"The Ties That Bind" (5/6)
Nov. 30th, 2007 01:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kristen999Title: “The Ties that Bind” (5/6) 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 –3100 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 Chapters
-----------------------
Ronon knows about basic survival from many years on the battlefield. He doesn't have the gentle hand of Teyla or the education of a real doctor but he knows enough to be afraid. Sheppard is unresponsive, even after he rubs his breastbone, copying what he's seen medical people do to wake up patients. Too much time has been wasted. He searches the pilot's tac vest for a bandage and places the heavy pad against the ugly gash on the colonel's temple, wrapping the gauze the best he can around Sheppard's head to keep it in place.
“You're...” He licks his lips in unfamiliarity at offering assurance and hope. “You're going to fine, Sheppard.”
His own shoulder throbs and burns from shrapnel, but he doesn't mess with wounds he can't reach.
He pats down the colonel's effects, looking for a gun, but he's been stripped of anything useful except for the meager medical supplies. There's no way to contact Atlantis and the nearest gate is in the middle of town. The easiest thing would be to slump the pilot over his shoulder, but not with the head wound. Ronon's not going to allow Sheppard's skull to bounce around upside down.
He formulates the simplest plan of attack because there's no denying that getting to safety is going to require a fight. Ronon carefully lifts his burden, making sure the colonel's head is nestled near his shoulder and goes back the way he came. It's a challenge to navigate like this and he's forced to walk sideways in the narrow tunnels to accommodate the colonel's body.
Every tendon aches as he strains under his burden, sending fire down his arm, but Ronon has one solitary goal. He comes across Turesh's body and lowers Sheppard to the ground to search for anything useful. His fingers dig through bloody, soiled clothes until they curl around a handgun. He pulls out the colonel's Glock.
Clutching the gun makes him feel sick and pushes back doubt and what if's about leaving Sheppard to go after Lars...about this whole mission. Allowing those thoughts to fester will only get them killed. He stuffs the Glock in his belt and grunts, picking the pilot back up, the nerves raging streaks of lightning across his back.
He follows Turesh's blood trail back towards the furnace room. The tunnel grows darker until there's nothing but pitch blackness ahead. The explosion has collapsed a much larger section of the cavern than he realized.
“Damn it!”
It doesn't matter; with or without light he can still backtrack to where they’d entered the underground complex. It's tedious, twisting and adjusting to the corridors in the dark, banging Sheppard's boots against many corners in the process.
He moves as fast as he can, his back towards the wall in order to fit them both. “You're heavier than you look,” he grunts at his friend.
He can feel Sheppard's rapid heartbeat under his fingertips, a thumping motivation to keep moving. They trudge on longer, instinct and gut feeling guiding him all the way. Turning to the right, the end of the corridor is lit by something ahead. He searches the ground for a sign that he's headed in the right direction and notices a spot of blood. He bends down and his fingers come away moist. He imagines droplets splattering from Sheppard's head wound as one of Turesh's men went to dump his body after he was shot.
They're closer to the exit now.
It doesn't take long to find the main warehouse where this disaster began. Ronon tenses; there are only two bodies from earlier and he doesn't know if any of the remaining goons are still around or if they all fled after the explosion.
He takes a second to look after Sheppard, placing him on the floor and checking the bandage. It’s sticky with fresh blood and Ronon grabs another dressing from the colonel's vest and adds another layer. This is the last chance he'll have to attend to the pilot's wound for a while. He can't do anything about the busted shoulder but at least Sheppard's not awake to feel anything.
The colonel looks ghastly in the low lighting, his face pale with blood smeared across his forehead. Ronon holds back guilt and anger, feeling too clumsy to offer much help.
He tries not to think about how easily he’d accepted his CO's fate. A bullet to the head should have meant instant death. “I should’ve trusted you not to die,” he mutters, picking the pilot back up.
He pulls out his blaster and musters all his strength, channeling all his pain and adrenaline into the charge. He takes the steps two at a time, accelerating towards the exit and kicking the door open.
His weapon is hidden under Sheppard legs and three men jump up from playing cards, each of them reaching for a gun.
There's no time for hesitancy; he straightens his arms and takes out the group in three quick shots. The noise from the heavily populated bar swallows up the commotion and his feet never stop running. It doesn't take long for some of the horde to notice the crazy man and his injured friend.
Most patrons scatter out of the way, wanting nothing to do with them, but others are suspicious and a few approach him from varied directions. He fires warning shots, causing panic, and the place swarms with people trying to get out of the way.
“Move!” he shouts.
This is a major scene and he curses himself for creating chaos when he only seeks the quickest way out of here. He recognizes two of Turesh's thugs near the bar, sporting bruises from their earlier encounter.
One with a black eye jumps out of his chair. “Hey! Where do you think you're goin'!”
There is no way to engage in a firefight; his movements are compromised carrying the colonel and the prone pilot is a prime target. He thinks quickly, adjusting Sheppard's body and digging into his pocket for a roll of money from a hidden inner lining. He pulls out a bunch of bills and tosses them in the air, allowing them to rain down like confetti.
Greed overcomes fear and many of the patrons converge like wild animals upon the money, helping cover their escape. He tries to use his uninjured shoulder to shove his way through everyone else while trying to protect Sheppard's head from being jostled.
“Outa the way,” he growls at anyone in his path.
He can smell fresh air, or as fresh as it's going to get on this world. Sheppard hasn't stirred once during their flight and he tries not to think of things like brain damage. The sky outside is orange with dark purple streaks; there's no darkness to hide under and he's attracted the attention of a few armed men right outside the bar.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
Ronon’s just tossed away any bribery leverage and he knows tangling with the corrupt authorities over the trail of bodies he's left behind is not an option. He lowers the colonel to the ground in order to gear up for another fray when the soldiers are intercepted by the attention of three eager women.
His eyes dart around in search of more danger and catch the wave from the attractive redhead who wanted in his pants hours ago. He nods at the woman, thanking her for the diversion and she mouths you can pay me back later.
The back alley behind the tavern offers cover and he runs behind the next few buildings in an attempt to elude any of Turesh's men that might try to follow. His arms tremble from carrying Sheppard for so long without a break. His injured shoulder is bleeding from the strain, the wetness trickling down his back.
He ignores his exhaustion, legs pumping at full steam while his left arm slowly goes numb. After going several minutes non-stop, he stumbles over a rock, almost dropping his precious load. He has to take a moment to collect himself and ducks into a dark alley, propping the colonel up against the building.
Gasping for breath, he wipes at his forehead, ignoring how badly his shoulder aches. “Gate's not too far, buddy,” he tells the colonel.
Sheppard's chest rises and falls at a pace even slower than earlier. Ronon checks his pulse and worries at the weakening beat and the icy feel of his skin.
“You can't die,” Ronon hisses.
His death will be on your head and you'll never be able to look anyone in the eye on Atlantis.
A scream builds up from deep inside and he tries to crush the doubt of the voice in his head. He's going to get the colonel to safety no matter what it takes. Sticking to the back alleys of bars and buildings is the best way to stay hidden, but other people use the same cover for their own dealings.
It takes more effort but he lifts Sheppard's limp body higher to keep his blaster out and in plain sight. Anytime a hooligan even gets close, he flashes the muzzle of his gun and they scatter away like rodents. They're getting nearer to the border patrol that separates the seedier inner sector and the normal square that contains the 'gate.
The wind whips at his face, the chill biting his skin, and he curses the fact that both their jackets were stolen after they were captured. Both his arms shake so badly he fears dropping the colonel, but he's not going to sling him over his back like dead meat. He forces himself to keep going and going despite the fact that his pace slows the more he pushes his body.
He senses people following them, staying just far enough behind that he won't notice. There isn't a way to outrun his silent pursuers and he can't afford to draw any more attention from the roaming militia.
A large store looms ahead only a short distance from the final leg of their escape. He deliberately trips, allowing the pursuing shadows to get closer. Ronon counts to three and goes to his knees, letting gravity pull the colonel's body to the ground.
It only takes seconds to pull out the Glock.
He spins around, firing both weapons at the blurs of bodies that converge on him. He sprays bolts of red and waves of lead at his attackers. There's no place to seek cover so he creates a shield of death, pressing both triggers for all their worth.
Three men drop in front of him and he pivots to the left with the gun and right with the blaster, hitting shoulders, arms, chests. Bullets whiz past his ear while bodies hit the ground in heaps of grunts and groans.
Ronon tracks every moving target, always keeping his bulk in front of the colonel to protect him from any stray bullets. The Glock clicks empty and he drops the pistol to the ground as a freight train plows into him.
His blaster is knocked away in the ruckus and they tumble over and over until a face sneers on top of him. A lucky punch to the jaw rattles his teeth and that's all the time he needs to grab his knife and plunge it deeply into flesh and muscle. Ronon shoves the nameless brute away and scrambles to his feet.
A militia man stands next to Sheppard, his rifle trained at Ronon's head. “You're fast, but not that fast,” the soldier warns.
“Get away from him!”
The soldier doesn't budge, his face hidden by a dark scarf and sunglasses. “It would seem I have you at a disadvantage.”
“For the moment.”
The patrolman snickers. “You are a bullheaded one I give you that.” The militia man's weapon doesn't waver, but he nudges Sheppard with his boot.
“You touch him again and I'll rip your throat out,” Ronon growls.
The soldier pulls off his shades, revealing pale, milky eyes. “Looks like you've lost your way.”
Ronon recognizes the guard from entering this sector and his heart thunders in his chest. “We just want to get to the 'gate.”
“Who's we?” The soldier nods at the pilot's unmoving body, never taking his eyes off of Ronon. “He looks dead.”
“He's not!”
“Whatever you say, stranger.”
The patrolman begins to back away. “Good thing I'm not seeking a fight today. Not that it matters. You and your friend will never make it. Too many people are looking for you.”
“Why?”
The patrolman shrugs. “Who cares? I don't even think they know. They can't find their wealthy boss and getting the people who know where he is, means they'll get paid. Then there's the militia; we have an interest in keeping Turesh happy,” the guard says, turning on his heel to leave.
“Wait!” Ronon shouts, his mind reeling, not believing the words that are about to come out of his mouth.
His head screams obscenities for seeking out help, but he needs assistance. All he has is his blaster and his injuries are zapping his energy. He'll carry Sheppard no matter how far, but the odds of eluding everyone that wants them dead are too high. “Can you show us a way around them?”
“I don't think so. I never liked Lars or Turesh but their money was good.”
Ronon walks over and kneels in front of the colonel, his anger and guilt tearing at his gut. He places his ear to the pilot's chest to detect his breathing and listen to his rapid heart. Sheppard is deteriorating too fast; his pallor is ashen and sickly looking.
“I'll trade you my necklace.” He looks up at the guard with steely eyes. “Just help me get him to the gate.”
The guard pulls down his scarf, awestruck. “The Wraith necklace?”
“Yes,” Ronon says between gritted teeth.
“I can get you there but I don't think----”
“The necklace for both or us, or there's no deal.”
The militia man nods his head. “Fine, let me get my defenka; we'll let the beast carry him.”
Ronon's instinct tells him to slay the man and take his chances doing this solo, but this isn't about his welfare.
He goes over to one of the dead bodies and strips the corpse of its jacket. The defenka's feet crunch on the soil as the soldier guides it over while he drapes the coat around his CO to try to preserve warmth.
He doesn't want to use the beast, but his bad shoulder can't hold up the colonel's dead weight for very much longer and he can serve Sheppard better by keeping his hands free. He lifts up the colonel with great care and lays him over the animal in the most comfortable position. The patrolman throws a blanket over the pilot but Ronon grabs the wool out of his hands to do it himself. The guard adjusts the saddle bags around the beast to conceal the colonel with the rest of the supplies.
“You got a scarf?”
“Yeah,” Ronon says, pulling the bandanna around his face.
He walks over and strips another jacket from the dead to blend in with the rest of the planet. He doesn't holster his blaster, follows right behind the soldier he's just hired. Somehow he feels tainted, bargaining in a system that fosters the death and power cycle of this place.
There's no need to ask the patrolman for his name; he doesn't want it, his thoughts only on getting the hell away. He splits his focus between his surroundings, the militia man, and Sheppard. His guide nods at the right people, brandishes his weapon at others and does a good job avoiding trouble.
The 'gate looms in the distance with Ronon on one side of the pack animal and the patrolman on the other. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he can't ignore. The dread becomes well founded when five men rush over to block the exit.
Ronon aims his blaster, stepping in front of the defenka to protect his defenseless CO; the angry group of henchmen draws their weapons at the same time.
“Turesh is dead! Go home,” Ronon orders.
The thugs murmur among each other.
“There is no profit here; just walk away with your lives.”
“You kill him?” one of the goons asks.
“Yes. His blood is all over my shirt. He and Lars are dead, along with anyone that's gotten in the way.” Ronon pulls out a knife with his other hand, looking a little deranged, sporting both weapons. “I'll die fighting my way through every last one of you.”
Some of the goons look doubtful while others rub sore and injured areas.
“Walk away.” Ronon steps closer. “I do not fear dying today.”
Slowly the throng disperses, clearing a path towards the ring. Ronon watches closely, making sure the men are far enough away before sliding his knife back into place. He looks over at the patrolman and rips the Wraith necklace away from his throat and hands it over to him.
He removes the blanket, with as much gentleness as possible; he lifts Sheppard up and carries him towards the 'gate. Ronon doesn't look back, doesn't waste another precious second before dialing the Alpha site. He carries his burden to the safe point before dialing Atlantis.
“This is Ronon- I need a medical team to the ‘gate room. Sheppard's in bad shape.” Swallowing dread, he knows the questions that he's about to face and carries his friend across the horizon, hoping it's not too late.
Conclusion
Author: Kristen999
Character(s): Ronon and Sheppard Friendship
Genre(s): Stargate Atlantis: Some drama, action and h/c.
Rating: T
Words: 21,000 total –3100 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 Chapters
-----------------------
Ronon knows about basic survival from many years on the battlefield. He doesn't have the gentle hand of Teyla or the education of a real doctor but he knows enough to be afraid. Sheppard is unresponsive, even after he rubs his breastbone, copying what he's seen medical people do to wake up patients. Too much time has been wasted. He searches the pilot's tac vest for a bandage and places the heavy pad against the ugly gash on the colonel's temple, wrapping the gauze the best he can around Sheppard's head to keep it in place.
“You're...” He licks his lips in unfamiliarity at offering assurance and hope. “You're going to fine, Sheppard.”
His own shoulder throbs and burns from shrapnel, but he doesn't mess with wounds he can't reach.
He pats down the colonel's effects, looking for a gun, but he's been stripped of anything useful except for the meager medical supplies. There's no way to contact Atlantis and the nearest gate is in the middle of town. The easiest thing would be to slump the pilot over his shoulder, but not with the head wound. Ronon's not going to allow Sheppard's skull to bounce around upside down.
He formulates the simplest plan of attack because there's no denying that getting to safety is going to require a fight. Ronon carefully lifts his burden, making sure the colonel's head is nestled near his shoulder and goes back the way he came. It's a challenge to navigate like this and he's forced to walk sideways in the narrow tunnels to accommodate the colonel's body.
Every tendon aches as he strains under his burden, sending fire down his arm, but Ronon has one solitary goal. He comes across Turesh's body and lowers Sheppard to the ground to search for anything useful. His fingers dig through bloody, soiled clothes until they curl around a handgun. He pulls out the colonel's Glock.
Clutching the gun makes him feel sick and pushes back doubt and what if's about leaving Sheppard to go after Lars...about this whole mission. Allowing those thoughts to fester will only get them killed. He stuffs the Glock in his belt and grunts, picking the pilot back up, the nerves raging streaks of lightning across his back.
He follows Turesh's blood trail back towards the furnace room. The tunnel grows darker until there's nothing but pitch blackness ahead. The explosion has collapsed a much larger section of the cavern than he realized.
“Damn it!”
It doesn't matter; with or without light he can still backtrack to where they’d entered the underground complex. It's tedious, twisting and adjusting to the corridors in the dark, banging Sheppard's boots against many corners in the process.
He moves as fast as he can, his back towards the wall in order to fit them both. “You're heavier than you look,” he grunts at his friend.
He can feel Sheppard's rapid heartbeat under his fingertips, a thumping motivation to keep moving. They trudge on longer, instinct and gut feeling guiding him all the way. Turning to the right, the end of the corridor is lit by something ahead. He searches the ground for a sign that he's headed in the right direction and notices a spot of blood. He bends down and his fingers come away moist. He imagines droplets splattering from Sheppard's head wound as one of Turesh's men went to dump his body after he was shot.
They're closer to the exit now.
It doesn't take long to find the main warehouse where this disaster began. Ronon tenses; there are only two bodies from earlier and he doesn't know if any of the remaining goons are still around or if they all fled after the explosion.
He takes a second to look after Sheppard, placing him on the floor and checking the bandage. It’s sticky with fresh blood and Ronon grabs another dressing from the colonel's vest and adds another layer. This is the last chance he'll have to attend to the pilot's wound for a while. He can't do anything about the busted shoulder but at least Sheppard's not awake to feel anything.
The colonel looks ghastly in the low lighting, his face pale with blood smeared across his forehead. Ronon holds back guilt and anger, feeling too clumsy to offer much help.
He tries not to think about how easily he’d accepted his CO's fate. A bullet to the head should have meant instant death. “I should’ve trusted you not to die,” he mutters, picking the pilot back up.
He pulls out his blaster and musters all his strength, channeling all his pain and adrenaline into the charge. He takes the steps two at a time, accelerating towards the exit and kicking the door open.
His weapon is hidden under Sheppard legs and three men jump up from playing cards, each of them reaching for a gun.
There's no time for hesitancy; he straightens his arms and takes out the group in three quick shots. The noise from the heavily populated bar swallows up the commotion and his feet never stop running. It doesn't take long for some of the horde to notice the crazy man and his injured friend.
Most patrons scatter out of the way, wanting nothing to do with them, but others are suspicious and a few approach him from varied directions. He fires warning shots, causing panic, and the place swarms with people trying to get out of the way.
“Move!” he shouts.
This is a major scene and he curses himself for creating chaos when he only seeks the quickest way out of here. He recognizes two of Turesh's thugs near the bar, sporting bruises from their earlier encounter.
One with a black eye jumps out of his chair. “Hey! Where do you think you're goin'!”
There is no way to engage in a firefight; his movements are compromised carrying the colonel and the prone pilot is a prime target. He thinks quickly, adjusting Sheppard's body and digging into his pocket for a roll of money from a hidden inner lining. He pulls out a bunch of bills and tosses them in the air, allowing them to rain down like confetti.
Greed overcomes fear and many of the patrons converge like wild animals upon the money, helping cover their escape. He tries to use his uninjured shoulder to shove his way through everyone else while trying to protect Sheppard's head from being jostled.
“Outa the way,” he growls at anyone in his path.
He can smell fresh air, or as fresh as it's going to get on this world. Sheppard hasn't stirred once during their flight and he tries not to think of things like brain damage. The sky outside is orange with dark purple streaks; there's no darkness to hide under and he's attracted the attention of a few armed men right outside the bar.
“Hey, you! Stop!”
Ronon’s just tossed away any bribery leverage and he knows tangling with the corrupt authorities over the trail of bodies he's left behind is not an option. He lowers the colonel to the ground in order to gear up for another fray when the soldiers are intercepted by the attention of three eager women.
His eyes dart around in search of more danger and catch the wave from the attractive redhead who wanted in his pants hours ago. He nods at the woman, thanking her for the diversion and she mouths you can pay me back later.
The back alley behind the tavern offers cover and he runs behind the next few buildings in an attempt to elude any of Turesh's men that might try to follow. His arms tremble from carrying Sheppard for so long without a break. His injured shoulder is bleeding from the strain, the wetness trickling down his back.
He ignores his exhaustion, legs pumping at full steam while his left arm slowly goes numb. After going several minutes non-stop, he stumbles over a rock, almost dropping his precious load. He has to take a moment to collect himself and ducks into a dark alley, propping the colonel up against the building.
Gasping for breath, he wipes at his forehead, ignoring how badly his shoulder aches. “Gate's not too far, buddy,” he tells the colonel.
Sheppard's chest rises and falls at a pace even slower than earlier. Ronon checks his pulse and worries at the weakening beat and the icy feel of his skin.
“You can't die,” Ronon hisses.
His death will be on your head and you'll never be able to look anyone in the eye on Atlantis.
A scream builds up from deep inside and he tries to crush the doubt of the voice in his head. He's going to get the colonel to safety no matter what it takes. Sticking to the back alleys of bars and buildings is the best way to stay hidden, but other people use the same cover for their own dealings.
It takes more effort but he lifts Sheppard's limp body higher to keep his blaster out and in plain sight. Anytime a hooligan even gets close, he flashes the muzzle of his gun and they scatter away like rodents. They're getting nearer to the border patrol that separates the seedier inner sector and the normal square that contains the 'gate.
The wind whips at his face, the chill biting his skin, and he curses the fact that both their jackets were stolen after they were captured. Both his arms shake so badly he fears dropping the colonel, but he's not going to sling him over his back like dead meat. He forces himself to keep going and going despite the fact that his pace slows the more he pushes his body.
He senses people following them, staying just far enough behind that he won't notice. There isn't a way to outrun his silent pursuers and he can't afford to draw any more attention from the roaming militia.
A large store looms ahead only a short distance from the final leg of their escape. He deliberately trips, allowing the pursuing shadows to get closer. Ronon counts to three and goes to his knees, letting gravity pull the colonel's body to the ground.
It only takes seconds to pull out the Glock.
He spins around, firing both weapons at the blurs of bodies that converge on him. He sprays bolts of red and waves of lead at his attackers. There's no place to seek cover so he creates a shield of death, pressing both triggers for all their worth.
Three men drop in front of him and he pivots to the left with the gun and right with the blaster, hitting shoulders, arms, chests. Bullets whiz past his ear while bodies hit the ground in heaps of grunts and groans.
Ronon tracks every moving target, always keeping his bulk in front of the colonel to protect him from any stray bullets. The Glock clicks empty and he drops the pistol to the ground as a freight train plows into him.
His blaster is knocked away in the ruckus and they tumble over and over until a face sneers on top of him. A lucky punch to the jaw rattles his teeth and that's all the time he needs to grab his knife and plunge it deeply into flesh and muscle. Ronon shoves the nameless brute away and scrambles to his feet.
A militia man stands next to Sheppard, his rifle trained at Ronon's head. “You're fast, but not that fast,” the soldier warns.
“Get away from him!”
The soldier doesn't budge, his face hidden by a dark scarf and sunglasses. “It would seem I have you at a disadvantage.”
“For the moment.”
The patrolman snickers. “You are a bullheaded one I give you that.” The militia man's weapon doesn't waver, but he nudges Sheppard with his boot.
“You touch him again and I'll rip your throat out,” Ronon growls.
The soldier pulls off his shades, revealing pale, milky eyes. “Looks like you've lost your way.”
Ronon recognizes the guard from entering this sector and his heart thunders in his chest. “We just want to get to the 'gate.”
“Who's we?” The soldier nods at the pilot's unmoving body, never taking his eyes off of Ronon. “He looks dead.”
“He's not!”
“Whatever you say, stranger.”
The patrolman begins to back away. “Good thing I'm not seeking a fight today. Not that it matters. You and your friend will never make it. Too many people are looking for you.”
“Why?”
The patrolman shrugs. “Who cares? I don't even think they know. They can't find their wealthy boss and getting the people who know where he is, means they'll get paid. Then there's the militia; we have an interest in keeping Turesh happy,” the guard says, turning on his heel to leave.
“Wait!” Ronon shouts, his mind reeling, not believing the words that are about to come out of his mouth.
His head screams obscenities for seeking out help, but he needs assistance. All he has is his blaster and his injuries are zapping his energy. He'll carry Sheppard no matter how far, but the odds of eluding everyone that wants them dead are too high. “Can you show us a way around them?”
“I don't think so. I never liked Lars or Turesh but their money was good.”
Ronon walks over and kneels in front of the colonel, his anger and guilt tearing at his gut. He places his ear to the pilot's chest to detect his breathing and listen to his rapid heart. Sheppard is deteriorating too fast; his pallor is ashen and sickly looking.
“I'll trade you my necklace.” He looks up at the guard with steely eyes. “Just help me get him to the gate.”
The guard pulls down his scarf, awestruck. “The Wraith necklace?”
“Yes,” Ronon says between gritted teeth.
“I can get you there but I don't think----”
“The necklace for both or us, or there's no deal.”
The militia man nods his head. “Fine, let me get my defenka; we'll let the beast carry him.”
Ronon's instinct tells him to slay the man and take his chances doing this solo, but this isn't about his welfare.
He goes over to one of the dead bodies and strips the corpse of its jacket. The defenka's feet crunch on the soil as the soldier guides it over while he drapes the coat around his CO to try to preserve warmth.
He doesn't want to use the beast, but his bad shoulder can't hold up the colonel's dead weight for very much longer and he can serve Sheppard better by keeping his hands free. He lifts up the colonel with great care and lays him over the animal in the most comfortable position. The patrolman throws a blanket over the pilot but Ronon grabs the wool out of his hands to do it himself. The guard adjusts the saddle bags around the beast to conceal the colonel with the rest of the supplies.
“You got a scarf?”
“Yeah,” Ronon says, pulling the bandanna around his face.
He walks over and strips another jacket from the dead to blend in with the rest of the planet. He doesn't holster his blaster, follows right behind the soldier he's just hired. Somehow he feels tainted, bargaining in a system that fosters the death and power cycle of this place.
There's no need to ask the patrolman for his name; he doesn't want it, his thoughts only on getting the hell away. He splits his focus between his surroundings, the militia man, and Sheppard. His guide nods at the right people, brandishes his weapon at others and does a good job avoiding trouble.
The 'gate looms in the distance with Ronon on one side of the pack animal and the patrolman on the other. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach that he can't ignore. The dread becomes well founded when five men rush over to block the exit.
Ronon aims his blaster, stepping in front of the defenka to protect his defenseless CO; the angry group of henchmen draws their weapons at the same time.
“Turesh is dead! Go home,” Ronon orders.
The thugs murmur among each other.
“There is no profit here; just walk away with your lives.”
“You kill him?” one of the goons asks.
“Yes. His blood is all over my shirt. He and Lars are dead, along with anyone that's gotten in the way.” Ronon pulls out a knife with his other hand, looking a little deranged, sporting both weapons. “I'll die fighting my way through every last one of you.”
Some of the goons look doubtful while others rub sore and injured areas.
“Walk away.” Ronon steps closer. “I do not fear dying today.”
Slowly the throng disperses, clearing a path towards the ring. Ronon watches closely, making sure the men are far enough away before sliding his knife back into place. He looks over at the patrolman and rips the Wraith necklace away from his throat and hands it over to him.
He removes the blanket, with as much gentleness as possible; he lifts Sheppard up and carries him towards the 'gate. Ronon doesn't look back, doesn't waste another precious second before dialing the Alpha site. He carries his burden to the safe point before dialing Atlantis.
“This is Ronon- I need a medical team to the ‘gate room. Sheppard's in bad shape.” Swallowing dread, he knows the questions that he's about to face and carries his friend across the horizon, hoping it's not too late.
Conclusion
