped their rations all day instead of drinking at fixed intervals which helped.
“Is this planet like the place you went to war at?”
Sheppard ran his fingers through his scruffy hair. “What?”
“Aff’ganistan. Said you served there. I’ve heard some of the Marines tell stories. It sounds kind of like here.” Ronon didn’t know why he broached the subject now of all times. Soldiers didn’t talk about such things, but it was that or silence. He’d given up on small talk long ago.
“It could be, with a sun that actually set at the end of the day.”
“You flew ships?”
“Yeah, helicopters. Mainly Cobras and Apaches, depending.” Sheppard’s eyes strayed in thought. “This cave,” he drew a circle over his head, “reminds me of Dai Chopan, the home base the bad guys operated outside Kandahar. The Taliban would come out of the mountains to bomb supply routes or launch rocket attacks. Then retreat in small groups to ambush our ground forces. My job was to bomb the hell out of targets or provide air support during missions.” He looked up. “The Taliban loved using old Russian rockets against us.”
“Terrain always has an advantage over machines,” Ronon agreed.
Sheppard laughed mirthlessly. “And those damned caves…they ran so deep that no matter how hard I hit them, they just sat it out. Didn’t help that the enemy and civilians blended together. Or all the drug lords funded the bad guys and the government we were protecting.”
Shrugging, he scratched at his beard. “For a while I dropped off ghost teams to root the enemy out. You’d love them; they could go anywhere, pull off any mission and disappear.”
He trailed off, lost in memories, his voice returning thick and heavy. “Did that for like two months straight. Then one day, this massive suicide bomb blew up a village square. Killed over a hundred people. Women, children. I had to fly medivac back and forth to carry all the wounded because there weren't enough teams..”
Rubbing absently at his scraped knuckles John‘s voice went rough. “Never did that before. Did special operations, gathered intel, but that…I…I’d never been so glad for my chopper's loud as hell blades and headphones that blocked out all the cries of the wounded.”
Ronon sat there, the only noise their breathing. He thought Sheppard was done, but his friend kept talking, as if to himself. “Kind of had a hard time after that.”
Now Ronon knew Sheppard had forgotten he was there with him and wondered if this was the first time John had ever acknowledged that he’d been affected by the incident. “Then what did you do?”
Sheppard looked up, his expression stone. “Whatever was asked if it got the bad guys. For a few months I was doing things that if I’d been caught, my government would’ve denied.”
That wasn’t what Ronon meant. “I used to slaughter animals with my bare hands.” He curled his fingers into fists. “Ripped ‘em apart I was so hungry. Stole from farmers. Robbed those I thought had enough to eat.” He sent a daggered stare at Sheppard. “And you wouldn’t believe how many ways there are to kill a Wraith.” If he closed his eyes, Ronon imagined the blood, hot and flush on his hands, heart beating in excitement.
He must have zoned out for a while because the next he realized Sheppard had blown out the light and started going deeper in the cave where he slept most of the time recently.
“We’re going to leave this place. It‘s gonna take time,” Ronon declared.
“Time. I’ll see about buying some more,” Sheppard replied, crawling away.
The whole freaking planet had to be jammed inside the cave with nowhere to breathe or walk. It was Vegas fight night meets Ancient Rome, the wretched and wealthy smoking it up and letting all bets roll. He didn’t know what was worse, the odor of dirty gym socks or those who’d crashed into the perfume counter at Macy’s. His Jad escort led him to the ring, Ziffka making a hasty, silent exit. Out of the corner of John’s eye was a flash of solid blue against the backdrop of oranges and brown. Misha had joined the party.
John smelled and sweated like a stuck pig, eyes roaming around the circus freaks nervously. The Spraza outnumbered the Jad by a lot. Peachy.
Speaking of, more clown cars had arrived; the parade squeezed their way through the ruckus of a deafening roar. Kadar’s robe was more like a poncho of fabric and he untied the string around his neck, allowing it to fall to the floor. After a glare, his second in command, Rull, scooped it up, and joined the others flanking their leader. The ring felt smaller, the room unable to contain the sheer numbers encroaching on the space.
Malvick made his way over, shoving aside those who were too slow without a second thought. Stepping into the center, arms of solid muscle spread out before his audience, he tapered the noise down with a gesture of his hands. Once the room was muted, he paused, ratcheting up the attention; that was until Kadar stole his thunder.
“Before you begin the match, I invoke the right of halmatak.”
Spraza erupted, chanting their leader’s name. The merchants swarmed Lyle, whose face grinned ear to ear with the flurry of new bets. John glanced at Ziffka for explanation, but the Jad was too busy frantically conversing with his goons in his usual display of emotion.
“Kadar.” Malvick’s voice boomed over the cacophony of sound. “My main man,” he purred, clapping the Spraza on the shoulder hard enough to cause him to stumble. “Don’t ever upstage me,” he hissed, then smiled to the crowd. “There are no rules in balick matches, but one. No weapons.” Letting that last word resonate with the masses, he allowed the excitement to boil, then boosted the tempo again with mastery. “Except on the final match.”
Kadar pulled out his blade of bone, holding it expertly between his fingers. John didn’t give an inch, pulling his robe over his head, searching for someone to hand it over to. Ziffka took the cloth, whispering in his ear, “We’ll find your friend, if ya lose. Got it?”
John turned his back on him, facing his current target, eyes only on Kadar’s knife hand. There was no crowd, no noise, no Malvick.
Just the command starting the match.
“Alma!”
Kadar went on the attack and John rocketed backwards to avoid a quick strike towards his chest and pivoted from the underhanded backslash. John countered, going for Kadar’s exposed shoulder, missing by inches.
Circling the ring of bodies behind them, both men took seconds to study the other, breathing noisily through their mouths. Salt stung John’s eyes, trails of sweat poured down his face and heaving chest.
Go on the offensive, or die by the clock. Knife fights were not his strong suit.
Kadar feigned for John’s stomach and he dodged, slicing at his opponent’s wrist and getting air. His opponent lashed out with a foot, going for John’s knee, but he skipped out of the way. There was shouting, he thought; a drum of energy pounded inside his ears. He lunged for Kadar’s abdomen, who edged away and tried to slice open John’s forearm.
“You won’t leave here alive,” Kadar panted.
“Kinda knew that,” John said in all honesty.
Kadar snarled, going with a frenzy of crisscrossing arcs toward John’s throat, leaving his right side vulnerable. John danced out of the way and parried, metal painting a red line down Kadar’s ribcage. Shuffling back, John sliced sideways at Kadar’s chest and missed wide. Kadar found an opening, and smashed a fist into John’s face, followed by a blade to his left bicep.
The knife went deep, sending cast-off over the crowd. John ignored the fire of ripped muscle, his blood hot down his skin as it dripped to the dusty ground. Kadar rushed forward and John grabbed his knife-wielding hand by the wrist, stuck a foot out, and used his opponent’s forward momentum to toss him to ground.
Earsplitting shouts collided with ocean waves of sound and he shook his head to clear it. Blood welled out of his arm while Kadar rebounded to his feet. John squinted at the two images of his foe. “What the hell?”
Kadar pounced, going for the kill again, driving his weapon toward John’s heart like a dagger. John barely jumped out of the way and Kadar went low, slashing sideways, the tip of his blade contacting at John’s hipbone above his pants. Hissing, John nearly tripped over his two feet in a stumble, the room wavering.
“Whatcha do to me?” he slurred.
There was a blur of motion, followed by a knife handle to his jaw. Pain exploded in his head and face, knocking John flat on his back, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Stunned, his body sluggish to commands, he lay there before pressure pinned his legs in place. Kadar straddled him, leering with a manic smile. The bastard must’ve laced his knife with something and laid John out before he showed any noticeable signs of poisoning.
“I told you, I’d have my revenge,” Kadar taunted.
His mouth didn’t form words and John struggled to regain feeling in his extremities. The Spraza used topra which had short-term effects. Stall for time. Do anything! John managed a weak smile, wetting his lips enough to spit in the face looming above him.
Kadar ran his tongue around his mouth and swallowed the drops. John tried curling his fingers into a semblance of a fist with no success. Kadar was preoccupied with pumping up the crowds, their yelling and screaming reverberating out of mono speakers. It took all his focus to follow Kadar’s movements, the Spraza waving his hands about before grabbing John by the hair.
This was the death knell and strangely, John didn’t care all that much.
We’ll find your friend, if ya lose.
Then he remembered Ronon and his self preservation fought against indifference. His fingers tingled, but wouldn’t respond and Kadar yanked John’s head to one side, exposing his jugular.
Knife poised, his enemy paused, another blurry form obscuring John’s vision, but not his hearing.
“Our caves have been raided, sir. All our food and water are gone!”
“What! How?”
“The guards were overcome. Everyone was at the match. They took our stones. Even the containers. We…”
Kadar shoved the person out of the way and glared down at John. “You! You’re behind this! You and the Jad tok!”
John focused on his fingertips, on muscle commands and joints.
“Admit it!” Kadar demanded and backhanded him.
His whole head snapped from the blow and John tasted blood.
“This was a conspiracy to steal from us!”
Smack.
John’s fingers twitched, his wound pulsating in tune to his heart.
“You will announce your guilt before you die!”
Smack.
John couldn‘t feel his face, only focused on his fingers, how they prickled, and how his ravaged bicep rippled pain down the rest of arm.
Seize it.
“Wow.” John forced his mouth around words. “You are…dumb.”
Seething, Kadar grabbed John’s arm, squeezing the wound, blood spilling between his fingers. John felt that, a fresh blossom of pain that stole his breath.
But he moved his hand.
“Enough of this,” Kadar sneered, letting go and gripping his knife in fervor. “I only wish I could’ve prolonged your suffering.”
Raising the blade above John’s chest, he arched his hands higher for the blow, leaving his face exposed.
I’ll show you the dirtiest moves I know.
John had only one shot and his hand lashed out, gouging Kadar’s right eye, pushing it back into his skull with his thumb.
The scream was blood-curdling and Kadar fell back, clutching at his head, writhing on the floor. John rolled to his side, unable to sit up. His hand slipped in a small pool of blood and his addled brain realized it was his.
Chaos reigned around him, members of the Jad and Spraza squaring off like two packs of rabid dogs. People yelled; others scrambled to collect their bets. Kadar continued his throat-ripping screams, his crew too stunned to do anything but watch.
Strong hands grabbed John by the shoulders and jerked him to his feet. He turned unsteadily to punch whoever was there, nearly falling back down.
“Stop wastin’ time. Things are bound to get real ugly,” Malvick said, holding John up.
Rull emerged from the crowd as his boss howled. “You have failed us, Kadar. You are unfit to lead.” And with that, he yanked the shrieking man by the hair, sliced his leader’s throat from behind. “Kadar was of unable body, maimed by the Jad puppet!”
“Uh-oh,” Malvick whispered in John’s ear.
“Our territory has been attacked by the Jad! We will not let this stand,” Rull proclaimed.
Ziffka was cool and calm, grinning at the anarchy as his rival continued to rant. John couldn‘t demand answers, his words stuck on a fat thick tongue.
As if sensing his rage, Ziffka smiled smugly. “We needed you to divert their zeal while we put our plans in motions. The matches served as a distraction and gathered all the Spraza in one place to complete the raids. But this?” he waved at his rival’s coup. “This was a bonus.”
John tried to move out of Malvick‘s hold, but his head spun.
“All Jad and those aligned with them are our sworn enemy,” Rull bellowed. “All trade is over. All agreements between us broken.” Spraza outnumbered Jad in the room and they began brandishing weapons and picking up stones. “We will not wait for vengeance.”
Misha came out of the crowd, halting the pending rout, and dumped a tarp to the ground. “You will collect this body properly.” He pinned those slow to his command with a glare of pale blue eyes, and the Spraza rolled Kadar up in haste. “The Shan’ka will not meddle with strife between groups, but they will not tolerate any breach of law.”
John sagged in Malvick’s hold, blood staining his pants and the floor under his boots.
“You okay there, friend?” Ziffka inquired in mock concern. “Can you stand?”
“We’re going to take a walk, right?” Malvick gave John a shake, bracing him with one arm, the other tracing the tangle of necklaces around Ziffka’s chest. “I think most of these belong to the winner, wouldn’t you say?” and ripped a handful away.
Speechless and fuzzy, John was manhandled into the tunnel leading outside. People milled about, drinking and smoking. “Keep going,” Malvick snapped anytime John wavered.
Stumbling from a simmering crock pot to a sizzling oven leached away the last of John’s adrenaline.
“Be useful,” Malvick ordered, handing him his goggles.
It took three tries to put them on, John’s brain in slow motion.
“Figured you were doused with somethin’. It should be wearing off soon.”
John sent him a seething look that‘d boil water.
“Did you forget? There were no rules.”
John took a wild swing and his arm was quickly pulled behind his back and he was shoved against a wall, sandstone searing his bare skin.
“Stop wastin’ energy!” Malvick snarled.
There was ripping of fabric and John felt cloth wrapped roughly around his arm several times and tied in place.
“Cover up.”
Malvick handed John his robe and he pulled it over his head, the sensation of ants giving way to the pounding in his bicep and jaw. Things were happening too fast, too out of control.
“Hold this.”
Something small and metal was pushed into his hand. “What?” John muttered dumbfounded, a tingle itching across his palm and down his arm.
Whatever it was glowed a soft purple before Malvick retrieved it with the utmost care, the glow diminishing to nothing in his massive hands. He wrapped the object in a cloth sodden with John’s blood; the cylindrical thing perked up then went dead. “Doesn’t matter if it’s fresh,” he mumbled, then eyed John. “Come on, let‘s go,” Malvick commanded, handing over John’s knife to get him moving.
There was no telling up from down, friend from foe, used-up thug or beaten-down ploy. John was dragged across the desert, phantoms chasing after him. His arm and jaw throbbed, and everything was a muted blur as his blood pumped out the toxins.
“Hold on, got company.”
Company? But John was on the ground, half a dozen figures emerging from nowhere.
“We want no trouble, just the Jad spy.”
“Sorry, but I love trouble.”
Maybe it was blood loss, or the poison, or John’s mind shutting down from sheer overload. But it was surreal watching a man effortlessly take down seven or eight men in seconds.
Then John was pulled to his feet, hands pushing him forward, a voice talking about new, exciting plans for him.
The grueling hike back was a marathon march through wind tunnels of sandpaper and sunspots. It was dodging Taliban forces through poppy fields and boiling inside his Apache, waiting two hours past the rendezvous to pick up a ghost unit, Captain Brody convincing him not to go out after them on foot and doing just that half an hour later. Beneath it all was a booming voice, like a steel whip to his back, beating him onward, John resisting and breaking from the physical blows.
Later, after the sand had stripped his skin and scoured the inside of his skull, a second voice guided him away from the whip bearer, and John was on his hands and knees inside the tent of a temporary mosque.
Opening his eyes, he recognized the blurry shape of Fariad Akram, tribal leader turned CIA informant who’d been aiding the hunt for the missing ghost unit. An elderly man with his hands tied behind his back knelt on a tattered red rug and prayed, heedless to the man screaming over him.
Akram slapped the old man. “Last time. Tell me what I want to know!
“Al-hamdu lillahi rabbil ‘alamin.”
“Allah does not protect traitors.”
The old man bowed his head. “Hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.”
Akram pulled out his long kanjar knife and John reached for his .45. “Stop!” he ordered.
Then Kadar was there, circling him, fresh blood dripping down his knife, setting up for an attack.
John backed away, his blade shaking in his hand.
“Sheppard!”
The crowds chanted, “Koshtan mekosham!”
“John! You don‘t have to fight anymore.”
Blinking, Ronon stood before him, flames from an oil torch dancing across his dirt-streaked face. “You can stand down.”
Gnawing at his lip, swallowing salt and copper, John felt the cave wall dig into his vertebrae. He was in the rear of their shelter, away from voracious crowds and their puppet masters. And years gone by since Dai Chopan.
“Funny, he was quiet most of the way here.”
Tightening his fingers around the handle, John turned toward Malvick, the other man’s face unreadable behind his goggles. “Leave.”
“What? You’re not inviting me to dinner?”
Ronon took John’s side, whispering, “What is it?”
Malvick wiped the dust off his domed head, pulling up his hood. “Today was a real eye opener, wouldn‘t you say? You got to see how power shifts in this place.”
The flames flickered and he was gone, leaving John searching the shadows, reality returning in Technicolor. “Make sure he’s gone.”
Sliding to the ground, he didn’t relinquish the weapon until Ronon was next to him, pulling it out of his fingers.
“Want to tell me what that was about?”
“Help me get this robe off,” John replied, unable to control his trembling fingers.
Ronon pulled up the coarse fabric over John‘s head, revealing the sodden bandage and blood-streaked arm. He glanced down at the other cut, focusing on the serious one first. Layer by layer he removed the crude wrap, exposing a deep laceration four inches long. “Damn.”
Sparing a glance, John grit out, “Gonna need to sew it up.”
“After we disinfect it.”
John closed his eyes, Ronon leaving and returning with a small pot, mixing just enough soap flakes and water to suds up a potent amount, laying down a cloth to catch any runoff. “This is gonna suck.”
“Just do it.”
The caustic liquid was poured into the wound and John flinched, gnashing his jaw as the wound seared and boiled, but somehow it didn’t hurt enough.
“Gonna do it twice,” Ronon said, and gestured at the cut above John’s hip. “I’ll rinse that one after I sew up the arm. You can’t afford more blood loss.”
“Should have seen the other guy,” John joked, but his friend didn’t see the humor.
“You’ve been hiding your knife skills from me.”
“It was dumb luck.” Shifting his weight jostled John’s injured arm and more blood bubbled up and spread down his skin. “Got plenty of hidden talents apparently.”
Ronon was there, then wasn’t, returning with a bone needle and thread. “See, now that’s a real talent.” John pointed at the basic tools. “You have a useful skill. I can’t draw a stick figure.”
“You’re in shock. Maybe you should--”
“Maybe I should shut up and do as I’m told?”
Ronon stared dumbfounded for a second then gripped John’s bicep tightly, turning the seeping injury over, the needle ripping a hole through abused flesh to pull through the first suture.
It hurt like hell, the topra wearing off with every loop, but it wasn’t the mind-numbing, cleansing pain that John needed. What he wanted.
He watched Ronon work on his arm, bit by bit, both flaps of skin sewn together in crisscrosses of thread soaked in soap flakes. The lone torch released a sweet odor of lavender and sage. His eyes drooped, his head floating away with the fumes.
“I said stop! Estaada! ” John repeated in Dari.
“This man knows information about the missing American soldiers.”
“Fine, then we’ll interrogate him.”
“We?”
The tent filled with five more Afghanis armed with Soviet weapons, all five barrels pointed in John’s direction.
“Leave, Major. You’ve helped me find our common enemy.” Akram gripped his kanja. “This is our land, our law.”
John stared at the old man, at the five rifles in his direction. Two more Afghanis appeared and his feet backed away outside, survival instincts overriding the screaming in his head. Screaming that would plague him forever.
He jerked awake, breathing hard and stared at Ronon watching him out of the corner of his eyes. “How long…I mean…”
“You’ve been asleep for five minutes,” Ronon said, cutting the end of the thread. “Made it easier to finish.”
Running his other hand through his hair, John scratched at his scalp, trying to force certain memories back where they belonged, and glanced down at his friend’s handiwork. The stitches were nice and even, enough to make any physician envious. “That’s a lot.”
“Thirty or something.” Ronon picked up a dunka pouch. “You should drink a whole one to replace fluids.”
“We shouldn’t waste our--” John’s voice trailed off as Ronon glared at him. “You’re right,” he said, licking his lips.
John picked up the cloth used to collect the soap suds residue and started tending to the less serious cut to his side, mind flashing to Kadar’s glee at putting it there.
And at Ziffka’s smug expression at the completion of John’s part in his little game.
“Sheppard, stop it!”
“What?” John demanded when Ronon’s hand gripped his. Glancing down, John noticed where he’d run his fingers over the gash and busted it open.
“Weren’t you the one who said not to have any open wounds?” Ronon accused, his voice angry, his eyes something else.
“Yeah, sorry.” Exhaustion crashed down on him and John relinquished the task to his friend. But he’d be damned if he fell asleep again. Not when his control was slipping and not when things long since buried kept bubbling to the surface. He'd just have to find new ways to keep them hidden in that deep dark pit of his, but the battle was getting harder, the distractions fewer and fewer. And he was getting really fucking afraid of losing himself totally down that slippery black hole.
-----
“Chapter Nine”
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no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 05:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 05:38 pm (UTC)Great chapter. Now begins another patient wait until Sunday. I don't usually look forward to the end of the weekend but for you, my dear, I'll make an exception.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:20 am (UTC)John's deep dark pit is a scary place and I think it's been used and stuffed with things for too long.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 06:20 pm (UTC)I love Ronon’s observation. “Ronon didn’t find a damn thing funny, but his friend seemed very amused by it in that half-crazy Sheppard kind of way. Which would be fine if this was on Atlantis, but Sheppard’s usual brand of crazy had been replaced by all kinds of insane of late.” It really is the difference between Sheppard scrambling to keep his defenses in places and Sheppard scrambling to fight what was behind the barriers — and not very successfully at that. In a nutshell that seems to be the turning point that has been reached in this chapter.
Great irony in Ronon's line, “Weren’t you the one who said not to have any open wounds?”
I am loving the unveiling of the backstory. Sheppard’s moment of admission that he’d had a hard time was very moving. So much was conveyed in the simplicity of that second. His welcoming of the idea of haskin fire and his need for a more cleansing pain really convey the extent of the trauma which his mind can no longer handle. And now, with every victory against the environment, Sheppard seems to lose more ground. I can’t help but see the necklaces of suma he has won hanging from him like an albatross.
Ronon, on the other hand, seems to be thriving by drawing on his past. But his pain as he watches Sheppard is palpable. That’s a sad and very touching part of this story. Ronon’s training sessions for Sheppard seems to be as much an attempt to knock some sense back into him as they are attempts to train him.
And what does Malvick really want with John? I’m not sure of his intentions at all. Will a journey into the void of the desert be as bad as one into the darkness in John’s head?
I think I need some orris to keep myself together until the next installment is posted.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:28 am (UTC)In a nutshell that seems to be the turning point that has been reached in this chapter.
Yes, it was. With longer works I always have several story arcs and that was the end of one and the start of another.
The bits of John's back story in this are very important throughout the story and I'm glad those scenes were not lost with everything else going on and I struggled with his 'moment' and flash backs a lot. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 08:45 pm (UTC)I loved Ronon's thought that he could handle John's mood swings by hitting him a lot. It kind of brought out an observation that as John seems to be losing it, Ronon seems to be getting stronger and in more control. While John having to fight tooth and nail to keep them alive has left him mentally struggling in a variety of ways, Ronon's forced rest and solitude seems to be focusing him on what needs to be done and how to get there. Oh, and it's a good thing Ronon taught John his dirtiest tricks.
I love Malvick. He's such an unusual character and sometimes hard to figure out. I love Ronon trying to do just that - figure out what the heck the guy really wants. I guess I mostly love that he saved John from what appeared to be certain death. I'm very anxious to learn more about him.
Also love getting some good old Sheppard back story. I like the way it's being weaved into the present day events. I guess it would have been simpler to just say I love everything about this.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:39 am (UTC)While John having to fight tooth and nail to keep them alive has left him mentally struggling in a variety of ways, Ronon's forced rest and solitude seems to be focusing him on what needs to be done and how to get there.
You really hit the nail on the head there.
I love writing Malvick as I tried to make his motivations very hard to pin point. He's a fairly layered character, good or, bad or something else, we'll have to wait and see.
I'm glad you enjoyed the bits of John's backstory, they play a pivotal part in this. Thank you!!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:46 am (UTC)Thank you so much! *hands you chocolate ice cream*
no subject
Date: 2010-06-25 11:11 pm (UTC)I like Ronon hitting Shep a lot! That works well and shows you understand Ronon and how he'd deal with things really well. It's sort of a reversal of canonic roles that Ronon seems to be being the sensible one here whilst John is being reckless and losing sight of reality. Sheppard is the one thinking with his fist here, while Ronon seems to be the logical thinker for a change; he's taking a back seat and looking at the game plan, while Sheppard is totally caught up in the moment. I loved Ronon working through his great pain to teach John some fighting techniques. They're both injured and in pain, yet they just beat the crap out of each other. Out of necessisity, yes, but I feel that's who both those men are, to a certain extent.
I do like Malvick. I don't know who he is and whether he can be trusted or not. I do find it intriguing that he saved Sheppard from a grisly fate!
Nice to see some Shep backstory here. It enriches the story very much! Can't wait for more. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 12:55 am (UTC)John's backstory is the key to certain parts of his psyche and I love playing with it. :D
Sands
Date: 2010-06-25 11:40 pm (UTC)Re: Sands
Date: 2010-06-27 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 12:41 am (UTC)This story is awesome, the world that you have painted is amazing so believable, the characters are complex and the suffering for John and Ronon is horrible in the best way. I love stories where John is very competent and has to use his background to survive and this story just hits all the best spots :D.
So, gathering from this chapter, Malvick has an ancient device and he knows John has the gene, b/c is looks like he found out, that the device can't be activited just by John's blood?
Can't wait for the next chapter!!!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 01:03 am (UTC):D
no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 03:00 am (UTC)Excellent!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 10:35 pm (UTC)I am so worried for John's psyche. How is he going to get over this? I'm guessing the answer to that is, he doesn't. At least not quickly or easily or completely. What I find interesting in stories is how experiences affect the people who go through them. In that sense, I guess the best stories are the ones where the character don't get over what they've gone through. You've done a beautiful job of showing how John and Ronon are changing because of this experience but are still very much themselves. Ronon taking on the job of training John for the fights is a perfect example of this.
I'm very, very intrigued with Malvick. He talks and reacts to John and Ronon in such a familiar way. Part of me is wondering if he knows them from some place other than this planet, before he became a prisoner. Curious about the little device he had John hold as well. Was it reacting to John's ATA gene? Is there Ancient stuff in the Void?? Is that what the prisoner transport ship was checking out when it flew low into that area??? Everyone's got an ulterior motive at work here (like the Jad's raid on the Spraza. Genious!) I wonder if that little moment with the device is a clue to whatever Malvick's scheming.
Loved the little bit of backstory we get with John in Afghanistan, and how once those memories are brought to the surface, they start to invade his reality when he's weak, tired, and drugged. All kinds of questions were raised in this chapter! Glad tomorrow is Sunday!!
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 01:45 am (UTC)Ahh Malvick, he was a fun one to write and like everyone on this planet he has his own motives. You really hit something in regards to John's memories slipping out when he's so overwhelmed and unable to keep them in his dark pit with all the other bad stuff.
:D
no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 02:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-27 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-01 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 03:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-22 05:30 pm (UTC)I have this thing for writing fight scenes. They are fun :D