"The Ties That Bind" (2/6)
Nov. 26th, 2007 08:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “The Ties that Bind” (2/6) Gen
Author: Kristen999
Character(s): Ronon and Sheppard Friendship
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Some drama, action and h/c.
Rating: T
Words: 21,000 total –4300 this section
Spoilers: Season 4 “Reunion”
Summary: Ronon asks Sheppard to join him on a dangerous search unaware that some answers are gained in the journey.
Notes: This is all from Ronon's POV, but a study of their interesting friendship. There were a few things from “Reunion” that I thought needed further exploration. For some reason this was a tough nut to crack, but I enjoyed doing so.
This is complete, updates will be every other day as I tweak things.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
everybetty for her invaluable beta service, poking and prodding me until this was my best effort. Also to rednz for her wonderful encouragement and fast as lightening suggestions.
Previous Chapter
-----------------------
Hours later they go back down to the bar with a game plan. The place is jam packed with customers and the air is thick with the smoke of various tobaccos. Ronon tries to avoid people with glazed over eyes or red-hued corneas. There's no need to tangle with high dreck with itchy trigger fingers.
The bartender is prompt this time with two glasses of dark colored brew. The colonel sniffs at it, his eyes widening at the potent smell and cocks an eyebrow at him.
Ronon takes a swig. “This beats the piss from before,” he says, emptying half of it.
Sheppard's glass remains full.
They spot the bar owner and approach him, knowing the man probably has his hands in more things than just local arm wrestling matches. He swirls one of those purple drinks in his hand; a fine mist evaporates from the bubbling fizz. Two thugs stand nearby as protection.
“I see the two of you have come back for more,” the bar owner says coyly.
“It was getting boring upstairs so we thought we'd check things out,” the colonel says, leaning against the bar.
“You know, if you want to make some more money, I can arrange matches for you,” the ringleader suggests, eying the Satedan.
“Not interested,” Ronon replies.
“Really? You could make an easy ten frantz in just a few hours.”
Sheppard rolls his eyes and the bar owner's face becomes steely. “That's good money, but maybe you'd be interested in something else? I can get you in high stakes card games.” The guy pauses. “Or perhaps wagers on Pumpta racing?”
“Sorry, not our thing,” the colonel responds.
“Pleasures of the flesh perhaps?”
“Our business requires someone with a stronger set of connections,” Sheppard replies and begins to follow Ronon towards the exit.
“Wait! I didn't say you could go.”
The two burly guards merge to block them from leaving. Sheppard looks over at Ronon and gestures at his guy. Ronon flicks his dreads away from his face and on a mental count of three they take them out.
Ronon sends his palm into the first guard's face, breaking his nose. Blood spurts out, dribbling down the man's chin as he follows it up with a fist to the gut. The hired muscle doubles over and wavers on his feet. Ronon sends a quick chop to the back of the thug's neck causing the guy to face plant on the floor.
He glances over his shoulder as Sheppard ducks a wild punch before clobbering the other guard in the face, stunning him. The colonel wastes no time, grabbing his foe by the collar and slamming the side of the guard's skull into the bar.
Sheppard dusts his hands off, takes a gulp of his drink and watches the goon slide to the ground.
They stroll past a few onlookers; most of the occupants are more interested in their own dealings, but this little display raises the volume of the quiet murmurings. The bar owner follows behind them.
“You won't get anywhere without me!”
Ronon and Sheppard share a look before spinning on their mark.
“I can help you. You might be able to handle yourselves, but no one's going to talk to off-worlders they don't know. And no one knows you guys... I checked.”
“It would help if we had a name to go with these claims,” the colonel remarks.
“It's Larsrumpza, but people call me Lars. I own this bar, run all the action in it and help people like yourselves. I'm a trader for all that you may seek.”
The colonel points to himself. “I'm Sheppard and this is Ronon.”
They allow Lars to fall in step with them, away from prying eyes and ears. “We’ve got some dirty business to deal with,” Sheppard says in a lowered voice. “We could use some help.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that are willing to get... dirty. For the right price, of course,” Sheppard explains.
“Mercenaries are expensive.”
“That's not a problem,” Ronon answers.
“How many do you need?”
“Thirty to begin with,” Sheppard says.
Lars freezes in his tracks. “That’s more like a small army.”
“Really?” the colonel deadpans.
Lars laughs. “You don't have the money for armies, boys. Not with who you have to deal with to get 'em.”
“Looks aren't everything,” Ronon growls.
“No, not at all,” Sheppard steps up, stroking the P-90. “Not when you own cases of these.”
“And we have of enough of those to make thirty men become three hundred,” Ronon whispers in the dealer's ear.
“Show me.”
Ronon was pleased; phase one of the plan was coming together.
----------------
Ronon loves his blaster; it’s a simple, beautiful thing. Stun or kill. Blow up a door or take down an enemy. It holds a charge for a long time, the range is good and the accuracy has never been an issue. And for those unfortunate enough to fall victim to it, the energy bolt burns clean through for a quick kill.
Projectiles are nastier; they enter the body and tear it apart from the inside. A rifle offers a lot of fire power, but a P-90 can make someone a killing machine.
Sheppard sprays the back of an abandoned brick building with his gun, peppering the entire wall in seconds and leaving hundreds of holes in his wake. It’s an impressive display and Lars grins ear to ear.
“How many did you say you could get?”
Greed is easy to exploit and it only takes a little smooth talking from the colonel and Ronon's silent, deadly look to convince the crook to connect them with the right people.
Or the right person.
“We only want to deal with the best,” Sheppard explains.
“There are only a few people here that could provide you with reliable men. I know this Prothesian--”
“We've heard of a Terinian that's done excellent work in the past.”
Lars studies the colonel's face. “Yes, of course... him. His reputation is indeed known by many.”
“Is he here?” Ronon asks.
“He does business out of the back room at the Veramont. May I suggest this other--”
“No, we want the Terinian,” Ronon snaps.
“If that's what you want. I expect payment after the introduction. If you two end up dead, it won't ruin my day.”
They begin their trek towards the inner part of the town, the sun hidden by the brown haze in the sky. The wind stirs up fumes and fine grains that cause Ronon's eyes to burn and water. Sheppard keeps his head down to avoid breathing in the irritants, but they still inhale the backwash of burning fuel.
The colonel coughs and gags and the noise is like a blaring sensor alarm, attracting odd looks. The street merchants push their carts of wares up and down and Ronon stops by one of them for a solution. After a little bartering he returns with two pieces of fabric, handing a dark blue strip to Sheppard.
They wrap the cloth around their noses and mouths. He thinks the colonel looks like one of those bank robbers he's seen in Earth movies. The sunglasses and bandanna obscure the pilot's face and all they need are those cowboy hats.
It seems appropriate, posing as weapons dealers, looking like bad guys. Villains hunting a villain.
The inhabitants of this world whisper in shadows and short alleyways. People hide behind scarves and brims of hats, keeping their heads lowered if they pass too close. They spot a merchant counting his heavy bags of goods while the seller waits for the inventory to be finished. The seller holds a gloved hand open for money but he’s paid with a flick of a hidden blade. The merchant slits the seller's throat, blood spraying the dusty ground.
Sheppard freezes out of instinct, the sunlight reflecting off of his shades as he stares. The killer meets the pilot's gaze, wiping a wet, crimson-stained hand on his pants while stepping over the body.
Ronon grabs the colonel's elbow to pull him along; this happens here all the time, he communicates in silence. There's nothing to be done.
The wall that keeps the others out of the more underground sector isn't a physical one. There are members of the planet's militia standing around with gangs of other unsavory characters. People huddle for warmth around fires burning in metal barrels; despite the days of non-stop sun, it’s still very cold outside.
Lars holds out a hand in greeting as a patrol of armed men approach. “Just going in for a few hours.”
One guard steps out from the group, his eyes are so pale they appear drained of color except for the pupils. He gestures. “And them?”
“Business partners,” Lars answers, handing over a sum of money.
The soldier hangs his rifle over his shoulder as he counts the bills. When he finishes, the patrolman scrutinizes each of them with his milky white eyes, stepping closer towards Ronon. “Interesting necklace you have there.”
“Yeah.”
“How much ya want for it?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Everything's for sale here.”
“Not this.”
Sheppard and Lars tense up when the solider pulls out a knife, the metal glinting in the dull sunlight. “This is a fine blade, several hundred cens old. It’s perfectly balanced, perfectly lethal. I'll trade you for the Wraith necklace.”
Ronon straightens to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. “These two teeth belonged to my very first Wraith kill. I'd cut my right hand off before handing it over.”
The guard chews on his bottom lip. “I can respect that,” he says, moving to let them by.
Sheppard and their escort visibly relax after the exchange. Ronon strokes one of the incisors that dangle from the cord around his neck as they keep going. Dust storms swirl around buildings; a few even look like they were constructed with the proper measuring tools with level foundations and walls. Booming black markets never stick around for very long, a couple cycles at most before they disband or move on. Towns are created overnight, the hordes arriving with needs and desires before a more profitable place is found.
“The iron ore around here supplies most of this solar system. It burns longer and is in great supply. The guy with the rights to the largest hunk of mountain owns the establishment we're going to. He also supplies all the alcohol and pays for the band of crazies we call our military.”
“Is he partners with our dealer?” Sheppard asks.
Lars laughs. “No, they hate each other, but they stay out of each other's ways.”
----------------------------
Ronon removes the cloth from over his face, stuffing it in one of his coat pockets. The room inside is smoky; the people of this world never tire of filling their lungs with poison. There’s a large ring set up off to the side where two fighters pound their fists into each other as the legions cheer them on.
“There's a Gufra pit over there if you're into those thrills,” Lars points out.
Ronon strains his neck to peer past the circle of people screaming into the black depths. Sheppard walks over for a closer inspection and returns with a disgusted expression. “Looks like dogs on steroids trying to chew each other to bits.”
Lars laughs. “If you can bet on it, we do. If we can sell it, we go for the biggest pay off.” The dealer stares at the colonel and lowers his voice. “With your looks you could earn a lot for just one night's work, if you know what I mean.”
Sheppard's cheeks flush in the low light and Ronon jerks the scumbag away by his animal skin collar. “Don't even think about it.”
“That's a compliment, my large friend. Nothing wrong with having desirable assets and believe me, there would be a bidding war.”
Ronon glowers but Lars smirks. “Be glad I'm not a slave merchant.”
Sheppard reaches for the other end of the trader's jacket for a little of his own manhandling when a group of women descend upon them.
“Oh, ladies, I'd like you to meet Sheppard and Ronon. Do keep them company while I go track down a mutual friend,” Lars purrs, winking.
Soft fingertips play with his long dreads while an ankle rubs the inside of his left calf. Ronon drinks in pale skin and long flowing red hair while the woman whispers things in his ear that would make a soldier blush.
Ronon coos back at her. “For how long?”
He laughs at the way her eyes dilate in desire. She responds by slinking the pointed end of her shoe past his knee. It's entertaining but he decides to check out how the colonel is handling twice the fun.
If Sheppard pushes any harder against the back of the bar, he's going to break it. The colonel is one part mesmerized and two parts uncomfortably trapped by a pair of hungry-looking women. A blonde and brunette flank him, hands petting and caressing any part of the man's body not covered by clothing.
Sheppard looks overwhelmed and it amuses Ronon to no end. “You need to go somewhere private?” Ronon jokes.
The colonel shoots him daggers but his present company seems willing to oblige.
“Anywhere you want,” the blonde encourages.
“Both of us at once, if you'd like,” the other responds, playing with his lapels.
Ronon's ready to burst at Sheppard stuttering over words like McKay, but he has pity for his friend. “We don't have time for this.”
He hands each woman a tip and the three of them pry themselves away for other prospects, the red-head clinging to his shoulder. “Maybe later?” she murmurs.
“Maybe,” Ronon lies.
The women seek out other meal tickets, their strong perfume lingering in the air. Ronon has needs, but they can't be bought and they run deeper than physical gratification.
If he wants to fuck, he has many to choose from and it won't cost him any money. The wound in his heart still weeps and requires too much healing. He's in no rush to mend something so fresh, even after eight years.
He also knows, despite how willing Sheppard is to accept the attraction of women, he rarely takes the ego boost of such flirtation too far. He'll bask in the glow of being able to play the game, manipulate the situation, but Sheppard doesn't sleep around.
Command is the colonel's mistress. She provides the fire and the desire of being needed, but she's cold when it comes to comfort. Ronon does the guy thing and encourages a few women on the base to take an interest in his CO, but loneliness is the one thing both of them have in common.
“Maybe if we have time after this mission,” Sheppard says, but he's not to be taken seriously.
Ronon pats him on the shoulder. “They aren't your type. They’re not in need of rescuing.”
“Hey!” Sheppard whines indignantly.
They find one of the few empty high-top tables and search for their host in the sea of humanity.
“Scum and villainy, kind of like the Mos Eisley Cantina,” Sheppard jokes.
“If I had one of those laser swords I could kick so much ass.”
They chat about space pirates to pass the time as each of them case the crowded bar. The colonel drums his fingers a few minutes, a sign that he's about to launch into something heavy.
“What?” Ronon sighs.
“Do you even know what Turesh looks like?”
“I've seen video transmissions and pictures. I'll know.”
“As long as you two have never met it'll make our little ruse last longer.”
“I won't need much time at all.”
Sheppard takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “You know, we can still turn back.”
“No.”
“Ronon....” The pilot struggles for the right words. “Who are you really trying to avenge?”
“I told you.”
“Really?”
Ronon can feel the heat burn his cheeks. “I thought you understood?”
“I do, all to well.”
The background noise becomes a soft hum; Sheppard's words are sharp as daggers.
“You have a home, but it’s not Sateda... You have a family but we don't know about the world you grew up in.”
Ronon's jaw aches, his teeth gnashing together.
Sheppard's voice is thick and heavy as if the words themselves do not want to escape. “We can't go back for Elizabeth. We had to leave her behind.”
The glass in Ronon's hand shakes between his tense fingers.
“And you think you failed your friends. That if you could’ve protected them, they might be alive today.... I know exactly how you feel. I'd do anything to fix the past, but as you've said, what's done is done.”
Ronon's friends are dead; they died the day they were captured. “And if you had a way to fix the future wouldn't you do it? To stop a person from killing more?”
“We have to pick our battles. We're not an intergalactic police force. Who are we to choose who deserves to be punished and who doesn't?”
“We make those choices all the time, Sheppard. In our battles against the Wraith. Against the Replicators. Things that we decide affect other worlds all the time. People live and people die because of us.”
The colonel doesn't say a word, he doesn't have to. Ronon bends over, closing the gap between them. “Why did you come here with me?”
“Because I wasn't going to let you do this alone.”
The roar of the bar blares in his ears, the chaos around them once again loud and clear.
“Gentlemen.”
Lars stands next to them with another drink in his hands and a green cigar between his teeth that clashes oddly with his blue hair. “We have a meeting to attend to.”
“Turesh?” Ronon asks, rising to his feet.
“Yeah, he's interested in what you have to say and would like to discuss your toy there,” Lars points at the P-90 attached to the colonel's vest.
“I'm sure he does,” Sheppard says dryly.
Ronon's heart pounds against his sternum; his muscles are coiled, ready to strike at any movement. This is the time for something to go wrong and he and Sheppard study every face, every shadow as they are escorted towards the back of the bar. There's a hallway hidden in the darkness, blocked by a lone table with five of the biggest thugs playing cards.
Lars nods at the group of hooligans and the thugs allow the three of them into the corridor. Ronon's hand rests on his blaster; the colonel's grips his weapon. The hall leads to a door and a set of stairs.
There's a sublevel to this place and as the trio descends the steps; he realizes they have no idea how big the underground area could be. They lose any tactical advantage, not knowing the layout of the exits or where they are going. The odds are stacking out of their favor and he can feel every muscle tighten.
Sheppard's giving him the 'I don't like this vibe' and he agrees. Their nostrils are assaulted with the harsh fumes of an old furnace and charred remains of an abandoned mine as they enter. Both team members look around at the chiseled walls, wondering how long ago this cave housed the planet's precious ore.
“This gives new meaning to conducting business in the back room,” Sheppard says sarcastically.
“Well, killing people out in public, while not frowned upon, wouldn't be good for dealings,” Lars laughs.
Ronon trains his blaster on Lars’s chest, the floor quaking from countless boots as the room fills with men out of the shadows. Sheppard's P-90 bounces from target to target, but they are on the wrong end of too many barrels.
“You know, it's cool to see the recruits so gung-ho, but it's not nice to point weapons at your possible new bosses,” Sheppard says perturbed.
Ronon can barely keep his gun still as rage has his hands shaking and his heart pounding. He counts eight large, armed men blocking any means of escape.
“It's hard not to notice that tattoo on your neck. A Satedan military rank, right?”
He feels the need to pull the trigger, his sight set on the backstabbing trader. But he won't do it, not when there's a slight chance that there's a way out of this. He and Sheppard have gotten out of worse jams.
“You have something against Satedans?” Sheppard asks, his gun aimed at a cluster of chests.
“Not at all, but when Turesh offers me more money to lure you two down here...What can I say?” the trader informs.
“Where is the murderer?” Ronon asks.
“Here. And which piece of Satedan dreck are you?”
He's heard that voice in his dreams, imagined the low, guttural tone. The circle of armed men parts as Turesh steps out, his cronies flanking each side. The Terinian is bald on both sides of his head except for a solid row of hair straight down his dome. Sheppard's people call the style a 'Mohawk' and it highlights a face filled with metal jewelry in the man's eyebrows, nose and bottom lip.
He doesn't carry a weapon; his shirt stretches taut over his chest and thick, tattooed arms.
“I asked you a question.”
“Ronon Dex,” he responds proudly.
“And your friend?”
“Colonel Sheppard,” John replies, stepping forth without fear.
Ronon beams at his CO's brashness.
“Seems you own an interesting weapon, Colonel. I think I'll take it from you, since we both know you won't be selling me any more. But don't feel bad. I think some of my people can take it apart and find a way to make more.”
Sheppard smiles widely. “Don't think so.”
Turesh chuckles. “You're outnumbered. Or do sorry Satedan tactics infect their allies, too? You won't shoot me since my people will cut you down where you stand. So I'll take that weapon out of your hands with or without your blood all over it,” the Terinian says boldly.
Ronon doesn't understand math like Rodney does but he knows they will not survive a firefight. Too many weapons, too many targets.
“You always were afraid of a real fight,” he spits.
“Really?” Turesh raises an eyebrow. “How's that?”
“These are your men? Don't you trust their skills or do you know the truth?” Ronon mocks.
Eight scarred faces harden, sending their leader fiery stares.
Sheppard risks a sideway glance, swallowing.
The cavern fills with Turesh's laugher. “You Satedans are all the same. All words and no results on the field of battle. Too cowardly, too pack minded. Fine, you want to fight with fists?” The butcher nods at his people. “Lower your weapons.”
Ronon can fulfill his promise, his oath. He has the shot and longs to take it to avenge all those who fell to this coward's evil deeds, but doesn't. He's just bought him and Sheppard a few seconds.
His chance for revenge slips away while Turesh steps back, his minions closing ranks in front of him. The asshole is going to let his hired muscle fight his battle. “If they fire first, don't leave anything for a grave. If they truly think they can take all of you, tear them limb from limb and retrieve the weapon from their dead hands,” the mercenary orders.
Lars scurries after the Terinian, pausing long enough for a final parting shot. “It's too bad. I know where more of your people are in this sector. The Satedans aren't all wiped out. Not all of them are Wraith worshipping scum. I wonder how much you would have paid for such information.”
Sheppard's face darkens and Ronon holds back a scream of fury, not allowing his enemy any victory.
If they shoot, they're dead. If they lower their weapons, they're dead but they'll go out fighting, taking out more of their enemy in the process. Ronon seeks his CO's orders... allows Sheppard one final hand in their fate.
The colonel nods and they both drop their guns to the ground as the mercenaries lower their weapons.
Two against eight. Ronon eyes his half of the goon squad while the colonel glares at the other four.
He can't help thinking of Sheppard's talk about superheroes as they engage in one of those comic book battles he's always heard about.
---------------
Chapter 3
Author: Kristen999
Character(s): Ronon and Sheppard Friendship
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Some drama, action and h/c.
Rating: T
Words: 21,000 total –4300 this section
Spoilers: Season 4 “Reunion”
Summary: Ronon asks Sheppard to join him on a dangerous search unaware that some answers are gained in the journey.
Notes: This is all from Ronon's POV, but a study of their interesting friendship. There were a few things from “Reunion” that I thought needed further exploration. For some reason this was a tough nut to crack, but I enjoyed doing so.
This is complete, updates will be every other day as I tweak things.
Thanks to
everybetty for her invaluable beta service, poking and prodding me until this was my best effort. Also to rednz for her wonderful encouragement and fast as lightening suggestions.Previous Chapter
-----------------------
Hours later they go back down to the bar with a game plan. The place is jam packed with customers and the air is thick with the smoke of various tobaccos. Ronon tries to avoid people with glazed over eyes or red-hued corneas. There's no need to tangle with high dreck with itchy trigger fingers.
The bartender is prompt this time with two glasses of dark colored brew. The colonel sniffs at it, his eyes widening at the potent smell and cocks an eyebrow at him.
Ronon takes a swig. “This beats the piss from before,” he says, emptying half of it.
Sheppard's glass remains full.
They spot the bar owner and approach him, knowing the man probably has his hands in more things than just local arm wrestling matches. He swirls one of those purple drinks in his hand; a fine mist evaporates from the bubbling fizz. Two thugs stand nearby as protection.
“I see the two of you have come back for more,” the bar owner says coyly.
“It was getting boring upstairs so we thought we'd check things out,” the colonel says, leaning against the bar.
“You know, if you want to make some more money, I can arrange matches for you,” the ringleader suggests, eying the Satedan.
“Not interested,” Ronon replies.
“Really? You could make an easy ten frantz in just a few hours.”
Sheppard rolls his eyes and the bar owner's face becomes steely. “That's good money, but maybe you'd be interested in something else? I can get you in high stakes card games.” The guy pauses. “Or perhaps wagers on Pumpta racing?”
“Sorry, not our thing,” the colonel responds.
“Pleasures of the flesh perhaps?”
“Our business requires someone with a stronger set of connections,” Sheppard replies and begins to follow Ronon towards the exit.
“Wait! I didn't say you could go.”
The two burly guards merge to block them from leaving. Sheppard looks over at Ronon and gestures at his guy. Ronon flicks his dreads away from his face and on a mental count of three they take them out.
Ronon sends his palm into the first guard's face, breaking his nose. Blood spurts out, dribbling down the man's chin as he follows it up with a fist to the gut. The hired muscle doubles over and wavers on his feet. Ronon sends a quick chop to the back of the thug's neck causing the guy to face plant on the floor.
He glances over his shoulder as Sheppard ducks a wild punch before clobbering the other guard in the face, stunning him. The colonel wastes no time, grabbing his foe by the collar and slamming the side of the guard's skull into the bar.
Sheppard dusts his hands off, takes a gulp of his drink and watches the goon slide to the ground.
They stroll past a few onlookers; most of the occupants are more interested in their own dealings, but this little display raises the volume of the quiet murmurings. The bar owner follows behind them.
“You won't get anywhere without me!”
Ronon and Sheppard share a look before spinning on their mark.
“I can help you. You might be able to handle yourselves, but no one's going to talk to off-worlders they don't know. And no one knows you guys... I checked.”
“It would help if we had a name to go with these claims,” the colonel remarks.
“It's Larsrumpza, but people call me Lars. I own this bar, run all the action in it and help people like yourselves. I'm a trader for all that you may seek.”
The colonel points to himself. “I'm Sheppard and this is Ronon.”
They allow Lars to fall in step with them, away from prying eyes and ears. “We’ve got some dirty business to deal with,” Sheppard says in a lowered voice. “We could use some help.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that are willing to get... dirty. For the right price, of course,” Sheppard explains.
“Mercenaries are expensive.”
“That's not a problem,” Ronon answers.
“How many do you need?”
“Thirty to begin with,” Sheppard says.
Lars freezes in his tracks. “That’s more like a small army.”
“Really?” the colonel deadpans.
Lars laughs. “You don't have the money for armies, boys. Not with who you have to deal with to get 'em.”
“Looks aren't everything,” Ronon growls.
“No, not at all,” Sheppard steps up, stroking the P-90. “Not when you own cases of these.”
“And we have of enough of those to make thirty men become three hundred,” Ronon whispers in the dealer's ear.
“Show me.”
Ronon was pleased; phase one of the plan was coming together.
----------------
Ronon loves his blaster; it’s a simple, beautiful thing. Stun or kill. Blow up a door or take down an enemy. It holds a charge for a long time, the range is good and the accuracy has never been an issue. And for those unfortunate enough to fall victim to it, the energy bolt burns clean through for a quick kill.
Projectiles are nastier; they enter the body and tear it apart from the inside. A rifle offers a lot of fire power, but a P-90 can make someone a killing machine.
Sheppard sprays the back of an abandoned brick building with his gun, peppering the entire wall in seconds and leaving hundreds of holes in his wake. It’s an impressive display and Lars grins ear to ear.
“How many did you say you could get?”
Greed is easy to exploit and it only takes a little smooth talking from the colonel and Ronon's silent, deadly look to convince the crook to connect them with the right people.
Or the right person.
“We only want to deal with the best,” Sheppard explains.
“There are only a few people here that could provide you with reliable men. I know this Prothesian--”
“We've heard of a Terinian that's done excellent work in the past.”
Lars studies the colonel's face. “Yes, of course... him. His reputation is indeed known by many.”
“Is he here?” Ronon asks.
“He does business out of the back room at the Veramont. May I suggest this other--”
“No, we want the Terinian,” Ronon snaps.
“If that's what you want. I expect payment after the introduction. If you two end up dead, it won't ruin my day.”
They begin their trek towards the inner part of the town, the sun hidden by the brown haze in the sky. The wind stirs up fumes and fine grains that cause Ronon's eyes to burn and water. Sheppard keeps his head down to avoid breathing in the irritants, but they still inhale the backwash of burning fuel.
The colonel coughs and gags and the noise is like a blaring sensor alarm, attracting odd looks. The street merchants push their carts of wares up and down and Ronon stops by one of them for a solution. After a little bartering he returns with two pieces of fabric, handing a dark blue strip to Sheppard.
They wrap the cloth around their noses and mouths. He thinks the colonel looks like one of those bank robbers he's seen in Earth movies. The sunglasses and bandanna obscure the pilot's face and all they need are those cowboy hats.
It seems appropriate, posing as weapons dealers, looking like bad guys. Villains hunting a villain.
The inhabitants of this world whisper in shadows and short alleyways. People hide behind scarves and brims of hats, keeping their heads lowered if they pass too close. They spot a merchant counting his heavy bags of goods while the seller waits for the inventory to be finished. The seller holds a gloved hand open for money but he’s paid with a flick of a hidden blade. The merchant slits the seller's throat, blood spraying the dusty ground.
Sheppard freezes out of instinct, the sunlight reflecting off of his shades as he stares. The killer meets the pilot's gaze, wiping a wet, crimson-stained hand on his pants while stepping over the body.
Ronon grabs the colonel's elbow to pull him along; this happens here all the time, he communicates in silence. There's nothing to be done.
The wall that keeps the others out of the more underground sector isn't a physical one. There are members of the planet's militia standing around with gangs of other unsavory characters. People huddle for warmth around fires burning in metal barrels; despite the days of non-stop sun, it’s still very cold outside.
Lars holds out a hand in greeting as a patrol of armed men approach. “Just going in for a few hours.”
One guard steps out from the group, his eyes are so pale they appear drained of color except for the pupils. He gestures. “And them?”
“Business partners,” Lars answers, handing over a sum of money.
The soldier hangs his rifle over his shoulder as he counts the bills. When he finishes, the patrolman scrutinizes each of them with his milky white eyes, stepping closer towards Ronon. “Interesting necklace you have there.”
“Yeah.”
“How much ya want for it?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Everything's for sale here.”
“Not this.”
Sheppard and Lars tense up when the solider pulls out a knife, the metal glinting in the dull sunlight. “This is a fine blade, several hundred cens old. It’s perfectly balanced, perfectly lethal. I'll trade you for the Wraith necklace.”
Ronon straightens to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest. “These two teeth belonged to my very first Wraith kill. I'd cut my right hand off before handing it over.”
The guard chews on his bottom lip. “I can respect that,” he says, moving to let them by.
Sheppard and their escort visibly relax after the exchange. Ronon strokes one of the incisors that dangle from the cord around his neck as they keep going. Dust storms swirl around buildings; a few even look like they were constructed with the proper measuring tools with level foundations and walls. Booming black markets never stick around for very long, a couple cycles at most before they disband or move on. Towns are created overnight, the hordes arriving with needs and desires before a more profitable place is found.
“The iron ore around here supplies most of this solar system. It burns longer and is in great supply. The guy with the rights to the largest hunk of mountain owns the establishment we're going to. He also supplies all the alcohol and pays for the band of crazies we call our military.”
“Is he partners with our dealer?” Sheppard asks.
Lars laughs. “No, they hate each other, but they stay out of each other's ways.”
----------------------------
Ronon removes the cloth from over his face, stuffing it in one of his coat pockets. The room inside is smoky; the people of this world never tire of filling their lungs with poison. There’s a large ring set up off to the side where two fighters pound their fists into each other as the legions cheer them on.
“There's a Gufra pit over there if you're into those thrills,” Lars points out.
Ronon strains his neck to peer past the circle of people screaming into the black depths. Sheppard walks over for a closer inspection and returns with a disgusted expression. “Looks like dogs on steroids trying to chew each other to bits.”
Lars laughs. “If you can bet on it, we do. If we can sell it, we go for the biggest pay off.” The dealer stares at the colonel and lowers his voice. “With your looks you could earn a lot for just one night's work, if you know what I mean.”
Sheppard's cheeks flush in the low light and Ronon jerks the scumbag away by his animal skin collar. “Don't even think about it.”
“That's a compliment, my large friend. Nothing wrong with having desirable assets and believe me, there would be a bidding war.”
Ronon glowers but Lars smirks. “Be glad I'm not a slave merchant.”
Sheppard reaches for the other end of the trader's jacket for a little of his own manhandling when a group of women descend upon them.
“Oh, ladies, I'd like you to meet Sheppard and Ronon. Do keep them company while I go track down a mutual friend,” Lars purrs, winking.
Soft fingertips play with his long dreads while an ankle rubs the inside of his left calf. Ronon drinks in pale skin and long flowing red hair while the woman whispers things in his ear that would make a soldier blush.
Ronon coos back at her. “For how long?”
He laughs at the way her eyes dilate in desire. She responds by slinking the pointed end of her shoe past his knee. It's entertaining but he decides to check out how the colonel is handling twice the fun.
If Sheppard pushes any harder against the back of the bar, he's going to break it. The colonel is one part mesmerized and two parts uncomfortably trapped by a pair of hungry-looking women. A blonde and brunette flank him, hands petting and caressing any part of the man's body not covered by clothing.
Sheppard looks overwhelmed and it amuses Ronon to no end. “You need to go somewhere private?” Ronon jokes.
The colonel shoots him daggers but his present company seems willing to oblige.
“Anywhere you want,” the blonde encourages.
“Both of us at once, if you'd like,” the other responds, playing with his lapels.
Ronon's ready to burst at Sheppard stuttering over words like McKay, but he has pity for his friend. “We don't have time for this.”
He hands each woman a tip and the three of them pry themselves away for other prospects, the red-head clinging to his shoulder. “Maybe later?” she murmurs.
“Maybe,” Ronon lies.
The women seek out other meal tickets, their strong perfume lingering in the air. Ronon has needs, but they can't be bought and they run deeper than physical gratification.
If he wants to fuck, he has many to choose from and it won't cost him any money. The wound in his heart still weeps and requires too much healing. He's in no rush to mend something so fresh, even after eight years.
He also knows, despite how willing Sheppard is to accept the attraction of women, he rarely takes the ego boost of such flirtation too far. He'll bask in the glow of being able to play the game, manipulate the situation, but Sheppard doesn't sleep around.
Command is the colonel's mistress. She provides the fire and the desire of being needed, but she's cold when it comes to comfort. Ronon does the guy thing and encourages a few women on the base to take an interest in his CO, but loneliness is the one thing both of them have in common.
“Maybe if we have time after this mission,” Sheppard says, but he's not to be taken seriously.
Ronon pats him on the shoulder. “They aren't your type. They’re not in need of rescuing.”
“Hey!” Sheppard whines indignantly.
They find one of the few empty high-top tables and search for their host in the sea of humanity.
“Scum and villainy, kind of like the Mos Eisley Cantina,” Sheppard jokes.
“If I had one of those laser swords I could kick so much ass.”
They chat about space pirates to pass the time as each of them case the crowded bar. The colonel drums his fingers a few minutes, a sign that he's about to launch into something heavy.
“What?” Ronon sighs.
“Do you even know what Turesh looks like?”
“I've seen video transmissions and pictures. I'll know.”
“As long as you two have never met it'll make our little ruse last longer.”
“I won't need much time at all.”
Sheppard takes a deep breath, exhaling it slowly. “You know, we can still turn back.”
“No.”
“Ronon....” The pilot struggles for the right words. “Who are you really trying to avenge?”
“I told you.”
“Really?”
Ronon can feel the heat burn his cheeks. “I thought you understood?”
“I do, all to well.”
The background noise becomes a soft hum; Sheppard's words are sharp as daggers.
“You have a home, but it’s not Sateda... You have a family but we don't know about the world you grew up in.”
Ronon's jaw aches, his teeth gnashing together.
Sheppard's voice is thick and heavy as if the words themselves do not want to escape. “We can't go back for Elizabeth. We had to leave her behind.”
The glass in Ronon's hand shakes between his tense fingers.
“And you think you failed your friends. That if you could’ve protected them, they might be alive today.... I know exactly how you feel. I'd do anything to fix the past, but as you've said, what's done is done.”
Ronon's friends are dead; they died the day they were captured. “And if you had a way to fix the future wouldn't you do it? To stop a person from killing more?”
“We have to pick our battles. We're not an intergalactic police force. Who are we to choose who deserves to be punished and who doesn't?”
“We make those choices all the time, Sheppard. In our battles against the Wraith. Against the Replicators. Things that we decide affect other worlds all the time. People live and people die because of us.”
The colonel doesn't say a word, he doesn't have to. Ronon bends over, closing the gap between them. “Why did you come here with me?”
“Because I wasn't going to let you do this alone.”
The roar of the bar blares in his ears, the chaos around them once again loud and clear.
“Gentlemen.”
Lars stands next to them with another drink in his hands and a green cigar between his teeth that clashes oddly with his blue hair. “We have a meeting to attend to.”
“Turesh?” Ronon asks, rising to his feet.
“Yeah, he's interested in what you have to say and would like to discuss your toy there,” Lars points at the P-90 attached to the colonel's vest.
“I'm sure he does,” Sheppard says dryly.
Ronon's heart pounds against his sternum; his muscles are coiled, ready to strike at any movement. This is the time for something to go wrong and he and Sheppard study every face, every shadow as they are escorted towards the back of the bar. There's a hallway hidden in the darkness, blocked by a lone table with five of the biggest thugs playing cards.
Lars nods at the group of hooligans and the thugs allow the three of them into the corridor. Ronon's hand rests on his blaster; the colonel's grips his weapon. The hall leads to a door and a set of stairs.
There's a sublevel to this place and as the trio descends the steps; he realizes they have no idea how big the underground area could be. They lose any tactical advantage, not knowing the layout of the exits or where they are going. The odds are stacking out of their favor and he can feel every muscle tighten.
Sheppard's giving him the 'I don't like this vibe' and he agrees. Their nostrils are assaulted with the harsh fumes of an old furnace and charred remains of an abandoned mine as they enter. Both team members look around at the chiseled walls, wondering how long ago this cave housed the planet's precious ore.
“This gives new meaning to conducting business in the back room,” Sheppard says sarcastically.
“Well, killing people out in public, while not frowned upon, wouldn't be good for dealings,” Lars laughs.
Ronon trains his blaster on Lars’s chest, the floor quaking from countless boots as the room fills with men out of the shadows. Sheppard's P-90 bounces from target to target, but they are on the wrong end of too many barrels.
“You know, it's cool to see the recruits so gung-ho, but it's not nice to point weapons at your possible new bosses,” Sheppard says perturbed.
Ronon can barely keep his gun still as rage has his hands shaking and his heart pounding. He counts eight large, armed men blocking any means of escape.
“It's hard not to notice that tattoo on your neck. A Satedan military rank, right?”
He feels the need to pull the trigger, his sight set on the backstabbing trader. But he won't do it, not when there's a slight chance that there's a way out of this. He and Sheppard have gotten out of worse jams.
“You have something against Satedans?” Sheppard asks, his gun aimed at a cluster of chests.
“Not at all, but when Turesh offers me more money to lure you two down here...What can I say?” the trader informs.
“Where is the murderer?” Ronon asks.
“Here. And which piece of Satedan dreck are you?”
He's heard that voice in his dreams, imagined the low, guttural tone. The circle of armed men parts as Turesh steps out, his cronies flanking each side. The Terinian is bald on both sides of his head except for a solid row of hair straight down his dome. Sheppard's people call the style a 'Mohawk' and it highlights a face filled with metal jewelry in the man's eyebrows, nose and bottom lip.
He doesn't carry a weapon; his shirt stretches taut over his chest and thick, tattooed arms.
“I asked you a question.”
“Ronon Dex,” he responds proudly.
“And your friend?”
“Colonel Sheppard,” John replies, stepping forth without fear.
Ronon beams at his CO's brashness.
“Seems you own an interesting weapon, Colonel. I think I'll take it from you, since we both know you won't be selling me any more. But don't feel bad. I think some of my people can take it apart and find a way to make more.”
Sheppard smiles widely. “Don't think so.”
Turesh chuckles. “You're outnumbered. Or do sorry Satedan tactics infect their allies, too? You won't shoot me since my people will cut you down where you stand. So I'll take that weapon out of your hands with or without your blood all over it,” the Terinian says boldly.
Ronon doesn't understand math like Rodney does but he knows they will not survive a firefight. Too many weapons, too many targets.
“You always were afraid of a real fight,” he spits.
“Really?” Turesh raises an eyebrow. “How's that?”
“These are your men? Don't you trust their skills or do you know the truth?” Ronon mocks.
Eight scarred faces harden, sending their leader fiery stares.
Sheppard risks a sideway glance, swallowing.
The cavern fills with Turesh's laugher. “You Satedans are all the same. All words and no results on the field of battle. Too cowardly, too pack minded. Fine, you want to fight with fists?” The butcher nods at his people. “Lower your weapons.”
Ronon can fulfill his promise, his oath. He has the shot and longs to take it to avenge all those who fell to this coward's evil deeds, but doesn't. He's just bought him and Sheppard a few seconds.
His chance for revenge slips away while Turesh steps back, his minions closing ranks in front of him. The asshole is going to let his hired muscle fight his battle. “If they fire first, don't leave anything for a grave. If they truly think they can take all of you, tear them limb from limb and retrieve the weapon from their dead hands,” the mercenary orders.
Lars scurries after the Terinian, pausing long enough for a final parting shot. “It's too bad. I know where more of your people are in this sector. The Satedans aren't all wiped out. Not all of them are Wraith worshipping scum. I wonder how much you would have paid for such information.”
Sheppard's face darkens and Ronon holds back a scream of fury, not allowing his enemy any victory.
If they shoot, they're dead. If they lower their weapons, they're dead but they'll go out fighting, taking out more of their enemy in the process. Ronon seeks his CO's orders... allows Sheppard one final hand in their fate.
The colonel nods and they both drop their guns to the ground as the mercenaries lower their weapons.
Two against eight. Ronon eyes his half of the goon squad while the colonel glares at the other four.
He can't help thinking of Sheppard's talk about superheroes as they engage in one of those comic book battles he's always heard about.
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Chapter 3
