Blood & Water - Part II

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Title: Blood & Water
Rating: R
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: John Sheppard, Ronon Dex, Teyla Emmagen, Rodney McKay
Word Count: 11,623
Categories: gen, action/adventure, drama, hurt/comfort, team
Spoilers: none
Warnings: graphic depictions of violence/injuries, mild language
Summary: On a world isolated from the rest of the galaxy, Sheppard and team encounter a society with a unique view of the Wraith. Captured and forced to participate in the local practice of ritualistic combat, they have to literally fight for their lives—and no one escapes unscathed.

Part I
Part III


Sheppard slept poorly and woke suddenly. His memories were a jumbled mess and it took him a few minutes to realize why he felt so wrong. Then the previous night’s events came flooding back and he closed his eyes against the surge of emotion.

He sat up cautiously, feeling out his injuries. His ribs were aching but he could breath just fine, so he didn’t think anything was broken there. His face was throbbing, though. He gently tested the swelling there; not too bad, but enough to make him wish for an ice pack and some pain reliever.

He stretched his hands, trying to work out the stiffness and aches. His knuckles were bruised and a little swollen but he’d managed not to break anything there, either. They’d all been able to wash their hands the night before with a bucket of water that had been brought for that purpose, but there was still blood under and around his fingernails. He draped his arms over his bent knees, hands dangling where he couldn’t see them, and looked over his team.

Rodney was curled up on his side facing the door, his back to everyone. He was breathing steadily, with the faintest of snores, so Sheppard knew he was still asleep. Teyla was curled up on his right, eyes still closed, but he thought she might already be awake. She just might not be ready to talk yet, and he could understand that. He let her be.

Ronon was sitting up with his back against the wall to Sheppard’s left. He was staring slightly upwards, his head titled at an angle to better see the sky through the prison window. Sheppard gave him a nudge with his elbow.

“What’s up?”

“It’s almost midday,” came the rumbled reply.

Not surprising; they’d been up almost the whole night. But it was worrying that rescue still hadn’t arrived, and that there were only a few hours left until the moons rose again. Sheppard nodded in acknowledgment as Teyla sat up beside him with the faintest of sighs.

“They should be bringing us more food and water soon,” she said.

After they’d been given the bucket of water to wash with the night before, they had also been brought water to drink, along with a hearty meal. It was clear that their captors felt they shouldn’t be starved or have their strength or abilities in any way diminished. The food had actually been pretty good and they had all managed to eat well despite their emotional states, even Rodney, a fact that had helped to ease the cold knot in Sheppard’s stomach.

Now his stomach was growling, though, and his tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper. “Maybe they want to be sure we’re up before they bring anything?” he suggested.

Hoping that was the case, he decided to make an appearance. He had to use the wall to push himself upright, but once he was on his feet he felt strong enough. He tentatively stretched, found nothing hurt enough to complain about, and stepped over to window.

There were people milling about, more than there had been yesterday before the fighting started. None looked like they were keeping an eye on the prison, though, so Sheppard just aimed his voice at the group nearest him, two women and a man talking in low voices just a few meters away.

“Can we get some food? And water?”

One of the women turned her head sharply at the sound of his voice. Once she found his face between the bars, she nodded.

“I will see to it,” she said, turning on her heel and heading back behind the prison. The people she had been speaking with spared the prison a glance, but moved off in the direction of the stands.

“Room service ordered,” Sheppard joked as he returned to his seat.

Rodney made a mumbling sound, then seemed to startle before he rolled over to face them with a groan. “What time is it?”

“Almost lunch, you have perfect timing.”

“Oh, yeah, perfect timing all around, that’s me.” Rodney sat up and rubbed his back with a grimace. “I hate sleeping on the ground. Everything hu—” He cut himself off as he looked at the rest of the team, his eyes running over their very obvious injuries. “Lunch, you said?” he continued, voice just slightly too casual.

“Should be bringing it—” Sheppard paused, hearing someone approaching outside “—right about now.”

None of them bothered to get up. There still wasn’t any point trying to make a break for it, and even if they were going to, Sheppard felt it would be stupid not to fuel up first. So they stayed where they were and watched as a man and a woman brought in two trays of food, and then two buckets of water.

As the door shut behind them, Rodney got up on his knees and grabbed the closest tray, passing it to Teyla who then passed it to Ronon. Rodney set the second tray in front of Teyla, then stood to haul over the two buckets of water. Each bucket had a combination ladle and bowl hooked to its side that served as a cup. Rodney set one bucket between Ronon and Sheppard and the other between Teyla and himself before he sat again.

The food on the trays looked like an alien version of a charcuterie board. There were cold meats of unknown origin, more of the bread they’d had as their first meal on the planet, and a kind of salty, dry cheese that reminded Sheppard of feta. There were fruits of both sweet and tart flavors and a bland but not unpleasant tasting vegetable that, despite being purple, reminded Sheppard of cucumber. Unlike the previous meal, there was also a dessert-like item included. It looked a bit like cookie, but had the texture of a brownie and tasted like caramel.

Sheppard started with fruit, reflexively warning Rodney away from the small, grape-like ones when he tried one himself and it had the tang of citrus. Teyla deftly plucked those from hers and Rodney’s tray and moved them to Ronon and Sheppard’s. Ronon silently reached past Sheppard to trade her a couple of large, peach-colored fruits that had a texture like apples, and she gave him a small smile.

They finished the meal in silence, seemingly too tired and hungry to muster up much conversation. Not that there was much to talk about. Sheppard was keeping an ear out for the sound of their rescue team finally arriving, but he was starting to grow concerned with how long it was taking them. Had something happened back home? Had Atlantis been attacked, or had there been some kind of accident?

He had mused himself into a rather harried state of mind by the time the same two locals returned to remove the trays. As they backed out of the room with empty trays in hand and the man reached to pull the door shut, Sheppard stopped him, a question suddenly on his mind.

“Hey, wait a second.”

The man paused with the door halfway closed and looked at Sheppard with some suspicion but no real alarm.

“No, it’s fine, you can lock us back in first, but can we talk?” Sheppard asked, gesturing to the window.

The man thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “If you want.” He pulled the door shut and they heard the lock click into place.

Sheppard hauled himself to his feet again and stepped to the window. The man was waiting for him, again standing just out of reach.

“What’s your name?” Sheppard asked him, as he sensed the rest of his team join him at the window.

The man’s gaze traveled across the appearing faces before returning to Sheppard’s. “I’m Oram.”

“Hi, Oram, I’m John.” Sheppard stuck a hand through the bars and pointed down the line as he introduced the others. “Ronon, Teyla, Rodney.”

Oram nodded at each. “What is it you wish to talk about, John?”

“I want to know more about your people.” He’d been thinking about how he hadn’t seen any skirmishes happening outside of the battles, how even those who had fought hadn’t appeared to have training of any particular kind or consistency. “Why do you kill each other like this?”

“To honor death,” Oram replied, as if the answer were obvious.

“So why aren’t you all attacking each other right now? There are potential people for you to kill, or who could kill you, all over the place.”

“There is no honor in dying outside the time of Notari, during the rites of battle.”

“Why?” Ronon asked it before Sheppard could.

Oram blinked at him. “You must first live for your death to have meaning. We only seek death during the sacred time of Notari, when there will be honor in the dying.”

“Why do you want to honor death?” Teyla inquired, seemingly with genuine curiosity.

“It is the way of the gods.”

There was reverence in Oram’s tone, and Sheppard recalled what Teyla and Ronon had told him about the people of Bellus.

“You mean the Wraith?” Ronon growled the name, tone dangerous.

“What other gods are there?” Oram replied, clearly not understanding the question.

“The Wraith are not gods.” Teyla spat the final word, the increasing speed of her speech a clear indicator of her fraught emotions. “They are monsters that feed on the living. They are not worthy of worship and they are certainly not worth dying for.”

Oram studied her with a confused frown. “Why are they monsters?”

“They take the life of others in order to live,” Teyla responded, incredulous.

“Do you not do the same?” The tone was calm, Oram’s face neutral.

“No!”

“You killed last night.”

“Because you made them!” Rodney suddenly erupted. “If they didn’t have to do it, they wouldn’t have! You left them no choice!”

Oram turned to him, unperturbed by the outburst. “Do the Wraith have a choice? Do they not have to feed on the living or die?”

“We do not have to either kill or die,” Teyla replied, her voice caught somewhere between anger and sorrow. “You have made those the only options but there are so many more.”

“Have you ever seen a Wraith?” Rodney’s tone was contemplative, the same way it got when the parts of the problem he was working on finally started to slide into place, revealing something to him.

“No, the gods do not come here.”

That definitely caught Sheppard attention, and he stared at Oram in disbelief. “Wait—the Wraith have never been here?”

“They used to come, many, many generations ago,” Oram replied. “Long before remembered time. But they stopped. We were left to follow our ways and the only path we had to them. We hope for the day when they return and take us with them directly again, but for now death is our only path.”

Sheppard blinked at Oram, trying to process what he’d just said. It was a little disconcerting to hear someone talk about wanting the Wraith to return, and as he tried to wrap his mind around that sentiment he managed to miss the most important part of Oram’s response. Teyla, as usual, didn’t.

“What do you think happens when you die?” she asked Oram, almost as if she didn’t want to know the answer.

“We become Wraith.”

There was stunned silence following that proclamation. Sheppard felt like his brain had short circuited. He looked down the line of his team and saw by their expressions that there were equally as dumbfounded by Oram’s answer.

“What?” Ronon croaked at him.

“We become Wraith and then continue the cycle of life and death.” Oram repeated, his tone shifting from mild confusion at their ignorance to mild disdain. “It is the way of things.”

“So you don’t think that you actually die, you think that you just become a Wraith,” Sheppard clarified, speaking the words slowly and half believing that he’d somehow misunderstood Oram the first time. And the second one.

“Yes. That is what happens.”

Beside Sheppard, Rodney finally found his voice and went off on a tirade.

“No, it really isn’t,” he spat at Oram. “You don’t know the first thing about the Wraith. We have seen the Wraith. We’ve been attacked by them, hunted by them, fed on by them, almost blown up by them. We’ve worked with them and fought against them—hell, we’ve turned them human! They aren’t gods, they’re just bug people! And we know for certain that dead humans don’t become Wraith. Because if that were the case, they definitely would’ve told us by now.”

As Rodney had spoken, Oram’s face had gone completely blank. He was staring at the team now as if seeing them for the first time.

“You have met the Wraith.” His voice was toneless.

“Uh, yeah,” Sheppard replied, suddenly a bit uneasy. “We have. Lots of times.”

“Fought with ‘em, too,” Ronon added.

Oram gaze snapped to Ronon. “You have fought the gods and lived?”

“Also lots of times.”

Oram stared at them all, eyes again moving from face to face, before he turned and jogged away. Sheppard watched him go and felt a tendril of concern.

“That might blow up in our faces.” He turned to glare at Rodney. “Maybe shouldn’t have mentioned that we could turn Wraith human, Rodney. Kind of a counterintuitive argument against their belief that they turn into Wraith when they die.”

Sheppard could see that Rodney’s brain had been kicked into high gear, though, and he continued on as if he hadn’t heard Sheppard.

“Their understanding of the Wraith must have gotten skewed after so many years without any contact with them.”

“Could it have been set up on purpose?” Sheppard asked, an idea forming.

“What do you mean?” Teyla looked disturbed by the implication.

“Well, we know the Wraith experimented on humans—like with your gift,” he pointed out. “What if a Wraith tried to play god with these people? I mean, just imagine: a whole planet of people who willingly line up to be fed on. Not that the Wraith have lots of problems with their food, but wouldn’t it kind of be like domesticating animals to them?”

“I don’t want to be domesticated,” Rodney whined in an undertone.

“Perhaps,” Teyla agreed, expression thoughtful. “That could also explain why the Wraith stopped visiting. If there was only one Wraith involved and this was not a planet known to the others, if that Wraith were to be killed—”

“The people would have been abandoned by their god.”

Sheppard watched as Teyla turned to pace the short distance from wall to wall in their cell. She was clearly agitated by the picture he’d painted.

“I—I am struggling to wrap my mind around this,” she admitted. “It is so opposite to everything I know, everything we have ever encountered.”

“Makes sense, though.” Ronon sounded disgusted by the fact.

“Them ‘keeping the faith,’ as it were, was no doubt helped on by the fact that probably have also been almost completely isolated from everyone else in the galaxy,” Rodney added. “Think about it: stories of this planet wound up as far afield as Athos and Sateda, and I’m sure they’re in a lot of other places besides. If everyone thought Bellus was a deadly place, and if the Gate address was also rarely if ever known, these people could have been lost in their own cultural bubble for who knows how long. Their beliefs would have just fed on themselves, becoming more and more ingrained.”

Sheppard momentarily closed his eyes in resignation before looking back at Rodney. “What I’m hearing is we don’t have any hope of reaching these people to get them to stop.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Great,” Sheppard sighed.

He glanced back outside to see Oram returning, this time accompanied by the man who had presided over the previous night’s battles. Oram watched them all now with a stunned air, almost as if he were uncertain whether he should even look directly at them or not. The other man studied them more directly, his gaze skeptical but expression open. After a few moments of scrutiny, he spoke to Sheppard.

“You have seen the gods?”

“The Wraith, yes.”

“You have fought them?”

“Even killed them.”

The man stepped back, shock evident in his expression. But then his face cleared to something more like divine joy. He whispered a few words to Oram, who set off for what Sheppard had started thinking of as the funeral tent.

“Those who fell to your hands last night must be buried with the highest of honors,” the man told them. “Battling outsiders is already honor enough, but to die by the hand of those who have matched the gods? It is unprecedented.”

“They are not gods,” Teyla firmly repeated.

“Not to ones who can stand equal with them.”

Sheppard had an idea. “If we are equal with them, we can speak for them, right?”

“You may stand with them,” the man replied, “but you are not them. I would hear what you have to say, though.”

Sheppard opened his mouth, ready to try again with his Let Us Go argument. But he saw the look in the man’s eyes and realized there was no point. They didn’t have the time needed to get through to these people. He pivoted to an easier battle.

“We want to fight in the same order tonight.” If he could just keep Rodney out of the circle.

The man looked surprised. He pointed to Rodney. “But he has not battled yet. And tonight is the night of Salvo, the night of the most honorable death possible within our cycle.”

“And we’ll fight, we just have a preferred order.”

The man seemed to waver, but only said, “I will consider it,” before walking away.

Sheppard sighed. “Damn it.”

He turned and slid down the wall to sit again, suddenly exhausted. Teyla sat down beside him, but Ronon remained standing, still staring out the window.

“Wraith worshippers,” Teyla said in disbelief.

“Who don’t even get anything from the Wraith,” Ronon muttered in disgust.

“And who now think that we’re equal to the Wraith,” Rodney added from where he was pacing in front of the cell door.

“For all the good it did,” Sheppard said.

Rodney stopped to stare at him, face contorted in anger. “You mean for all the bad it did! Last night was just a warm up; they didn’t know anything about us yet. Now they’ve seen you three death machines fight and they think we’re some kind of god-level warriors. Who the hell do you think they’re going to pair me up with tonight? I’m gonna get some Superman type that’ll break my spine over his knee!” he yelled.

Sheppard’s only initial concern over discussing their exploits against the Wraith with a group of people who viewed the Wraith as gods was that they might be killed outright for, say, blasphemy. That bullet dodged, he hadn’t considered any additional repercussions. But now with Rodney watching him, eyes wide with fear, he felt his stomach drop. Shit.

“I don’t think they have anyone that good,” Ronon advised with clear disdain.

“Easy for you to say,” Rodney snapped.

“No, I believe Ronon is correct.” Teyla glanced from Ronon to Rodney. “The most difficult part of my battle last night was attempting to keep it going as long as I could. If I had not needed to do that, I could have ended it fairly quickly and probably would not have received any injuries.”

“Same,” Ronon said.

Sheppard nodded. “I felt bad having to drag it out, honestly. It seemed a little cruel.” So did having to beat a kid nearly half to death before stabbing him in the heart, but he wasn’t going to go there.

“Yeah, but you all know how to fight,” Rodney argued. “You’re good at it. I’m not. I’m not a fighter, I’m a scientist. I don’t hit people with my hands, I—I type! I rewire thousand year old alien technology! I point very aggressively at incompetent lab assistants!” He threw his arms in the air in frustration, before proving his point by pointing aggressively at the window. “There is no way in hell that I can go out there and win a battle to the death.”

“Yes, you can,” Ronon bluntly stated.

“Listen, Conan—”

“You can fight, McKay,” Ronon interrupted him, more gruffly. “You don’t like to, fine. But if you’d just stop worrying about what you can’t do and start doing what we’ve taught you to do, you’d be fine.”

Rodney gaped at him, unusually at a loss for words.

“He is right, Rodney.” Teyla looked up at him with fondness and exasperation. “You have learned enough that you should be able to hold your own here. It does not appear that any of these people have any formal combat training; they fight with no finesse or intelligence. You are smarter than they are and we are very good teachers.”

Sheppard smiled to himself at the slight hints of shyness and embarrassment that Rodney was suddenly showing. He was shifting his weight back and forth on his feet, eyes darting around the room, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“We’re gonna try to keep you out of the ring, Rodney,” Sheppard reminded him. “But if you do have to go in there, don’t hold back.”

Rodney looked up at him then, entire demeanor deadly serious. He looked sad more than anything, and Sheppard felt helpless anger flame to life inside him. It wasn’t useful, not at the moment, so he pushed it down.

“Not like I’ll have a choice,” Rodney said in a darkly humorous tone. “I didn’t exactly plan on dying today.”

Ronon stepped over to clap him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”


-000000-


Ronon and Teyla spent the afternoon taking turns preparing Rodney. They focused on the basics, having him go through sets of punches and jabs, blocks and kicks, over and over. Their earlier words appearing to serve as a sort of positive reinforcement, Rodney was steadier in his moves than Sheppard had ever seen him be. He was more intent, as well, his brow crinkled in concentration as he followed their instructions without complaint or—perhaps more tellingly—with no self-deprecation.

Sheppard watched him practice, still terrified Rodney might have to battle but slightly more confident in his abilities to come out of the fight alive than he had been. He wouldn’t toss Rodney in with even the greenest of Atlantis’s military contingent, but against the untrained people here, he had a chance.

Hopefully, Atlantis would show up before they had to risk it, though. Sheppard’s concern about the lack of contact from home was rapidly morphing from worry into paranoia. Something had to have happened. They were at least 24 hours overdue by now and there hadn’t been the slightest hint that anyone had been sent after them. As darkness started to fall again, his belief that rescue would come that day faded, but his fear about what was going on in Atlantis only grew.

“Atlantis should have been here by now.” Teyla’s voice was quiet.

They had finished their evening meal—a thick stew with more bread, this time accompanied by butter—an hour or so earlier and were now all sitting facing the cell window, watching the moons appear. They had reached full alignment that night and were blood red, the moonlight given a ruddy hue.

“Yeah, they should have,” Sheppard sighed.

“Something had to have happened, a Gate malfunction, or an accident, or—” Rodney sat straight up as the possibility hit him “—or maybe they’ve been attacked!”

“Or maybe they came, but they went in the wrong direction,” Ronon suggested.

Sheppard shook his head. “They would’ve gone the same direction we did.”

“Which was what direction, exactly?” Rodney retorted. “Did you see which way we were going while we were being bodily carted through the trees? Because the only thing I could see was the sky.”

“They would’ve followed the same logic we did, Rodney. It’s more likely they haven’t come yet, and that’s got me worried.”

“Me as well,” Teyla said.

“Not much we can do from here,” Ronon pointed out.

“I know.” Sheppard ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tension building up inside him again. “And right now we just have to focus on getting through tonight.”

“Again,” Rodney said.

When they could spot the flicker of torches, they all stood and returned to the window. The arena looked the same as the night before: milling crowd, glowing tents, empty circle. Sheppard had noticed earlier that the soiled dirt inside it had been removed and the dirt beneath raked, leaving the circle once again pristine, ready for new blood.

Once it was full dark and the bottom-most of the moons had risen above the far stands, the battles resumed. The man from the night before entered the circle again, bowl in hand, and poured the same dark liquid on the ground.

“It’s blood,” Ronon informed them. “I could smell it when I got to the circle.”

“It must be part of the ritual.”

“Blood spilled, blood to be spilled,” Teyla mumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sheppard saw Rodney shiver.

After the man threw the handful of dust over the blood, just as he had the night before, the crowd once again turned to stare at the prison. Four men emerged from the gloom at the edge of the stands and walked toward in their direction. The team all moved back from the window to stand facing the door. They hadn’t been given any indication whether their desire to fight in the same order would be heeded, and so they waited to see what would happen. Sheppard was considering fighting to get out first, if that’s what he had to do. Would the locals really stop anyone who showed an eagerness to fight? He didn’t think so.

The door creaked open and one of the guards appeared. His eyes moved over the four of them but he didn’t speak. After a few seconds of waiting, the team exchanged questioning glances. Just as Sheppard was about to ask the guard if he was expecting one of them in particular, Rodney, who had been standing closest to the door, stepped forward.

“I’m first.”

“Rodney!” Teyla called out in astonishment.

“No, it’s me!” Ronon surged forward, as if to shove his way past Rodney, but the guard had already pushed Rodney outside and was shutting the door. Ronon reached it just as it closed, and battered himself hard enough against it that it rattled in its frame. “No! It’s me! I fight first! I’m ready to die!”

Sheppard flinched at the words, but he was already at the window, calling to Rodney over the sound of Ronon’s bellows.

“Rodney! Rodney, what are you doing? We’ve been trying to avoid this,” he hissed, anger momentarily getting the drop on fear. He sensed Teyla and Ronon come to stand at either side of him.

There was genuine terror in Rodney’s eyes as he turned back to look at them, and he kept rubbing his hands on his pants, no doubt in an effort to stop his palms from sweating. But his expression was firm, his jaw hard, and he didn’t look away from Sheppard’s glare, only the faintest tremor in his voice as he replied.

“You said it yourselves, the hardest part was drawing things out.” He waved a shaking hand in their direction. “You three only got hurt because you were trying to protect me. I’ll do this and either I make it through, in which case all your fights can be as short as you can make them, or… I don’t. In which case, the result is the same.”

Sheppard wanted to rip the bars out of the window. “It is not the same, Rodney! You aren’t just some pawn!”

“And neither are you!” Rodney fired back, some of his characteristic irritability creeping back into his tone. “You don’t get to throw yourselves headlong at death just because I’m at risk; I’m not that much of a coward.”

“Rodney, of all the times for your heroic streak to kick in—”

The laugh Rodney gave was barely a huff. “Oh, I’m not feeling very heroic. About the only things I’m feeling right now are terror with a large side helping of panic, but I’m going do this anyway.” A sudden bit of heat came into his voice and he narrowed his eyes at them. “And if I die because you’re all shitty teachers, I’m going to be incredibly pissed off.”

And with that he turned his back to them and stalked toward the circle. His anger seemed to sustain him the entire way since he didn’t show any hesitation until he was right outside the circle itself. Sheppard saw his shoulders rise as he took a deep breath, and then he stepped inside.

The opponent that met him was a man who appeared to be Rodney age, and who was roughly the same height. He was about the same size, too, though from what Sheppard could see it looked like Rodney actually had more muscle. Darkly, he was grateful for all the peril they constantly found themselves in; score one for Rodney.

Watching the body language of Rodney’s opponent, Sheppard started to relax a little. The man moved a bit slowly, almost as if his whole body were heavier than it looked and it took more effort and thought to move it than he had available to give. The more he saw, the more Sheppard believed that Rodney had a chance—a really good chance—of winning. He didn’t let himself think about what Rodney would have to do to finalize that win and whether he’d be able to bring himself to do it; they would deal with that when they got there. But for now, the situation looked to be as much in Rodney’s favor as they could hope for it to be.

Then the knives appeared.

Sheppard froze, all the blood draining from his head. He heard Teyla’s faint exclamation of surprise as if it were coming from far away.

Each fighter was given a four-inch blade. Dimly, Sheppard registered the barest sensation of relief at the fact that the local man fumbled his knife even more than Rodney did, actually dropping it when it was first handed to him and taking two attempts to pick it up again. Still, the majority of Sheppard’s brain was busy screaming at him.

They have knives!

They hadn’t planned for this. Rodney was much better with a gun than he was his fists, but he was better hand-to-hand than he was with a blade. And in the hands of an untrained fighter a knife could do much more damage than a punch would.

Ronon was yelling again. It might have just been sounds of outrage, for all Sheppard could make out; he was finding it difficult to focus on any words past the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Rodney didn’t even look their way. Instead, Sheppard watched as he adjusted his grip on the knife’s hilt and stepped back into a slightly stiff fighter’s stance. There was still anger in his expression, and Sheppard hoped he held onto it—Rodney always did better in dangerous situations when anger kept him from overthinking what was happening. But as Rodney stared his opponent down, Sheppard thought he saw uncertainty flash through his eyes.

The man seemed to take Rodney meeting his gaze as the signal to begin, because as soon as their eyes locked he made the arm-across-the-chest gesture and then walked—literally walked—up to Rodney. The choice of action was astonishing, even for someone without training. Ronon was even shocked enough by it that he stopped yelling. Rodney looked surprised, too, but recovered quickly enough to easily shift his stance around so that the clumsy jab the man made with his blade missed him by a full two feet.

The two of them continued like that, the man following Rodney around the circle while making very poor attempts to stab and slash him, and Rodney dodging each attempt, his expression growing more and more perplexed. It was a surreal display, the combination of the local man’s ineptness and Rodney’s unwillingness to engage with him dragging on absurdly. Sheppard wanted to yell out instructions, wanted to tell Rodney to just stab the man the next time he lunged, but he was afraid to distract him in any way. Yet he knew that the longer the odd dance lasted, the more likely it was that something could go wrong and Rodney would get hurt.

And that was exactly what happened. The local man seemed to finally grasp that his strategy wasn’t working, and the next time he came at Rodney, he had the presence of mind to strike out where Rodney might move to instead of where he currently was. He got lucky with his decision to go left, and plunged his knife into Rodney’s left thigh.

Rodney’s eyes went wide in surprise and he howled in pain, jumping back as the man retracted the knife from his leg. Limping away, Rodney put distance been them, his opponent not shadowing the movement for the first time since the beginning of their fight. The man appeared to be momentarily paralyzed by the shock of having managed to make contact, and he stared at Rodney in something close to bewilderment.

Sheppard’s heart rate had spiked as soon as Rodney was hit. A stab wound to the thigh could kill; there were some very large blood vessels that ran through that part of the leg, and with some of them even a nick would be enough for a person to bleed to death in minutes. But from what he could see, Rodney had been stabbed on the front of the thigh, more to the outside—painful, but not deadly. The wound wouldn’t kill him, but it made him much more vulnerable, the damage and the associated pain making him less steady on his feet and less mobile. And with Rodney, pain acted like either anger or fear: one bolstered him while the other flustered him.

As the local man regained his composure and struck out at Rodney again, it was clear that fear was winning. Though Rodney had spent the entire match up to that point comfortably outmaneuvering his opponent, his dodges were suddenly hesitant, as though he was unsure of himself. The fact that his opponent had made contact at all seemed to have shaken Rodney’s confidence, and the fight became a series of close calls, two of which led to further injuries.

With Rodney hesitating now, the man’s strikes kept getting closer and closer to him, and at one point, when a downward swing came within inches of his face, he reflexively threw up a hand to ward it off. His opponent’s blade caught his left forearm, slicing across it about halfway between hand and elbow. Rodney cried out but managed not to drop his own knife, instead tucking the injured arm against his stomach, probably as much due to the pain as with the thought of using the pressure to staunch the bleeding.

It wasn’t long after that the man made contact again. It was no doubt because of the injury to Rodney’s arm—and, perhaps even more so, the wound in his leg—that it happened. Hobbling on the leg and with an arm held against him so that it wasn’t providing a counterweight, he’d become unbalanced. When his opponent slashed at him, Rodney wasn’t able to pull away quickly enough, and Sheppard watched in horror as a line of blood appeared across his throat.

The only thing that kept Sheppard from passing out right then and there was the almost absentminded way that Rodney swiped his free hand across his neck. The wound continued to bleed, but was obviously shallow, and the fact that there wasn’t either an immediate spray or gushing of blood was enough for Sheppard’s stomach to drop kick his heart back into his chest.

So far, Rodney had been lucky, given the circumstances. Injuries were perhaps an inevitability in this sort of combat, but he hadn’t suffered anything life-threatening or even debilitating. But now he needed to respond in kind, take his opponent down, and get the hell out of there.

But even as Sheppard had that thought, what he feared most finally happened. Rodney wound up too close to the edge of the circle while attempting to evade another lunge from his opponent, and as he stepped to the side, one of his feet caught the stones that made up the circle’s border, tripping him up. He stumbled away, somehow managing to keep his feet, but his back was to his opponent for a moment.

Sheppard could see it coming, but his throat was so tight that he couldn’t shout a warning. Rodney’s words from just the day before echoed through his mind like a cruel, prophetic taunt: And how are you going to stop them, hmm? Yell really aggressively through the bars while someone stabs me in the back? He wanted to scream.

He watched in slow motion as Rodney regained his balance and the local man thrust his knife into Rodney’s back.

Ronon let out a roar that Sheppard swore made the prison walls shake, and Teyla yelled Rodney’s name, but Sheppard still couldn’t find his voice. Ronon was fruitlessly yanking at a few of the window bars, as if he could rip them out of the stone and get to Rodney that way. But Sheppard couldn’t do much more than maintain the grip he had on the two in front of him. He felt like he was sinking into the ground, and the only thing tethering him to reality was the solidness of the bars in his hands.

This wasn’t happening. Rodney was not dying. This was not happening.

Everything was still moving slower than it should have been. He watched the local man draw back his hand, knife still clutched in it, the blade covered in Rodney’s blood. There was a sound, somewhere past Ronon and Teyla’s voices, that some part of Sheppard’s brain registered as Rodney crying out in pain.

Then things sped into real time. Rodney whipped around to face his opponent faster than Sheppard had ever seen him move before, blindly thrusting out his own knife as he did so. Then he froze, face-to-face with the local man, his hands between their bodies where the team, who was facing the man’s back, couldn’t see them. Sheppard could see Rodney’s face, though, and watched as the expression on it shifted from pain and anger to confusion and then horror.

Rodney stepped back with a start, still staring wide-eyed at his opponent. For a moment, the scene was frozen. Then, like a building falling, the man slowly toppled backwards. Once he was flat on his back on the ground, they could see Rodney’s knife sticking out of the man’s chest.

Sheppard looked back at Rodney. He was holding his trembling hands in the air, almost in a placating gesture, and Sheppard could see the dark stains on them, along with the blood dripping down his forearm from the cut there. Spectators entered the circle to crowd around the fallen man. After a second, one of them looked up and murmured something in Rodney’s direction. Rodney immediately dropped his hands, his shoulders slumping and his expression turning bleak, and Sheppard knew.

“He won,” he breathed.

He glanced at Ronon, whose expression was grim but whose eyes were burning. Then he turned to Teyla. The remnants of terror were in her gaze, but her eyes were turning sad. The shock of the fight’s abrupt ending had momentarily distracted Sheppard from Rodney having just been stabbed in the back, but he quickly returned his gaze to the circle when he remembered.

Rodney was already being escorted back to the prison, the guards close enough to him that Sheppard was sure they were helping to hold him up. Behind him, a litter had been brought for the man he’d killed. Sheppard noted that it was a more elaborate affair than the ones used the previous night, and wondered if that was due to the night being Salvo or due to his team being god killers. The fabric stretched between the litter’s poles was a bright red instead of white, and though he couldn’t make out the details, he could see items dangling from the handles. Once the man was laid out on the litter, another bit of red fabric was laid over him. As it was shaken open, Sheppard caught a glimpse of a some kind of pattern stitched onto its surface.

The sound of the lock being opened drew his attention back inside. He and Teyla stepped away from the window, while Ronon walked over to the door, ready for his turn.

The door opened and Rodney hobbled in. He was shaking, his eyes glazed, and instead of immediately leaving, Ronon gently placed a giant hand on his lower back and guided him over to Sheppard and Teyla. As Teyla took hold of Rodney’s uninjured arm to help him lower himself to the ground, she gave Ronon a nod. Ronon looked from her to Sheppard, then back to Rodney again, before turning on his heels and ducking through the door.

Sheppard almost pitied whoever faced Ronon next. No, not almost—he genuinely pitied them. As stupid as this whole situation was, these people didn’t know any better. They’d never had to actually fight for their lives, and they didn’t understand the real horrors that were out there in the galaxy. And they sure as hell didn’t know what Ronon was capable of when he wasn’t holding back. But they were about to.

Teyla had gotten Rodney seated on the ground, nearly in the middle of the cell. The red glow from the moons made everything look worse than it was, but there was no mistaking the amount of blood on him. His hand were covered, as was his forearm, the cut across it not very wide but deep enough to still be seeping. The slice across Rodney’s throat, now that Sheppard could see it, was more to the right side of his neck and shallow, but it was dripping blood into his collar. The front of his shirt had a large wet spot from where he’d held his arm against it, as did the thigh of his pants from the wound there.

Teyla was checking Rodney’s back for the final stab wound, fingers dancing over the fabric of his shirt as she searched for the damage. Sheppard hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until she found what she was looking for, there on the back of Rodney’s left arm just below the shoulder. She looked up at Sheppard, astonished relief in her eyes, and all the air rushed from Sheppard’s lungs with an audible whoosh. He laid a steadying hand on Rodney’s uninjured shoulder, ignoring the fact that the hand had a slight tremor. A shoulder wound wasn’t bad, they could deal with that, Rodney would live through that. The relief was intense enough that Sheppard almost laughed.

But Rodney was still shuddering beneath his hand, his eyes staring blinding at the wall. The wound in his shoulder was deep and it had to be painful, but he didn’t react at all to Teyla’s ministrations as she began peeling his torn shirt away from it to assess the damage. It was obvious that he was going into shock, and Sheppard mentally ran down the treatment list and what they could manage without their gear.

As he got up to retrieve the water bucket that had been left for them, he heard the crowd outside gasp as one. They hadn’t made any noise during the previous fights, and he wondered what Ronon had done to elicit a response. He glanced out the window as he returned to Rodney’s side to see Ronon already striding back, his guards actually jogging to catch up. Sheppard had been right; Ronon at full fury had made it a short fight.

He set the bucket down and filled the ladle cup, offering it to Rodney.

“Here, Rodney, drink some water.”

Dazedly, Rodney reached out to take it from him, but his hands were shaking so badly that Sheppard gently pushed them away and held the cup to Rodney’s lips instead. Rodney managed a few sips before he coughed and turned his face away. The cell door opened and Ronon walked in, coming over to help Teyla to her feet.

“Make it quick,” he told her as he took her place beside Rodney.

She nodded and left.

As the guard went to close the door, Sheppard sat up.

“Wait! We need supplies for our friend.”

The guard looked at him blankly.

“He’s hurt!” Sheppard tried again. “We need to patch up his wounds.”

The guard hesitated, glancing outside as if for directions or assent, and Sheppard let the anger he’d pushed down earlier roar back to life. He surged to his feet and took two quick strides toward the door. The guard’s gaze snapped back to him.

“We need medical supplies,” he snarled. “There’s not much honor in dying from a wound you could treat, is there?” When the guard wavered, he added, “And don’t you want someone else to get the chance with him tomorrow? We are the god killers, after all.”

That did it. The guard gave a sharp nod and quickly shut and locked the door. Sheppard looked out the window in time to see the man trotting toward the funeral tent. He stayed at the window until the man came back into view, followed by a woman carrying an armload of supplies.

Beyond them, Sheppard saw Teyla make quick work of her opponent, downing a woman several inches taller and many pounds heavier than her with one blow. There was surprise on the woman’s face as she fell, and Sheppard turned away, despair and frustration rising in him. Teyla would be back in a minute and then it would be his turn. Like Rodney, he was better with bare hands than blades, but he would finish his fight as quickly as he could. First he had to calm himself down, though. He took a deep breath and reached for the cold place again, but he struggled to grab hold of it this time.

Teyla rejoined them, bringing in the medical supplies that had been handed over to her while she was still outside. Before he left Sheppard shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it for Rodney, who was still visibly trembling.

He stalked to the circle this time, ready to be done with the night’s gruesomeness and back with his team. He faltered as he caught sight of the opponent waiting for him. It was the man from the first day, who had told them that they would be the first to battle.

Sheppard bit back an oath. What were the odds of him getting paired with one of the only locals he’d actually spoken to? Of course: Pegasus odds. He suddenly remembered what the man had told them the day before: I am scheduled to battle tonight. They must have finally reached his number on the sign up sheet.

As Sheppard took the knife that was handed to him, he seriously considered whether coincidence might be an intrinsic force on Bellus. He would have to ask Rodney later. He tested the weight of the knife, gripping it the way Teyla had taught him. Then he lifted his eyes to meet his opponent’s gaze and nodded. The man nodded back and stepped toward him.

The man was a better fighter than Sheppard’s previous opponent had been, but not by much. The only reason he was able to wound Sheppard twice was because Sheppard was having difficulty pushing aside his emotions. His weariness with the fighting, his concern for Rodney, his worries about Atlantis—they all served as distractions. He made careless errors, giving his opponent easy openings that he unsurprisingly took advantage of.

Thankfully the man didn’t know how to use a blade for maximum damage, so Sheppard got away with a shallow cut—barely more than a scratch—across his forearm, and a shallow stab wound to his upper arm. He focused on the pain from those injuries, using it to push aside everything else, and was able to get control of himself. The cold place was closer this time, and he snatched hold of it.

When the man reached too far with a lunge, Sheppard was ready. He ducked under the man’s outstretched arm, using his shorter height to his advantage, and plunged his knife into the man’s chest, between the ribs and into his heart. The man gasped—a wet, gurgling sound—and collapsed to his knees. Blood was gushing from the wound, had already coated Sheppard’s hand, as the man hunched over. Sheppard was so surprised that he was still breathing that he just watched dully as the man reached up and—instinctively, stupidly, pointlessly—pulled the knife out. He immediately keeled over, and Sheppard turned back to the prison.

As the guards took up formation around him, he turned to one. “Can we get some water to wash with, please?” He didn’t look down as his hand, dripping a trail to the prison door.

The man nodded and peeled away. Sheppard glanced at the cell window to see Ronon watching him. His expression told Sheppard that he’d watched the whole thing, that he’d seen who Sheppard had to fight. Sheppard looked away.

When he got back in the cell, it was filled with the odor of blood, the scent sharp in the air. He did his best to ignore it, focusing his attention on Rodney instead, happy to see that he had most of his color back. He was huddled under Sheppard’s jacket, sitting against the far wall of the cell with his injured leg stretched out in front of him, but he was no longer shaking and there was a familiar air of disgruntlement about him that was oddly soothing. Sheppard came to kneel in front of him.

“How you doing, buddy?”

Rodney met his eyes, and Sheppard just managed not to cringe at the haunted look in them.

“I killed that man.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

“You had to, Rodney,” Teyla reassured him, her tone soothing. “As did we all.”

“I know.” Rodney’s voice was very small. His hands appeared from under Sheppard’s jacket, moving toward his face as if he were going to drag them over it, but he went still when he caught sight of them. They were still bloody, though it was clear an attempt had been made to wipe them clean.

The door opened behind Sheppard again, and he gratefully rose to grab the bucket of water that was set inside. Using his cleaner hand, he carried the bucket over to Rodney, who needed it more than the rest of them.

“Here you go, Rodney, why don’t you clean up.”

Rodney cringed but sat up fully, Sheppard’s jacket falling into his lap, to plunge his hands into the bucket. He scrubbed at his hands for a while, the movement agitated enough to slosh water onto the floor. His face had gone blank, and he only stopped when Teyla laid a hand on his arm. He turned to her and the clean bandage she offered as a towel.

“Your hands are clean, Rodney,” she kindly told him, and Sheppard knew she didn’t just mean from the water.

Rodney nodded and took the bandage, drying his hands on it before sitting back against the wall again. He pulled Sheppard’s jacket back over himself, but when he slipped his hands underneath it this time, it didn’t seem like he was hiding them.

Sheppard let Ronon and Teyla wash up first, then he did the best he could to clean his own hands. The water was cold, and he was relieved at the contrast, the memory of hot blood too fresh in his mind. With Teyla’s help, his own wounds were cleaned and bandaged as best they could be. Then had returned the bucket to its place by the door, and came to sit below the window.

There were faint sounds of the fighting continuing outside, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Neither, it seemed, could Teyla and Rodney. The three of them stayed seated, unwilling to be spectator to any more carnage. But Ronon watched, almost like he had to. After a while, though, he joined them on the floor, sitting with his shoulder brushing Sheppard’s.

“How many more?” Sheppard asked him.

“Four so far. It’s a lot… messier than ours.”

Sheppard closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall. “At least we got through tonight.”

“We are not doing this again.” There was steel in Teyla’s tone.

Sheppard opened his eyes and looked over at her. “No, we aren’t.”

“We gonna escape?” Ronon sounded hopeful.

“Yeah. It doesn’t look like Atlantis is in a position to mount a rescue, and I don’t want to risk trying to make it through another two nights.”

“You mean you don’t want to risk me not making it through another two nights,” Rodney bitterly corrected him.

Sheppard waited until Rodney met his gaze. “Same thing,” he said.

Rodney looked away, but nodded.

“What’s the plan?” Ronon asked.

Sheppard sighed. “As much as I hate having to make a run for it through unknown places in the dark, that’ll actually work in our favor here. After the fighting’s over, there’ll be a period when everyone is settling down to sleep and it’ll still be before sunrise. The dark will help hide us while the moonlight will help us see.”

“Wait a second—we don’t have the first clue which way the Gate is.”

Sheppard didn’t miss the relief that seeped through him at Rodney’s audible irritation. He was sounding more and more like himself.

“I know,” he replied. “And we also don’t have our GDOs and we can’t risk trying to find them. So we’re going to have to Gate to a safe planet and then call home. Teyla, I’m thinking New Athos.”

“Of course.”

“As for which direction to go, I remember being turned around what felt like 180 degrees just before we stopped outside the prison, which means we had to have been coming from that direction,” he pointed at the back wall. “So we go that way.”

“But we talked about the fact that there might be a village back there,” Rodney argued.

“And there might be,” Sheppard admitted. “We won’t know until we get out of here and see what’s around us. If there’s a village, we’ll sneak around it.”

“But—”

“Would you rather stay here, McKay?”

“No, but this is a highly dangerous and alarmingly vague plan.”

“Duly noted.”

“How are we gonna get out?”

Sheppard turned to Ronon. “I… hadn’t thought about that yet.”

“Do you think they will bring us another meal at the conclusion of the battles, as they did last night?” Teyla asked.

Sheppard considered for a moment. “Possibly, why?”

“The door opens inward; is there a way that we could somehow interfere with the locking mechanism while it is open?”

“Right in front of whoever brings the food? Sure, no problem, I’ll just add ‘master of sleight of hand’ to my repertoire,” Rodney said sarcastically.

“It does not have to be you,” Teyla told him.

“Of course it does; this is my thing.” Rodney sighed. “If you can get me a few seconds with the lock unseen, I should be able to jam it.”

“How do you know?” Sheppard asked, surprised.

“I’ve gotten enough looks at it when it’s been open, it should be simple enough.”

“Okay, if you’re sure, we’ll figure out a way to get you the time.”

“I’m sure.”

“I believe you.”

“Good.”

There were a few moments of silence, the only sounds the distant ones filtering in from the crowd outside. Sheppard wondered how close they were to moonset.

“Ronon,” Rodney suddenly said, holding up his hand expectantly.

Ronon stared blankly at the raised hand. “What?”

“I know you’ve got at least one thin blade stored somewhere in that hair, and I’m going to need it to work the lock.” He waggled his fingers impatiently.

“Oh.” Ronon reached up, pushed a few dreads around, and extracted what looked like a pointed file. It was about three inches long and a quarter wide. He handed it to Rodney.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Sheppard shook his head at the exchange. “In the meantime, I think we should all try to get whatever rest we can. There’s no telling how far we might have to walk and whether we might have to fight along the way.”

“Fine. Here.”

Rodney held out Sheppard jacket, and Sheppard took it back. Then Rodney carefully lowered himself to the ground, keeping his left arm tucked against his body. With a few moans, he lay down on his right side.

Teyla did the same, curling up with her back against the back wall of the prison, while Ronon shifted over to stretch out on his back in the space beside Rodney. Sheppard pulled his jacket back on, tipped his head back against the wall again, and shut his eyes.


-000000-


He dreamed they were being rescued. Someone was whispering his name, close by, outside? No, he could feel a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

His eyes snapped open. Major Lorne was there in the dusk of the prison, studying him with a worried expression. There was a rectangle of muted light silhouetting him and Sheppard, still half asleep and muddled by exhaustion, thought to himself that it was a very odd shape for a halo. It took him a minute to realize it was from the light coming through the door. The open cell door.

All of a sudden he came to full alertness.

“Lorne?” he whispered, not quite believing what he was seeing.

“Hi, Colonel. Sorry we’re late,” Lorne whispered back, giving him a crooked and somewhat apologetic grin. “We were having some technical difficulties.”

“Which you can tell me all about once we’re back home,” Sheppard promised, noiselessly hauling himself up into a squat.

He reached over and laid a hand on Ronon’s ankle, Ronon sitting straight upright as soon as Sheppard’s hand made contact. Ronon understood the situation a lot more quickly than he had, and immediately turned to gently shake Rodney awake while Sheppard moved over to do the same with Teyla. Teyla woke silently, but Rodney let out a soft moan as he regained consciousness.

“The cavalry’s arrived,” Sheppard quickly whispered, both to let him know what was going on and as a subtle indication to keep his voice low.

Rodney blinked at Lorne a few times before his sleepy expression melted into a scowl. “It’s about damn time,” he harshly whispered.

“Sorry, Doc. Got here as fast as we could.”

“Not fast enough,” Rodney grumbled, but he let Ronon help him up and stood, ready to go.

Lorne handed his sidearm to Sheppard. “The rest of my team is waiting in the tree line about six meters in that direction,” he advised, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the opposite side wall of the prison from where Sheppard and team were congregated. “We’ll rendezvous there and head back to the Gate.”

“How far?”

“Roughly a click due west,” Lorne said.

Sheppard nodded. Good. He wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. He nodded for Lorne to take lead, and then signaled for the rest of his team to follow behind him. Having the single other firearm in the group, Sheppard would take the rear.

Lorne stepped to the side of doorway and, peering around it, scanned the view outside. Sheppard saw his body go rigid, and felt his own follow suit. Something was wrong.

“Damn,” Lorne breathed, before calling over his shoulder, still in a whisper. “Colonel?”

He stepped back and Sheppard took his place to look outside. The arena was clear of the crowd, the battles finished for the night, but there were a few people standing in the space between the stands, staring in puzzlement at the open door of the prison. They’d been made.

“Cover us.”

Lorne nodded, lifted his P90, and moved swiftly through the doorway, taking a few steps toward the arena to leave enough space behind him for the rest of them to get out and proceed around the building as he’d instructed. Sheppard motioned for the others to do just that, Teyla first with Rodney following between her and Ronon.

As they began exiting the building, he heard Lorne call out.

“Stop. Don’t come any closer. Stay where you are.”

Sheppard cursed under his breath, moving right onto Ronon’s heels as Ronon slid through the doorway. He raised his gun as he came outside, sparing a glance to ensure his team had made it around the prison, before focusing his attention to where Lorne was trying to warn off the approaching locals.

“Stay back,” Sheppard commanded them.

He aimed near the feet of the figure closest to them and fired a warning shot. Dirt flew up from the ground at the impact of the bullet, and the man jerked back in astonishment, the rest of the locals startling at the sound of the gunfire. They all paused, hesitating or perhaps weighing their options, and Sheppard tapped Lorne’s shoulder, nodding toward the tree line. As they began backing that way, the crowd suddenly resumed moving toward them. And this time, they moved with more speed.

Sheppard hesitated. He was weary of having to kill these people, and just wanted to leave without any more bloodshed. But then one of the men in the group broke into a trot and instinct took over.

Sheppard’s bullet hit the man square in the chest, the impact knocking him off his feet. Even as the shot made contact, Lorne also opened fire, following Sheppard’s lead. Two more people went down, and the remaining locals came to an abrupt halt.

Sheppard continued moving backward with his gun raised, keeping one eye on the path to cover behind him, and the other on the motionless figures watching him retreat. Lorne did the same, and in that way they reached the trees. As soon as they were under the canopy, they turned and starting jogging deeper in.

When they met up with Lorne’s team, Sheppard was surprised to see the rest of his own team either wearing or carrying their lost gear. Sheppard’s own was returned to him, and as he handed Lorne back his sidearm, he looked at him in question.

Lorne shrugged and answered the unspoken query as they began moving through the trees. “We found it all in four neat piles, just a few hundred yards from the Gate. It was as if you’d vanished into thin air and your stuff just dropped where you had been standing.”

“It was stripped off us before we got carted off,” Sheppard told him. “I didn’t think they would just leave it there.”

“Yeah, it was odd,” Lorne agreed.

They went the rest of the way in silence. Sheppard kept throwing glances over his shoulder, but he never saw any sign of anyone following them.

He sighed with relief when the Gate finally came into sight. One of Lorne’s lieutenants—he looked unfamiliar; was he new, had he arrived while Sheppard had been stuck here?—dialed them up, and the rush of the wormhole establishing had never felt so good. Eager to get off the planet, everyone piled through the Gate one after another, rapid fire, Sheppard and Lorne stepping through last.

Colonel Carter was waiting for them, relief clear on her face. Sheppard saw her rapidly take in their blood-stained clothes, their injuries and bandage jobs, and the fact that they were all ambulatory.

“It’s good to see you, Colonel,” she told him. “You had us worried.”

“Ditto,” Sheppard returned. “What the hell happened?”

“Ah, someone accidentally uploaded an experimental Gate diagnostic program into an active program directory and it got picked up by the controller module during a standard health check.”

“And?”

“And it broke the Gate.” She closed her eyes momentarily, and Sheppard felt a pang of sympathy. “We only got everything back up and functional about eight hours ago. Then we had to go through all the actual diagnostics and load tests before we could safely send anyone through again.”

“So you’ve been out of contact with everyone—”

“For two days, yeah.”

“Our other off-world teams?” Sheppard suddenly asked, snapping his fingers as he recalled who was out. “Roberts? The geophysics crew?”

“They all Gated back successfully,” Carter reassured him. “When we couldn’t raise your team by radio after two attempts, Major Lorne volunteered to go through after you.”

“I actually kind of demanded it,” Lorne corrected, looking only slightly remorseful. “Colonel Carter is being gracious.”

“I wasn’t about to tell you no,” she said wryly. “I didn’t have any objections to you going and if I had tried to stop you you might’ve gone anyway and I really don’t want to have to court-martial anyone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference,” Sheppard told her.

“Don’t push me.” But she said it with a smile. She turned to Rodney then. “I’ll want you to double check the Gate program for me, Rodney. I’m pretty sure everything’s back to normal but with all the chaos it would be best practice to make sure there’s no errant code hanging around, and fresh eyes would be welcome.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Rodney was already starting toward the stairs up to the control room. “Always happy to clean up other people’s messes.”

He saw Carter frown, opening her mouth to no doubt tell Rodney that it could wait, but he beat her to it.

“Not now, Rodney,” Sheppard said, tone forestalling any argument. “Infirmary. All of us. Go.”

He made a shooing motion, and Rodney pivoted to head that way instead, but Lorne’s voice stopped him this time.

“Wait a sec, Doc. Give me your gear; I’ll return it.” He held out a hand, and Rodney handed over the items he seemed to have forgotten he was carrying with visible gratitude.

Teyla gave her gear to one of Lorne’s team members, while a second approached Sheppard, who passed along his own with a nod of thanks. The last member, the lieutenant Sheppard hadn’t recognized, proved his newness by attempting to do the same for Ronon, only to get a glare for his trouble; everyone knew to leave Ronon’s blaster alone. Sheppard felt a flicker of fondness for the young man when he accepted his faux pas with good humor, giving a small smile and shrug before trotting after the rest of his team.

Divested of gear, Rodney was already halfway across the Gate room, limping toward the corridor that would lead him to the infirmary. Ronon stalked after him, and Sheppard would’ve sworn he was hovering, whether out of concern for their injured scientist or simply to make sure he actually got to the infirmary, Sheppard wasn’t sure. Maybe both. Teyla gave Colonel Carter a nod and caught up to Rodney and Ronon just as they disappeared into the hallway.

“Is everyone okay?” Carter asked him in a low voice.

Sheppard looked at her and nodded. “There were obviously some injuries—” he gestured to his own face, and Carter winced in sympathy “—but they’ll heal. There were also some… incidents.”

“Incidents?”

“We’re going to need to lock that planet out of the dialing program.”

“What incidents, John?”

He was going to have to tell her anyway. Might as well let her start worrying about it now “There was a death cult, of sorts.”

“What sort?”

“The ‘battle to the death for honor’ sort.”

Her gaze raked over his injuries as she appeared to reevaluate them with that new information in mind. Then she looked toward the corridor the rest of his team had taken. “You fought?” It was more statement than question.

“All of us.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. “McKay?”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence, and he could tell she was processing what he had said, pondering all the details that would fill out what he hadn’t. Her eyes searched his and he could see his own feelings reflected in their depths: concern, guilt, maybe a little pride.

“Is everyone okay?” she asked again, and he knew she didn’t mean physically.

“They will be,” he answered honestly. She gave him an expectant look, and he corrected, “We will be.”

He knew that she understood, maybe in a way none of the other commanding officers he’d had would have been able to. He thought about how she’d spent more than a decade going through the Gate herself, part of one of the first teams to do it, and suspected she had incidents of her own that would probably make this one seem mild by comparison. Whatever fallout there might be, and whatever the team needed to deal with it, she would understand.

He gave her a respectful nod, then headed to the infirmary.