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Chapter Text

The thrum of the transport ship's engines vibrated up the steel walls and through the floor of the eight by eight meter cells where prisoners were kept in separate, darkened holding areas. Meals were bowls of gruel and cups of water, no utensils, since those could be fashioned into a weapon, and served in total blackness.

Ronon massaged his wrists where the manacles had rubbed the skin raw and tested the strength of the chain hooked to his ankle while imagining wrapping it around the windpipe of a guard.

He had the layout of the ship memorized. Down, right, another right, left, then out the back. Guards changed shifts every nine hours and the fourth door on the second right turn was the armory. There were six prisoners, including him and Sheppard, and only ten other people on board. Escape wouldn't be too hard if the timing was right and they had the element of surprise. Planning it would be simple; their captors had locked his team leader in the cell next to him. McKay had taught him Morse code the year before so he and Sheppard tapped on the walls twice a day to check up on each other.

Ronon squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, fighting the urge to bang the back of his head against the bulkhead. They had all the pieces to make an escape but he had misjudged the force of the explosion and it had really done a number on his right leg. It throbbed relentlessly below the knee, broken, he'd known even before the prison doc had reset it.

It didn't matter. He and Sheppard knew there'd be no escape. They'd accepted the consequences of their actions when they were caught.

The Saurin were arrogant assholes. Their medicine and technological gadgets were superior to most of Pegasus, including Atlantis. Too bad prisoners were considered too low to waste resources on.

The normal ship’s hum shifted pitch, instantly alerting him to the change. They powered down for the first time in three days which probably meant they had arrived at their destination. He listened to the tap, tap, tap beside him and rapped his knuckles back.

The door slid open, blinding him with bright outside light, three guards jerking him to his feet while he was disoriented. “Prisoner 54437, you will stand and follow us without resistance. Disobedience will be met with severe consequences.”

He wanted to disobey, wanted to fight and punch and run. Instead he bit his bottom lip to keep from screaming. Pain shot through his leg, both knees buckling. Ronon clung to the fire, preferring the agony to the humiliation of sagging in the grip of the enemy. His ears perked up as two other guards spat their resistance dreck to Sheppard, but the escorts had pushed Ronon out of the hall and into another room by the time they dragged Sheppard out.

Smart move keeping them away from each other. He grunted, anger rising in sync with his spinning head. Run! his mind screamed. Break their necks and get out.

“This is your issued gear. Do not lose it if you want to survive,” a guard said, slipping a bag around Ronon’s neck.

Then he was shoved hard into a tiny room the size of a cage. “No!” The doors closed and the floor disappeared from below his feet. There was nothing but air, the ground rushing up too fast to prepare for the fall.

There was a crunch, white starbursts, and his breath was knocked out of his lungs. Intense sunlight scorched his retinas before he could slam his eyelids closed to protect his sight. He honed in on the sounds around him: curses in varying accents, moans and the sounds of flesh impacting solid ground. He noticed approaching footsteps in the distance, at least a dozen unknowns taking advantage of the chaotic 'dump and run', and estimated where the other prisoners were in relation to those closing in.

Splitting his attention wasn't difficult; planning a means of attack was second nature, but not his main priority. Finding Sheppard was. Even blind, Ronon could detect his friend’s breathing pattern or tread on any terrain--there--six meters on his right side; he recognized those boots.

“Sheppard.”

“Ronon?”

“Over here!” Ronon shouted, tracking his team leader's movements. Shielding his eyes, he squinted against the oppressive glare. “John!” he yelled when a blurry Sheppard-like shape was about to pass by him.

“There you are,” Sheppard panted, kneeling down. “You okay?”

Ronon snorted, ignoring the question. “We're about to have company.”

Right on cue, rough hands grabbed his wrists, but he twisted free, punching the nearest person.

“Freza! Help me with this guy!”

More fingers were on him, pushing his face down into the ground; hot sand scraped his cheek. Weakened by his impaired movements and the agony of his leg, Ronon's hands were quickly and too easily bound behind his back.

“His friend just broke my nose!”

“What? You can't handle him?”

Voices blurred in and out as he rolled onto his back. Someone blew fine powder in his face, blinding him at first. Within seconds, he started feeling its effects. Sheppard was wrestled to the ground next to him, taking a vicious shot to temple.

“Hey! You know the rules. No kicks to the head! You'll addle his brains.”

“Not too badly,” the voice laughed.

Ronon could only snarl, his limbs tingling and twitching uselessly. The throbbing in his leg became a distant memory and all his muscles relaxed as whatever the dust had contained continued to assault his system.

“Alright, let's line 'em up.”

All the fight leaked out of Ronon's pores and he melted against the same hands that had subdued him, the simmering heat of the planet baking into his skin.

“What's the count?”

“Only six.”

“Let's hope they're useful.”

“If not, we'll give them to the Shan'ka and get their worth in water.”

Ronon fought to stay awake, but staying alert for three nights on the ship had stolen his reserves and a drugged, sweet warmth lulled him into an overdue sleep.

His nasal passages burned with chemicals, sending his lungs into spasms and watering his eyes. Awareness jerked him out of his stupor and Ronon tried sitting up without success. Waves of severe lightheadedness swept over him and it took several seconds to orient himself.

“Got this one awake,” a voice said, moving away.

It took several minutes for Ronon to get acclimated, the dizziness slowly dissipating. The rope restraining his hands wasn't very thick and he began working on the weak spots, flexing his wrists. They were under a tarp – crude poles held up the middle and the front two corners; the rest of the material hung loosely at the sides like a floppy tent. A guy walked by, passing a foul burning stick under the nose of each prisoner to rouse them, stopping at Sheppard's slumped form. Sheppard snapped his head up, but blood matted his hairline and he started to sag.

Over a dozen ragtag men huddled tightly under the flimsy tent, several using their arms to hold the material above them. It was painfully bright and Ronon kept his head low as he stared at all the gathered badly worn, handmade shoes. His nostrils flared at the overwhelming odor of so many unwashed bodies.

He cursed his lack of coordination, the dust still numbing all sensation including his busted leg. Sheppard was at least more alert now, trying to shake off the effects of being hit in the head, his shoulders tensing as he tested his bonds. The two of them communicated without talking.

Can't get loose.

Hold off til we know what's going on.

Ronon lolled his head, signaling that he'd take Sheppard's lead.

“Where the hell are we?” one of the prisoners demanded. “Who the fuck are you people?” It was the voice from the third cell on the ship, a guy who’d never stopped pissing and moaning about being detained illegally.

A figure emerged from the group, kneeling down for a cursory look at them. He wore a tan piece of cloth that fell loosely around his head on all sides, a thin rope holding it in place around his forehead. He peeled back the flap, revealing a face covered by several inches of long, dark braided beard. A red painted stripe ran down his deeply tanned brow and over his nose; tattooed lines ran across his cheeks. His broader shoulders and larger frame spoke of better health. “I am Kadar of the Spraza. I found you first and by our rules, I invoke my claim on your lives.”

The prisoners exploded into outrage, many struggling to their feet and failing. The loudmouth from earlier even spat in the face of their captor. “This is an outrage! Do you know who I am? I belong to no one.”

Kadar ran a hand across his upper lip, sucking at the spittle gathered at the fingertip. “You will learn about the rules against waste.”

Ronon remained on his side, studying the leader who looked the same as many desert people except maybe a little poorer. The man's robe had been sewn together from various pieces of faded and dirty cream cloth that covered him all the way to his ankles. Long sleeves were stitched of mismatched fabrics and almost hid a primitive knife secured at his left wrist. His shoes were made of brown scaly animal skin and dark-tinted goggles hung around his neck and those of his men.

“You are imprisoned on Medena. For whatever reason, I do not care. Your past means nothing, so do not cling to it.” Kadar stood up, pale blue eyes studying each prisoner. “We've given you something to keep you docile while we inspect your value. It will wear off soon. Be still and we will be quick. If you bite any of us, we will cut out your tongue.”

Suddenly hands were on Ronon's face, fingers prodding his head, pulling on his eyelids. He twisted away, echoing the swearing around him.

“Stay put,” one of his captors snapped, checking him over for injury. When dusty fingers touched his leg, Ronon jackknifed. “Ach, this looks bad,” the man mumbled, pressing on the bone. Ronon couldn't hold onto the scream building in his throat.

“Leave him alone!” Sheppard yelled.

Ronon writhed back and forth as the man examining his leg bent it in ways it refused. Sheppard broke free of his captors after the second scream and unwisely tackled the guy. Two desert people yanked Sheppard away, pinning both shoulders down and trapping his bound hands to the ground.

“Told you this one was trouble,” one of the men said, stepping on Sheppard's chest with a foot.

“Enough!” Kadar snarled. “You use up valuable energy.”

The three men backed away and Sheppard scrambled into a sitting position, his uniform and BDUs covered in orange-brown dust. Breathing heavily, he squinted up at the leader. “What do you want?”

“Allegiance.”

“You know, there are better ways of asking,” Sheppard huffed.

“Ask?” Kadar leaned closer. Sheppard locked eyes with him in defiance; a bead of perspiration rolled down his temple. Kadar traced the trail of sweat on Sheppard's skin, grabbing his chin in a steel grip. “You will give me your obedience, or you will die.”

Ronon tensed. His team leader remained silently obstinate.

Obviously not used to rejection, Kadar squeezed Sheppard's jaw painfully before rising. “Medena,” he said, spreading his arms to encompass the desert. “She will kill you. As she has done to thousands. There is only death and we offer you life.”

“How?” a beefy convict asked.

“We control most of the water. Without it, you will die and your body given to the rest of the Spraza.” Kadar threw his arms around the shoulders of his men. “We outnumber all other prisoners. When we all arrived here we were individuals, scattered and weak. Now we are one. Strong and powerful. We offer you protection, barter deals for food, shelter, and clothes.”

“In exchange for what?”

Ronon recognized the shrill voice from the cell across from him on the ship. It issued from a skinny thing with long, black hair.

Kadar smiled. “You will follow my every order and pledge half of all the water we gain in our raids.”

“Half?”

“What water?”

“Where is everyone else?”

“All in good time. Those who sentenced you to this hole gave everyone two very important items in your packs to ease their consciences.” He laughed bitterly, clasping his hands together. “The topra should be wearing off enough to discuss things further. Once you join us, you will be allowed to move about freely.” Kadar nodded to his men. “But first, you will have to give up something as a sign of loyalty.” He snapped his fingers and the one who’d tussled with Sheppard stepped forward. “Rull will collect the offers.”

Rull had to be the right-hand man; the man's face was streaked with red paint as well, his recently smashed nose a swollen lump between his eyes. Tattered fabric from his desert headgear dangled in worn bits over his brow. He and three other men took items from the prisoners who pretended they had a choice with their hands tied behind their backs. The rest of the beanpole Spraza played their role of guards, watching and waiting for signs of trouble.

Kadar stepped over to Sheppard. “You will give me your boots,” he said, crouching and admiring the tough black leather. “Very fine and rugged. They'll fit nicely.”

“Sorry, don't recall saying you could have them,” Sheppard shot back.

“You must be used to giving orders, but that will change.” Kadar looked over at Ronon. “And you--”

“I'm not giving you anything,” Ronon growled.

Four Spraza encircled them. Their skin stretched like leather across their faces and they sported matching tattoos over hollow cheeks and under sunken eyes. Kadar had a good game plan, using strength in numbers, if the rest of the inhabitants of the planet were all in this shape.

“You have a broken leg, my big friend. You cannot join us. It is a great loss. A man of such strength would have made a great enforcer.” Kadar gestured at Sheppard. “Bring him. He'll realize that he belongs to us.”

“Hang on,” Sheppard said in alarm. “What about Ronon?”

Kadar held up his hand, his men pausing and waited until he had the attention of the rest of the group. “It is the rule of Medena. If you're not of able body then you cannot go to waste. His water will go to the Shan'ka.”

Ronon's attentions were torn between the men surrounding him and those about to haul Sheppard away. Frustration boiled over when he became unbalanced by his bound hands and injured leg.

“Look, I'll pledge to you whatever you want. I'll give you my boots, but Ronon comes with me. We're a package deal,” Sheppard offered, eyes darting over the sea of dusky faces.

“You do what I say!” Kadar hissed, grabbing Sheppard by the collar. “I am in control here.”

Sheppard used the only weapon he had available, smacking his skull into the man's face, then his hands came out of nowhere, elbowing the two men behind him while Kadar reached for his hidden weapon.

“Knife!” Ronon yelled in warning, throwing himself in front of another Spraza and tripping him.

Sheppard grabbed Kadar's wrist, twisting it at a sharp angle until he dropped the blade. Rull snatched the knife where it fell just as Sheppard spun Kadar around and locked his head in a choke hold.

“Back away or I'll break his neck,” Sheppard ordered.

All the Spraza froze, too unsure about what to do. The other prisoners seemed just as confused, the shift in power throwing things into chaos. Ronon grinned wolfishly at his CO's actions, but he was incapable of standing, his leg an electric bolt of pain that ran down to his ankle. Rull inched closer to Sheppard and his hostage with a manic glint in his eye.

Kadar snorted, noticing the glee. “Do something foolish, Rull, and see if you're able to control the whole gang. Or do you think you have the nunkas to deal with the Shan'ka?”

Rull gripped the weapon tighter, clearly at odds with himself. At a closer glance, Ronon could see that the knife was actually made from a piece of sharpened bone, the handle wrapped with the same scaly skin as Kadar's shoes. Ronon finally broke through the frayed ends of his ropes, releasing his burning wrists. Reaching into his dreads, he brought out a metal knife, attracting the attention of those around him and putting Rull on edge.

“Tell everyone to just back away and go to their homes or wherever you guys came from. After they're at a safe distance we'll all go our separate ways,” Sheppard reasoned.

“The Shan'ka don't allow murder, stranger,” one of the Spraza warned. “You will suffer greatly if you spill valuable blood.”

“I'll let him go unharmed once you go. All I want to do is to leave.” Sheppard adjusted his grip, speaking in Kadar's ear. “Deal?”

“I will stay behind to escort you back,” Rull insisted.

Ronon kept his eye on Rull, the man's twitchy movements setting off alarms. The guy was an opportunist, trying to climb higher on the food chain. He was as big as Kadar, both men the size of Sheppard; both looked like they ate more than one square a day compared to the others.

“Go. We must welcome our newest members,” Kadar ordered his men. “Don't worry. The sun will light our enemies on fire with her rays and give us our revenge.”

The rest of the gang dispersed; a few remained until Kadar glared at them. Sheppard kept the guy's head immobile while his men became distant spots in the harsh backdrop of the desert.

“We will kill you, of course, if the heat doesn't,” Kadar threatened.

“Maybe. But no one's gonna die today,” Sheppard replied. “Wanna put that knife away?” he suggested to Rull.

The man sheathed the weapon in the waistband of his pants, wrapping a layer of dirty cloth around his face and adjusting his goggles. “I look forward to drinking your life.”

Sheppard gestured for the guy to start walking then shoved Kadar forward. The leader didn't give him a second glance, talking instead to his second in command. “Hand it over.”

“It'll cost you a dunka of water,” Rull replied.

“Do not barter with me, fool. You cannot make a finder's claim on something I own.”

The two men disappeared into the whiteness of desert light. Ronon tried to hobble up, and Sheppard was instantly at his side to shoulder his weight. “We better get a move on before they come back.”

“You should’ve gone with them,” Ronon chastised, even knowing Sheppard wouldn't have.

“Don't think I'd fit in very well. Kind of used to being the leader and all.”

The air was very thin under the tarp, trapping all the sweltering heat. Ronon's face was slick with sweat; Sheppard's complexion was a deep shade of red. They needed to find real cover. But which way?

“Those instincts telling you where we should go?”

Ronon felt light-headed, his leg a throbbing mess, but he couldn't allow the pain to consume him and turn into a liability. “We'll head that way.” He pointed behind them.

“Yeah, was thinking the opposite of the bad guys was a good choice, too.” Sheppard reached for the pack slung over his shoulder. “Let's see what we have.” Rummaging through the depths, he pulled out what looked like a gigantic saline bag the size of a knapsack. “Think our buddies stole the water this used to store. There's condensation on the inside. At least they were considerate thieves,” Sheppard laughed, pulling out a pair of goggles and putting them on.

Ronon sifted through his, noting the equally empty water pouch. He found his own pair of goggles, slipping the eye protection on after a couple clumsy, one-handed attempts.

Sheppard removed his BDU shirt, leaving on his T-shirt underneath. “Hand me your knife.”

Ronon slapped the handle into his friend's hand, watching him slit the shirt into separate pieces before giving the blade back. “We'll use the buttons to secure it around our foreheads.”

“Good idea,” Ronon said, allowing Sheppard to secure the shirt around his face. Ronon's dreads shielded the back of his head. Sheppard had to use two pieces, the second longer part protecting the back of his head and neck. The shirt was black and absorbed the sun's blistering rays, but the fabric would still trap the sweat on their skin and cool them slightly.

“Ready?”

They didn't have a choice. “Let's go.”

The two of them set off into the desert, clueless where it would lead them. The wind blew sand into their faces; the pounding sun boiled their backs. It would take a miracle or blind luck to find a safe place to hide.

But that had never stopped them before.

John trudged ahead one foot at a time. The bedrock and the surrounding vast emptiness reminded him of his Death Valley survival training. The endless harsh soil went as far as the eye could see, heat rising from miles of silt and mica. The sun overhead was a giant blob of white hot light three times larger than Earth's.

His T-shirt clung to his back with sweat drenching it then evaporating in a nonstop cycle. He didn't dare speak, conserving the fading moisture remaining in his mouth. His head pounded, and only drawing gasping breaths kept the nausea at bay. A concussion was low on his list of worries, but it made walking in a straight line a challenge.

Ronon's weight seemed to double then triple as he leaned on John’s shoulder. At one point the bigger guy dragged John down, leaving them both in a sprawled heap, panting on the ground.

“Leave me,” Ronon rasped.

“No.”

“Find shelter...come back.”

“Sorry, can't.”

John mustered every strained muscle, every overtaxed ligament, and rose on rubbery legs. The world spun around and he closed his eyes to ease the dizziness. He sucked in hot, dry air and heaved Ronon into a fireman's carry, nearly snapping his spine in the process.

His skin sizzled; the additional weight of his burden made him falter every few minutes.

Keep going.

The horizon simmered ahead without sign of shrub or cactus, or anything that could provide shade. At this rate, they'd both drop from dehydration. He blinked at his watch, unable to make out the bleary numbers from the glare. They'd been out here an hour, maybe two since being dropped off.

A breeze stirred up the top layer of sand, the dust like tiny razors against his forearms and exposed skin. Out in the distance he spotted a fuzzy glob of color against the haze. He hiked further, not caring who was approaching. He'd either beg for help or kill them, hopefully finding something useful on the body.

Two minutes later he sank to his knees. “Sorry, big guy.”

Ronon didn't reply and John clawed his way out from under his larger bulk, blinking at the figure only a few meters away now and closing fast. His teammate had the knife and John was too slow and weak to grab it, only managing to sit up by the time a shadow lent him mercy.

“You're part of the new arrivals? Don't look like much.”

The newcomer's robe was a cloak of faded blues and yellows and he held a primitive cloth umbrella of the same hues that blocked the sun and gave John a needed boost.

He held a hand over his eyes to look into their visitor’s face. “We're looking for shelter.”

“What do you have to trade for it?”

John swallowed, trying to water his mouth and speak with a bit of authority. “Just tell us where we can find some.”

The guy snorted, clearly not seeing them as a threat. He twirled a tiny tuft of silver hair that dangled from a mustard turban woven of coarse ropes, a puffy handkerchief poking out from the top part. “Information has value. I don't give it out for free.”

“Is trading the only means to buy things here?”

“Besides water and orris? All things have value. I deal in it all,” the man chuckled, doubling the deep wrinkles of his forehead, his hand brushing a thick graying beard. “I am Lyle. If you want it, I can get it. For a price,” he added.

“How about we don't kill you.”

Ronon's voice surprised them both and despite being out of it for some time, he still looked like he could rip a person apart with his bare hands.

“Killing me isn't an option, friend. The Shan'ka would not be pleased.”

That was the fourth time John had heard that name. “Who are they?”

Lyle shook his head. “People you don't wanna mess with. Water harvesters. Balancers of life and death.”

John still didn't understand. “They harvest water? From where?”

“From anything. Including people,” Lyle whispered. “The cycle of life.”

It hit him then. The human body was seventy percent water. John felt his anger rise, thinking what the Spraza had wanted to do with Ronon. Extra adrenaline kicked in and he rose to his feet. “We need a place to sleep.”

Lyle's casual mannerisms stilled and he wiped a finger methodically across his goggles. “We all need things.” He did a half circle around John. “Doesn't appear that you have much to offer. Of course, someone with your looks could fetch a good price for just a few hours on his knees.”

Ronon growled, but John held him back. “Easy. Just sit tight.” He waited for his friend to calm down before turning. “As flattering as that is, I don't think so.”

They couldn't give away Ronon's knife. It was their only means of defense. John mentally cataloged the clothes on his back, aware that a source of cloth could be worth a lot.

Lyle reached towards John's throat, and he snatched the trader’s fingers, ready to break them.

“Take it easy. Just admiring the metal around your neck.”

The man smiled when John let go, and tugged at the dog tags. “Yes, these will do.”

“You can have one,” John countered.

“Give me both and I'll take you personally to a set of caves not too far from here.”

For all he knew the tags were worth much more. “How about adding some water for the trip there?”

“I could wait for you to keel over and claim whatever I wished.”

Bargaining was not one of his skill sets and killing the trader wasn't an option. Did he bluff? “Maybe we'll wait for someone else to come along.” John shrugged.

A hyena-like laugh pierced the air. “I like you. It takes nunkas to grasp at something so out of reach.” Lyle scanned the horizon. “The Spraza roam here during prison drop-offs. How did you escape their clutches?” He brought his gaze over to Ronon, stepping closer to get a good look at him. “I see. Foolish choice, stranger.”

John made himself a barrier, blocking the trader's view of his teammate. “How about sticking to our deal?”

“I'll guide you for the metal and for eluding those scum. If you were capable of such an act, perhaps you'll prove useful later.” Lyle glanced at the two of them. “They'll be looking for you...I'll take both metal pieces and the chain in exchange for a place where the Spraza won’t dare search. If you can keep up.”

Ronon got to both feet, lines of pain breaking across his face, his body trembling with the effort of standing, even hunched over. “Lead the way.”

The merchant ignored them both, turning his back. John slung Ronon's arm around his shoulder, knowing his friend and not pushing him to accept more help. Not until he'd have to carry him again.

“There is a place to hide very close by. Many don't go this far out from the transports.”

John didn't reply, concentrating instead on breathing and keeping his feet moving through the cloying sand.

A half hour of toiling under the burning sun and John’s body was buckling under the strain. Ten minutes after that and Lyle spoke up. “It'll take you a long time to gather water from here. No one is willing to wander away from the main settlement. Maybe you'll live long enough to find your way over there.”

He'd wait for sunset and go out then. Ronon was too easy to pick off and distance didn't matter if the shelter was secure. John was roasting alive, the trek a march through hell.

“We're getting close to the borders of the Void. I dare not get any closer.”

The temperature had dropped by a couple degrees, the blinding white now a subtler yellow overhead.

“We...we… getting close to nightfall?” John wheezed. Ronon had passed out again, becoming an anchor dragging him down.

Hands touched his shirt, pawed at his neck. “The sun never sets here, stranger. There is no relief.”

“What?” John wanted to peel off his clothes. “I...don't understand.”

His dog tags were removed, the metal pieces clanking together.

“There is no night. Only heat and death.”

The unforgiving ground dug into John's knees. When had he fallen? “How... how do we get water?”

Lyle sighed. “You don't. The transports leave supplies every third working cycle near the settlement. If you don't die today you might be in good enough shape to fight the others for some.”

No wonder there were mobs and gangs here. John had really screwed up strategically. He should have given up his boots, but then Ronon would have been killed.

“Of course there's the Shan'ka. You could get water from them, but most people just trade what they harvest for orris.”

A hand slapped John's face, the sting rousing him, and he looked up at the trader in a haze.

“Your shelter is three hundred steps ahead. I cannot stay. We're in the shadow of the Void and your metal is worthless if I don't get to use it.”

The Void? John's head spun. He saw a small mouth inside a hill at the foot of a mountain, the top hidden by shadows and shade.

“Just don't go any closer to the Void. Of course, if you want a quick death then run. Run as fast as you can towards it.”

“Water?”

Lyle snorted. “Nothing's free.”

“I'll owe you,” John lied desperately.

“You're gonna die here. We all will. It's just a matter of time. When do you think I'd collect?”

“I'm...” John's boots melted into the ground, but he pushed and shoved and drew himself up. “...good for it.”

Dots danced across his vision and he still had to drag Ronon to safety.

“You would have survived the walk if you hadn't wasted your energy on your pal.”

John felt his fingers pried apart and something shoved between them.

“The fact that you're still fighting is interesting. I'll be back in two cycles to see if you're alive for payment.”

John could smell the water from the pouch; his tongue tingled at the prospect of drinking the liquid. “Why?”

Lyle tapped John's face again. “Collecting debts is what I do. I'll gain something for very little. If you die I'll give your bodies to the Shan'ka. It's a win-win for me.” The merchant adjusted the knapsack across his back. “Lucky for me that I was scouting for sherbage,” he laughed, shaking John's tags between his fingers.

It took all his willpower not to snatch them back. John pulled out the cork from the pouch and took two small sips to clear the dried husk from his throat. “Yeah, real lucky.”

A strong wind blew, stirring up the dust. Lyle froze, head jerking up at the hills. “They're here, watching us. It's best to head for cover. Or even the Shan'ka won't have anything left to harvest,” he whispered.

Fear had a pungent smell, adrenaline mixed with sweat. Lyle reeked of it, fumbling with his umbrella. John didn't want to stick around to find out what could cause a hardened desert survivor to shake like he did but had to ask. “What are you scared of?”

“Evil. Many enter the Void, only a few have ever come back.”

“Maybe it's nicer.”

“No! The last person to return alive, died screaming in terror about the monsters there. They say if you listen close enough, you can hear their screams. Then there's Malvick. Lurking. Waiting to strike.”

The words floated on the breeze and the merchant was gone, running when running was breaking the rules for survival in the desert.

Wild animals could be hunted for food, so it had to be something far worse. Were there Wraith here?

John looked up at the stark contrast between the beating sun and the darkness far off in the distance.

“The sun never sets here, stranger.”

Yet, there was the cover of night over the hills. But for now, the mystery would have to wait.

Three hundred steps. Thirty paces times ten. John stared at Ronon, could feel his muscles wilt and shrivel away. He secured the tiny water pouch, grabbed his friend's tremendous weight and hefted him over his back. And felt his spine cave in.

“No,” he growled. At the desert. At the sun.

“One,” he whispered, taking a faltering step. Two. But his mind whispered it, conserving his failing strength.

He thought of a dark cave, of shade and cool air. It was the only thing keeping him going.

Ten.

John's arms trembled; his knees shook.

Sixteen.

He'd worry about getting more water. Of finding the settlement and things like food once he collapsed.

Twenty-eight.

He groaned, Ronon's body suffocating him.

Thirty.

He only had to do this nine more times.

The Saurin had really cool guns. They had a blaster like his, except it had two barrels and twice the firepower. Ronon had been promised a tour of the armory where he was told they had rows and rows of different types of weapons. He had grinned at the prospect, giddy at getting his hands on such things.

The city was made up of honeycombed rooms; every wall was etched with elaborate patterns. Something about them, something oddly familiar, caused his hackles to rise and his body to tense with unease.

They had spent too much time with the Saurin, too many days under the seduction of new technology and power. For every marvel on Atlantis, the Saurin had an improved version.

“I've never seen such advancements in Ancient technology,” Rodney had whispered excitedly.

Things that were too good to be true, always were. And it was too good to find people eager to share and exchange information and ideas. People who allowed them to leave and return freely, and never threatened or raised a single gun.

The explosion had been Ronon's fault, a simple miscalculation, but he hadn't been alone.

He awoke to a mouth full of sand and inside a tunnel of black with light streaming from one end. Ronon couldn't depend on his eyes, so his ears had to tell him what his sight couldn't. This was a cave much like the hundreds scattered across other worlds he'd been on. They all felt and smelled of mineral and stone, and provided a little relief from the punishing outside elements. He was no longer inside an oven, but it was still oppressively hot.

He remembered a shoulder digging into his gut and being jostled about, seemingly for hours. Of falling and hurting and begging to allow the winds to scatter him across the sands.

“Sheppard?” Ronon held onto a scream of pain, biting his lip, and patting the space next to him. “Sheppard!” he growled, his voice bouncing off the walls as he found nothing on his other side.

He pushed up on his hands and shaking wrists, fighting the newest head rush. His dreads brushed up against the roof of the cave, confronting him with the suddenly tight area. Closing his eyes despite the darkness, he pushed the ceiling back in his mind. Sheppard would never dump him inside a tiny hole alone.

Where was he? Had he been captured?

“John?”

This was Michael's lair all over again; sunlight replaced heavy debris, gangs the hybrids. The panic was the same, fear fueling his need to drag his body in search of his friend.

“Hey, don't move,” a voice whispered.

Ronon fell onto his back, gritting his teeth. “Where?” Simple questions gained simple answers.

“We're inside part of a foothill. I was seeing how far back the cave went.”

“And?”

Sheppard's face appeared over his, hazel eyes glowing in the faint light that came through the entrance. “Um, far,” he grunted, resting flat on his stomach, arms outstretched in front of him. “The cave opens up enough to stand and...” He let out a groan. “It's cooler in the back.”

The thought of colder air and greater space made Ronon's skin itch but he resisted the urge to seek it out. He no longer boiled inside his own flesh, but the desert sands had stripped him of energy. He remembered precious water dribbled onto his lips, being coaxed to take slow sips and his mouth salivated at the prospect of more.

“Sheppard.”

No reply.

“Sheppard?”

“Hmmmm?”

“You okay?”

“Gonna take a little nap.”

Deep down Ronon knew that was bad. They didn't know where they were, had little in the way of defense or provisions. But Sheppard had carried him through the searing heat, taken Ronon's larger weight onto his back to safety.

He pulled out the last of the knives the Saurin hadn't found, the cold steel lending him strength. “I'll take first watch.”

Sheppard slept for a long time and it made Ronon worry about that kick to his skull. People with head injuries were supposed to stay awake, which was a nice thought when a jumper or a gate was nearby. At some point the silence and pain lulled him to sleep then a noise startled him and his instincts took over.

“Whoa, buddy. That's my throat.”

The knife rested against Sheppard's carotid and Ronon removed the blade as the words I fell asleep repeated accusingly in his head.

Sheppard was a voice and a moving outline. “I have to head out. I split up the water the trader gave me. We'll have to ration it the best we can.”

Ronon picked up the water pouch; the entire thing was flat except for a splashing in the very bottom. “Do you know where you're going?”

“Back the way we came. I don't want to wait around two more days for water. I'm going to see what this settlement has to offer.”

“Think that's wise?”

“We're seriously lacking intel about this place. I'm going to scout out the food situation and what can be done about finding something worth bartering with.” Sheppard ran a hand through his hair. “We don't have anything to set your leg with and if it's going to heal, we need to keep it immobile.”

“Think we're gonna be here a while?” It was a rhetorical question. Atlantis had no idea where they were. He was injured and there was no sign of technology that could be used to contact anyone. This was a barren world, the perfect prison to leave people to die.

“I know a little about deserts, how to obtain water from the environment. I think I can find things once I learn the layout.” Sheppard cleared his throat. “Um, look. I need to borrow some of your clothes.”

“Think my pants might be too big.”

“That's the least of my worries.”

With a nod and a grunt Ronon slipped his shirt off over his head, gently extricating his necklace as it snagged in the woven collar opening. The air felt good over his heated skin.

Sheppard peeled off his T-shirt while he spoke. “Good thing you've wearing the long-sleeved one, or I'd be sporting a permanent farmer's tan.”

Protection from sunburn would be vital for going out for long periods of time. Exposure was the silent killer and Ronon's shirt would hang loose and baggy on Sheppard's frame, providing air pockets for insulation.

Sheppard must have been thinking the same thing. “The shirt will help. I can get by with --”

“No.” He undid his belt buckle and lay fully on his back. “Just pull 'em off.” His one leg was swollen and he'd have to lift both off the ground to make it work. Black BDUs would fry Sheppard alive and Ronon wouldn't allow his injury to become even more of a hindrance.

“Ronon, I'll find another way to--”

“You're wasting time.”

“Fine. Just don't pass out on me.”

There was no mincing words. Sheppard knew what was at stake, understood about swallowing pain and getting things done. They'd both sacrificed when needed. Bullet wounds, illness, walking around with a hole in your side. Sheppard removed Ronon's boots in silence.

“Ready?”

Ronon was going to tell him to get the hell on with it when Sheppard yanked without the counting to three crap. Of course, one tug wasn’t enough. How many it took he couldn’t say, because by the third he mercifully passed out.

Coming to an unknown time later, he grunted in annoyance at once again waking up and having to figure out what was going on. Although watching Sheppard struggle with pants that swallowed him whole was almost amusing. “Roll up the ends,” he suggested.

Sheppard wrestled and fought. “I did that. Don't think there are enough holes in the belt to keep them from slipping down.”

“You're lucky those aren't the leather pair.” It actually felt good not to be weighed down by extra layers. Ronon didn't wear normal boxer shorts like most men on Atlantis; his were longer, more practical in bad weather. The thin breathable cloth almost touched his knees, offering more comfort, yet covered his skin which was essential in the desert.

“How are you feeling? I should check the break.”

Ronon slapped Sheppard's hand away. “Don't! I'm good.” It wasn't like they could do anything about it anyway. “What about you? How's the head?”

“It’s fine. Told you it was too hard to crack.”

As his eyes adjusted to the low light he found he could make out expressions now and read John's easily.

“Arms are bit overcooked, but I'll live,” Sheppard lied again.

For how long? Ronon wrestled with their odds of survival, knowing his part of the equation could doom them both.

“We'll leave your boots off for now; it'll keep you cooler. You should put on my shirt.”

The idea of anything on his skin was unimaginable. “Not right now.”

“You'll cool down more after a few hours. If I'm not back, go ahead and wear them to reduce sweating. The BDUs too if you can wiggle into them.”

Sheppard's vision must have gotten better too, catching Ronon's you’ve got to be kidding me expression because he got all commanding. “You need protection from dirt and insects. Look, I know you don’t like resting, but less movement means less perspiration.”

It was excruciating lying there. Lying there while Sheppard got ready to face an entire world without backup. They had pissed off people and had to hide because of him and now Sheppard needed to forage for two and search without Ronon's guidance.

Selfishness and fear tangled with each other, mixing with and compounding the agony he wouldn't show his team leader. Even if Sheppard knew. The man was anything but stupid.

“I don't know how long this is going to take.”

Translation: Don't do anything reckless. Sheppard stayed by his side, not quite hovering, but he hadn't left. Ronon thought of the lack of water and desperate situation. “I'll be here,” he deadpanned.

“Look, we’ve found shelter which reduces the temperature by twenty or thirty degrees. At least it‘s something,” Sheppard reasoned. He searched for more encouraging words, but found none. “Right. Well then.”

“Go. The sooner you leave, the sooner you come back with my clothes.”

“Don't try to kill me when I return.”

Sheppard put on his gear and crawled out of the cave, disappearing into the light.

Ronon found it strange to see his clothes on someone else. As if a part of him had walked into the desert and left a shell behind.

They may just be garments, stolen pieces sewn together on the run, trivial reminders of years in places worse than this. But it still bothered him and would in the countless hours in the dark to follow.

The human race on Earth had been cradled in arid lands for thousands of years. Learning to be part of the desert's ecosystem was the secret to surviving it. John kept his head down as he made his trek; the pieces of his BDU shirt covered the back of his neck and around his face. The goggles were pretty good at keeping out the light, but couldn't match his aviators’ abilities to block UV rays. Then again, considering the amount of radiation he'd been exposed to over the past few years, it wasn't exactly his biggest concern.

Shelter, water, food. Those were the three components for surviving in desert landscapes. They had the cave, but the lack of nightfall seriously hampered any ability to obtain the last two tenets. Reconnaissance, scouting for resources were achieved easier after sundown when the body could sustain heavier activity without increased loss of water. Training could only do so much and it was his job to think outside the box and adapt to changes.

Ronon's pants hung low on his hips; the ends had long since unrolled and dragged along the ground. It reminded him of trying on his dad's clothes and sitting behind a desk in a mansion's office. Mom used to come in with lunch and he'd tell her to 'hold his calls'. Playing in his old man's expensive shoes had lasted only a year. When he got older, all he wanted to do was see him more. Then he 'grew up' and didn't want to see his father at all.

The shirt sleeves kept the sun from searing the flesh off his bones but the burns he already had on his arms did not enjoy their rough fabric covering.

At least it wasn’t a completely new experience for him. A tour in Afghanistan had taught him that your body got used to the heat the more you went out in it and temperatures on the tarmac had risen to the low 120s, even the 130s for months at a time there.

This slice of hell was hotter than most worst days. Animals could lead to natural cisterns that collected rainwater and provided a source for food, but the lack of droppings or any birds circling the sky for prey scared him. Was this whole place lifeless? There were no dry creek beds or signs of runoff and since leaving the caves behind, he had seen no rock formations in sight to take cover in. Cover that would’ve been a blessed respite as the jackhammer on his skull worked up a notch under the blinding sun.

Did he pass the drop zone from the prison transport yet? It was hard to tell in such monotonous conditions. After half an hour, the beginnings of oblique rock replaced the endless lines of desert, and the ground became rugged; glints of shade were produce by piles of rocks. John made a mental note of a possible rest-point for later travels.

Slowly the slopes joined mounds of stone. Another thirty minutes later and he was surrounded by another set of low, rocky hills and more importantly the openings to dozens of caves. It had taken him hours to reach shelter with Ronon; it was good to know they were not too far away from resources.

The temptation to run towards civilization was strong but caution reined in his impulse. He felt for a knife and gun that weren't there, having left the only weapon behind with Ronon. The soldier part of him said approach the dwellings with forethought; the hungry and parched man wanted to hurry.

There were multiple entrances, of various sizes, scattered along the hillside, all of them marked by a different shade of paint or dye.

“Okay, let's avoid red,” he said out loud, remembering which colors the Spraza wore. With his luck he'd run right into his pals from earlier. Or had it been it yesterday?

John counted to three with his back against the nearest slab of rock when a voice called out to him from the depths of the closest opening. A white set of markings had been daubed on the stone above it.

“What's your business?”

There was no real plan, and John found himself lost for words, standing there dumbly, stuck with a ‘make it up as you go along’ strategy.

“You been outside too long or what?” the voice prodded.

“I'm looking to trade,” John ad-libbed.

A man stepped into the daylight, his body wrapped much like a Buddhist monk, head to toe in patches of dingy cloth. Guess this dude couldn't afford pants. “The desert's gone to your head. These are living quarters and all of them have been taken.”

“Right. Of course.”

“You new?”

John tensed, knowing that confirming it made him an easy mark. But he had thirty pounds on the guy so he wasn't too worried about a fight. Pointing at the markings on the alcove he asked, “Remind me again which are for business?”

“Dots are for bartering. Solid lines are for sleeping chambers.”

John was in the residential section apparently. Okay, square lines around the blobs of paint were homes. The designs inside the squares were probably names of those who slept there. “Yeah, got turned around.”

“Right. Just in case you forgot, the ones over there with the blue dots are the biggest area for trade around here.”

The guy stepped back into his cave, leaving behind the scent of berries and strange incense. John ignored the ache in his gut. If he missed too many meals...well he'd cross one bridge at a time. Right now he relished the shade from the grottos, but he made himself stick to the outer edges so as not to risk getting close enough to alarm any of the occupants. He wasn't overheating like he had when carrying Ronon, but his black shirt amplified the sauna around his face.

The sounds of activity grew louder as he got closer to the large cavity ahead; the noise was enough cover for John to enter casually, as if he belonged. The change from day to night blinded him and he pulled down his goggles, letting his eyes slowly acclimate to the dark. The temperature difference was astoundingly cooler and he fought the temptation to curl up in a corner to rest. Pulling away the remains of his shirt, he breathed the stale air in deeply. The inside of the cave was the size of the jumper bay and he wandered around, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb.

Dozens of people milled about in small gatherings. Most of them were intent on their wares; a few smoked and talked off to the side. There was no furniture unless you counted large chunks of stone scattered about for people to sit on. Many stared at him when he walked by, his unruly hair out of place among the countless shaved heads. A guy cooked what looked like stringy bits of beef jerky spread out on a rock and another 'merchant' pulled out clumps of dead insects from a large cloth sack while a guy argued in wild gestures over it. John didn't get too close, unsure about the customs for such things.

Standing with his back against the wall he took in the sounds of bartering. The main currency was pouches of water and John observed a transaction with interest. One customer took a large pouch strapped to his shoulder and with a tube, transferred water into the merchant's empty one. The merchant hooked the container at one end of a hand scale, a weight dangled on the opposite, the two balancing each other out.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on John. There was nothing he could offer these people. Nothing at all. Maybe physical labor could be used in a trade.

Body language gave away who could be reasoned with or intimidated for information. Too bad he didn’t have time to track anyone down. Four Spraza entered, the red tattoos across their cheeks a walking advertisement of their affiliation. They escorted a scrawny guy in tattered robes who carried three of the prison-issued knapsacks.

“Today's fernandi trade: three to one dunka,” the newest trader announced.

A dunka must be the little pouches of water the merchants used as a standard of measurement. John wasn't an expert on fluid conversions or anything, but the dunka bags looked like they could hold sixteen ounces or so. Doing simple math shouldn't have been difficult, but his brain crunched the numbers slowly.

There were what? Four quarts to a gallon? Thirty-two ounces in a quart? He was supposed to drink that in a normal day in Afghanistan during Green temperature conditions and during those dog days of Red it went up to three or four.

One thing at a time. He had to get water first and worry about how much later.

The fernandi were thin scaly lizard things with narrow, snake-like bodies, their skin similar to the lining of Kadar’s shoes. The raw meat hung on hooks against dunka bags and once the measures were figured out for each piece, reptile became the featured menu item for the day. The fernandi merchant stored all his water in a single heavy pouch that one of his Spraza buddies carried “for him.” A fifth Spraza member showed up; he had wavy lines of red paint where his eyebrows should have been. He scanned the layout of the cave before his gaze turned in John's direction.

Uh-oh. Now all five of them were looking at him and John didn't want to stick around to see if they had been part of his welcoming committee from before or were just interested in the guy wearing the alien clothes. At least protecting their bag of water took precedence since only two started coming towards him. John stayed against the wall, creeping sideways then ducking into another corridor he'd scoped out earlier.

Cave systems could stretch for miles; this could be good for a quick escape, or he could wind up wandering around for days. But John took a twisty path leading away from his buddies. There were signs of light ahead and that's when he noticed openings carved out of the roof, material draped over them to diffuse the light as makeshift curtains over the ‘windows’. Following the tunnel, he treaded carefully over the uneven footing in the narrow passage.

After a few minutes of walking he began to think about turning back when the passage opened up to another room. A burning smell hit him hard; it was singed hair mixed with sage or other spices. The odor stirred his empty belly and he grabbed part of the wall for leverage as a wave of dizziness rocked him on his feet.

Stress, anxiety, physical exhaustion pressed down on him. Not now. He'd succumbed to his massive headache earlier; this wasn't the time for it to gain the upper hand. The dizzy spell slowly dissipated though his steps were less certain. He used the wall for cover and support, the lower ceiling forcing him to hunch over.

The stench grew worse, unwashed bodies crammed in a tiny space mixing with burning herbs. John clamped his mouth shut just in case his stomach rebelled, and he almost tripped over a man sprawled on the ground.

“Watch it!” the guy snapped.

“Um, sorry,” John said, sidestepping the man and almost stumbling over another.

The only illumination came from a tiny hole in the ceiling to his left. People drifted toward the sunbeam, using tiny bits of glass to focus the heat to light their hand-rolled cigarettes.

John clung to the shadows, keeping his eye out for more Spraza members and transfixed by what he saw in front of him. This was a smoking den of some sort, clouds of thick haze irritating his lungs. There were maybe twenty people spread about in various spots, a couple whispering back and forth, taking long drags from their cigs. Most everyone else rested on blankets, others on thin handmade bedrolls. There were no signs of any of his friends and John felt his body give in to exhaustion, the dark cool chamber inviting him to sleep in some faraway corner.

“You need anything?”

He startled at the voice. “Maybe,” John replied.

“Why else would ya be here?” the guy hissed in his ear. “You're here for orris, of course.” The man studied him with a single green eye, the other one a gaping socket. “I'll make ya a sweet offer.”

John noticed the faded smears of green paint along the guy's brow and wondered if they were signs of another gang. Then he took in the lazy, contented sprawls of those surrounding him and put two and two together. “Orris's pretty popular I take it?”

The dealer licked his lips then the tips of his gapped teeth. “You must be a newbie to its wonders. I will gladly share with you.”

John stepped back as the guy slithered closer. “Not interested,” he growled, almost tripping over a leg of some random body.

“Doesn't matter. Orris will find you. When hunger calls, orris answers. Keeps you company when your belly twists and snarls.”

“I'm good.”

The dealer pulled out a few crushed needles from the folds of his dirty clothes. “I'll give you a taste for free. No need for water.”

“I said, no, thank you,” John snapped, jerking the man's bony wrist sharply until his eye almost popped out.

The dealer laughed, oblivious to how his brittle bones ground together. “You'll be back. When you shed and sweat out all of your precious water. Or when the hole in your stomach grows big enough. I'll be here waiting.”

John held his breath to avoid the orris fumes and flung the dealer out of his way. He didn't wait for the body to smack the cave wall and wound his way through the den. Taking a left, he followed the path deeper into the cavern, the temperature continuing to drop to almost tolerable levels. This was the key to staying alive in arid environments, keeping inside and sleeping all day to conserve energy.

Much of the underground dwelling was a series of tight passages that narrowed to dead ends or crawl spaces where people slept. He found another chamber where part of the ceiling slanted to the ground and watched as scraps of fabric were bartered back and forth, the item of greatest interest a pile of bones, possibly human. John recoiled at the thought of their value then realized how easily they could be carved into tools.

The first main area was used to trade food and this place was for mainly raw materials. There had to be ways to scavenge this stuff. Areas to gather or farm what was needed. If people could lie around and get stoned, then he could figure out a way to get involved in what passed for the local economy.

“But where is all the water stored?” John mused out loud.

“The Shan’ka keep more than they could ever use.”

“Lyle,” John breathed, wondering where the hell the guy had come from.

“You made it here. Impressive.”

Lyle was a short, square man, who might have been slightly heavy at one point. Before the desert. Whatever life he'd had, it was of one with an impressive pedigree. Only the Patrick Sheppards of the world carried themselves with such confidence.

He couldn't screw things up with the only person he could deal with. “The lizard things. Um, the fernandi? Where can I go to find them? If you show me I'll bring back enough to split with you,” John said, hoping it sounded appealing.

“You've been here for two cycles and want to try digging for fernandi?” Lyle laughed, holding his hand to his chest. He stopped chuckling and stepped closer, sizing John up. “Maybe. There's still enough of you to last out there.”

Two cycles? Had John really slept a day in his cave? “Where do you dig them up?”

“Out in the Tharsqin Sands the fernandi burrow. Many people go out to find them. Most don't return.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” John quipped.

Lyle pulled down the cloth over his chin, twisting the silver hairs of his beard. “Maybe.”

“You help me and I'll share with you what I catch.”

“Always grasping what's out of reach. If you could even make the trip, catching fernandi in the swimming sands is deadly work. And what would I gain if you were sucked away to your grave before you paid me your debt?”

His words were scornful but it was clear the merchant was interested. There was a glint in his eyes so John had to appeal to his greedy side. “You trade in food? If you don't, I’m providing something of value. Another thing to barter with.”

“Maybe. It is useless to discuss. A great sandstorm is ripping through the Tharsqin. It'll be cycles before anyone can get near it. Haffa was lucky he left with his catch before it swept in.”

“Who’s Haffa?” John asked.

“He was the one with the Spraza, one of the few who’ve learned the ways to harvest fernandi.”

John couldn't wait out a storm but tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, hoping they weren‘t similar to the ones in Afghanistan that lasted for weeks. “A little wind couldn't hurt,” he lied.

“Winds here can tear at the hull of the prison transport. Sure enough to eat you away in seconds.” Lyle leaned his back against the wall, sliding down to the floor. He pulled out a pinch of needles and started rolling them in a scrap of paper. “The sun's not yet dulled your eyes, stranger. There'll be no fernandi for several cycles. The sandstorms do not go swiftly.”

John paced, gnawing his lower lip. “What else? There has to be animal life to eat. What about plants? I saw... I saw insects. I'll search for those. Until the storm blows over.”

“You have to bribe the Spraza to get anywhere else. They use their numbers to bully others from the most fertile grounds.”

Pacing sent spikes of pain through John's skull, and his legs threatened to give out from under him. There was no wasting energy like that. He half sat, half collapsed next to the merchant, watching as Lyle scraped a sliver of metal against a flint to light his smoke. “You use that stuff?”

“Orris is vital here. Like many useful things, it can be used too much.” Lyle brought the drug to his lips and took a long drag, blowing the potent smoke out. “You'll use it. You'll have to. Keeps you from realizing how hungry you are.”

“Like an appetite suppressant.” John got it now. “Use the right amount and it tricks the brain; overdo it, and it becomes addictive.”

“Your words are confusing, stranger. Orris dulls the ache in the belly. It can also make you forget what ails you in large amounts. It is a funny thing, can affect people differently, but is highly valued.”

“Do the Spraza control the trade?”

“No, the Jad do.”

“Let me guess. They use green markings to identify each other?” John didn't want to cross paths with a drug gang.

Lyle laughed, blowing little rings of smoke. “Yes, quick with a smile. And quick with a blade. They do not get along with the Spraza.”

John pulled his knees up to rest his aching head on them. “One controls the water, the other the drugs. Got the makings of a little war.” It was useful info.

“The Spraza beat and bully. You be good at keeping away. I heard scavengers took the desert cover they were forced to abandon after your stand-off. It cost them a great amount of cloth and the rare bones that held it up. They will be after your water.”

John knew Lyle meant his life water. “This Jad gang...”

“They're dangerous people, doing dangerous things. Their dwellings are not far from here. But it'll take more than an offer of alliance to join them.”

“Think I'll skip the fraternity brother thing.”

“You have no water source. You have no food, no protection. You have no choice.” Lyle took out a dunka pouch and swallowed a drink. “If you offer up your pal, the Spraza might only punish you for the debt.”

“Not a chance.”

“You have nothing to offer the Jad. There’s no surviving alone.”

John dragged himself to his feet, felt the cave tilt. “I'm not alone.”

Lyle didn't stand, eyes watching those around them. “Most do not last long here. You have to fight for every drop of water, every morsel of food. Tell me. How will you do this for two?”

“By fighting harder.”

“Can you be in two places at once? Because you’ll need to be if your friend is alone so close to the Void.”

John grabbed two handfuls of fabric, dragging the man up to meet face-to-face, legs struggling to stand. “I thought it was safe there!”

Lyle's face was unconcerned and his breath stank of orris. “From the Spraza. Even the Jad.”

John was tired and filthy and feeling a little unhinged. “Who is it not safe from?”

“Him,” Lyle whispered. And only then did the merchant's blue eyes show fear.

“Who?” When no answer came spilling out of Lyle's mouth, John smacked the guy's head hard against the wall. “Who? I'm not going to ask again.”

“Malvick. He lives in the Void. Lives among the devils that rip anyone else apart. He's good at killing. Enjoys it. You and your pal are right in his play area.”

“You took us there. Hell, I paid you to take us there!” John seethed.

“You wanted shelter and protection from the Spraza. I gave it to you. Figured you’d join with someone before he came down.” Lyle must have sensed John's loss of control, saw something in his smoldering eyes. “He doesn't come around often. People leave him alone. He only trades with the Shan’ka or enters the seasonal fight rings.”

“Why are you people afraid of this Void?” John asked, easing Lyle back down to his feet.

“I told you. Because people don't return. Only the scavengers dare get near it to look for scraps, but no one ever crosses where the darkness meets.”

“But a few people do go into it?”

“If they can find their way. The terrain is treacherous, killing them before whatever lurks there can.”

There was more to it, John could tell, but he couldn't afford to waste any more energy. He had to cross the desert to get back and still have enough in his fuel tank to get the water when the prison ship dropped off supplies.

“You are loyal. It will go away. It will go away when your tongue throbs and you want to cut the flesh from your bones. And if you really care about him then maybe you'll spare your pal and take him to the Void yourself instead of watching him go through the same thing.”

“Never happen.”

“We will see, stranger. We will see.”

Ronon thrived on testing his boundaries, on pushing and pushing and pushing until his body gave out before his mind. He had been taught to transcend pain, to use it, mold all its raw energy into a force. It hurt, but a lot of things in life did. Ignoring an enemy didn't make him go away. Neither did ignoring your injury.

The break in his leg required splinting to keep it aligned and there was nothing that could be used for that. The slightest movement ground the bones together and prevented proper healing.

Lying down was out of the question even though his immobility was a severe handicap. In the Satedan military you learned how to overcome and compensate for any obstacles.

He still had two arms and two fists.

His training had earned him the rank of Specialist, command of his own unit, and the means to succeed in his life as a runner. But skills couldn't mend the broken parts of his body. It was one thing to direct his pain; it was another when he couldn't use all his other survival skills.

There was no exploring his surroundings, searching for water, or hunting for food. While Sheppard had to do all those things, Ronon was left panting from simply moving.

The cave was a relief from the blistering sun but there was no air circulation. He slowly simmered inside instead of baking alive outside. Every movement took too much effort; every breath was a lungful of hot air. If he went deeper in the cave, the darkness would bring welcome relief. Ronon wasn't afraid of the dark, wasn't afraid of much, in fact. But he didn't want to spend his days lingering in pitch blackness. It was too much like accepting death. If he couldn't observe the outside world, then he wanted to at least listen to it.

He worked on stretching Sheppard's t-shirt before slipping it over his head. The tee clung to his larger frame and he tugged and pulled on it until it fit more comfortably. It might protect him from the boiling sun outside, but he understood how important it was to keep his perspiration from evaporating too much.

Hours passed with no sign of Sheppard, or any noise besides his own breathing. Time dulled the senses; boredom made him edgy. He stared at the pouch of water, caught between thirst and the need to conserve. When was the last time he’d taken a drink? The light from the entrance never faltered and there were no points in the sky to watch to tell time.

How long did he wait? And if Sheppard didn't return, then what? Crawl after him?

Yeah, if that's what it took.

Until then, he wasn't going to sit and do nothing. There was always a way to break out of your jail cell. Wrapping Sheppard's BDUs around his leg, he gritted and grunted, using the fabric as a soft splint. By the time he tied the two pant legs together above his knee, Ronon was left sweating and shaking. But movement was necessary. A cave was the ultimate form of protection and people were not the only things to use it for shelter. Sheppard might have explored their dwelling for strategic capabilities but probably wasn't focused on anything else.

Using his knife he searched for signs that animals might have burrowed underground. The desert might be unforgiving, but life found ways to survive. If there were no plants around, this cave was the easiest place to seek shelter and avoid the danger of predators from the mountain.

The blade scraped layer after layer of soil until metal hit rock and couldn't dig any further. But he wouldn't allow it to deter him and painstakingly dragged his body to another area.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

It gave him focus.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

It gave him direction.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

And meaning.

Crunch.

The knife froze and Ronon rolled onto his side, ready to spring onto his left foot. He waited, ears straining. It could have been the wind, could have been the sound of falling rock.

It could have been anything.

Fingers curled around the knife handle and he waited, wanting nothing better than to take on someone or something. But the outside world burned out of his reach and nothing attacked no matter how much he wished it.

He thrust the knife into soil, on the lookout for the slightest movement, all his attention listening to the desert. Time became the swipe of the blade and tensing of muscles. It was amazing, the sound a grain of sand made when it joined others, swirling in the air, scratching the surface of rock. Ronon was so attuned to the things beyond his scope that the tickle on the inside of his wrist surprised him.

An ant, almost half an inch long, slowly crawled its way over his thumb.

His heart surged. Squinting in the dimness, he grinned at the sight of the black-bodied things crawling out of the hole he’d dug. Ants meant food. Scooping up a pile of dirt, he shook out the live things from the dead. Pinching off the head, he swallowed the insect, recalling days when he'd lived on hundreds of them.

There had to be something to store them in. Finding one of his discarded socks, he started a stockpile. For every dozen, he popped a few in his mouth, his stomach growling for more. It was easy to forget five years of cooked food and spices when starvation was right around the corner.

Crunch.

He was ready when the crunching got closer. The light streaming through the entrance fluttered then cut off completely, plunging the cave into darkness. He pushed his way to the far wall, stifling a scream at jarring his leg. The low ceiling forced the person entering to their hands and knees and Ronon was there, driving himself into the other person.

“It's me!”

Ronon felt a hand at his throat, realizing he had pressed Sheppard to the ground, his knife close to his friend's face. “Sorry,” he breathed, backing off.

Sheppard lay there catching his breath, his body going loose limbed. “That's twice, buddy.”

Ronon didn't say a word, lost in the daze of fading white.

“Are you okay?”

No. But pain was something physical to conquer and control; allowing it free rein was to submit. “Fine,” he managed to eke out from gritted teeth. The throbbing dulled to a horrible pulse and he opened his eyes to Sheppard leaning over him.

“You look like crap,” Sheppard said.

“So do you.” Ronon watched Sheppard grin halfheartedly as he lay on his side, not bothering to even take off his goggles. “You find anything?”

“Yeah, lots.” Then Sheppard removed his makeshift handkerchief and eye gear. “Don't have anything to show for it.”

The two of them didn't say a word though it was obvious they each had things to share. Ronon fought against to pain in his body and grabbed the sock. “Here. Eat this.”

“Not sure if I'm desperate enough to be snacking on our clothes.”

Ronon ignored the jibe and Sheppard's grimace at what was inside. He watched Sheppard munch on the insects without comment, making sure he took enough. Even if Sheppard came back empty-handed, the ants would provide them with nutrients.

Sheppard handed him the sock, face pained more from the concussion he kept trying to hide than their dinner. “Thanks.” Resting the side of his head into the crook of his elbow, he drew a heavy breath. “I'm going out to the transports tomorrow to get us some water.”

Just lifting his head looked like a strain for Sheppard and Ronon cursed himself again. His team leader was tough though, always finding ways to fight when the odds said otherwise. “Do you know when they'll arrive?”

Sheppard looked up at him. “No.”

“I'll take first watch. You need to sleep if you're going back out there.”

“I know you didn't sleep while I was gone.”

“Yeah, but you have a huge fight ahead.”

“Okay. But only if you tell me about the ants.”

Ronon settled himself for the long haul, waiting for the next suspicious sound. “After you tell me what's out there.”

The Saurin had never given them a trial. It was capture and punishment. They were a prudent, logical group, focused on their quest for things beyond their reach. Killing miscreants was above them; dumping them to die on a faraway rock was easy. Especially if they dropped off water supplies to ease any lingering guilt.

What could be more generous than allowing all those who broke the law freedom in a place where they could not harm any other population?

The transport's engine hum was faint in the distance as it entered the atmosphere, shaking John out of his thoughts. His boots were still on and he tightened the laces with a quick tug. Running over his mental check-list, he grabbed both water pouches, his handkerchief, and the goggles.

“Take this,” Ronon ordered more than suggested, giving him the knife.

John watched the ship get smaller as it flew toward the main settlement. He kept his strides long and steady, eyes in the sky and on alert, straight ahead, for whatever awaited him. The ship hovered, perhaps giving people time to come out. John didn't know and didn't care. He was still ten minutes away.

Setting off on a dead sprint, he tried catching up, watching the freighter remain in low orbit, scouting out landing areas. Finally he got to the settlement just as the ship drew closer to the ground, kicking up dust and casting a massive dark shadow. The cargo bay doors opened like a gaping set of jaws. People appeared from everywhere, streaming out of caves while others had been waiting under handmade cover for the ship's arrival. It was nine o'clock at night according to his watch; he wondered if the transport followed a schedule.

John glared at anyone who looked in his direction. Never show fear. Never signal a weakness. Avoiding groups huddled in large numbers, he followed the lone rogues. The freighter remained in very low orbit, and hundreds of thirsty souls tensed.

It was like a starting gun. A metal container the size of a gasoline tanker was slowly lowered to the ground and the crowds swarmed, none of them afraid of being crushed by the giant unit. The second the container settled to rest, it became a feeding frenzy.

Expecting the pandemonium, he muscled his way past the weak and malnourished. Manhandling those who couldn't defend themselves struck him as wrong. Evil. These people were just trying to survive. But the moment emotion was allowed to taint his judgment, he lost his ground. Elbows slammed his chest; shoulders barreled and shoved him aside. This was dog-eat-dog.

John fought using size and weight, pushing and squeezing through gaps and making some of his own. Bulldozing a path up front was the key, always moving forward until he was crushed against another back and someone else was smashed against him.

A sea of humanity stood between him and the crowds gathered in front of the row of nozzles. Random hands grabbed onto a faucet then were knocked away by more desperate ones. It was amazing that anyone got water this way.

Then momentum shifted and a great tide broke through. Larger, stronger hands knocked the powerless down. A wave of people carried John away, their sheer numbers throwing him back. He couldn't breathe, couldn't force his way to the sounds of running water. Moisture was within his fingertips one moment, the next he was flat on his back, trying to avoid being trampled.

Mobs powered their way to the water tank, working in unison, breaking through the crush of bedlam. It was simple, really. Work as one. Plow through, protect those spearheading the drive, and surround them with your bulk. There were flashes of red face paint; a ring of Spraza punched and kicked anyone who got near those retrieving the water. And it wasn't one pouch per guy. They took dozens of large jugs.

Where the hell did they get such large capacity containers?

John scrambled back up to his feet, seeking a faucet surrounded by fewer people. Time ticked by and the hordes thinned out, taking what could be carried, leaving little behind for the rest. Maybe this should have been the objective: gather reconnaissance before diving in head-first. Except he and Ronon couldn't afford to wait.

Forty-five minutes later and John found a free faucet among a dozen busy ones and began filling. The water pack was deceptive looking, the stretchy foam-plastic material expanding to accumulate the liquid. It took a while, now that the remaining water was down to a trickle.

He felt eyes on his back. Scrawny, pathetic men, draped in scraps of cloth, unwilling to fight him for their turn. John’s insides churned with guilt, aware that he'd automatically sent death glares to keep their distance.

Attaching the second pouch to the nozzle, he watched in horror as nothing came out. “No!” Banging on the side of the tank, he willed a break in the laws of physics to pump what was no longer there.

One gallon for the two of them, for three days. His clothes were glued to his skin and his tongue was a shriveled-up lump in the back of his mouth. In desperation he stuck it under the spigot, savoring the drop that splashed on top of it. Resting his forehead against the metal, it was difficult not to think about the long walk back.

John couldn't think about those who came and went with nothing. He wasn't Colonel Sheppard out here. Not if he wanted to get Ronon home. It went against everything he stood for to pass-by those who couldn't pick themselves up.

Walking a few minutes, he reached the beginnings of an outcropping of rock and slowed, kneeling down next to a man with a face shrunken in on itself, a living scarecrow.

“Here,” he whispered, dripping precious drops onto brittle lips.

“Just...leave me.”

“I can't leave you out here like this.” But there was no stalling the inevitable.

“I'm already gone... Please. Leave me be.”

John chewed on his bottom lip, but the scarecrow was already gone and he left the corpse behind without a proper burial.

One tenet about survival: never let your guard down. It didn't take long for people to start following him. Out of the corner of his eye, there was movement; three targets tailed behind him, the upcoming bend in the hillside providing the perfect spot to be jumped.

If you couldn't get water, you stole it.

The footsteps inched closer and closer, three sets of breaths were nearly at the nape of his neck. Wait for it. Wait...for...it.

John went to one knee, coming up with both elbows, smashing them into flesh and bone. Turning around at the same time, he slammed his fist into the middle guy's face. All three thieves stumbled, clutching injured areas.

Too bad he didn't catch the ones crawling out of the hole a few meters away.

The first blow caught him on the side of his head. The next five pounded his shoulders and back. Knees dug into his spine, pinning him to the ground, and the water pack was removed.

“No!” John twisted and jerked against those holding him down. “Get off me!”

“Hurry up!” a voice yelled.

“Almost done,” another said calmly.

Desperation, frustration, panic. The three collided into an explosive burst of adrenaline and John bucked away those on top of him, using precious seconds of surprise to lunge at the leader.

It was clumsy and stupid, hurting him as much as it did his target. Arms grappled and bodies rolled. John landed on top, going for the throat. Five seconds of pressure on the carotid and it would be lights out.

Except something prickly took a bite of his shoulder and things started going in slow motion. His limbs stopped working, lips and face went numb, and he was suddenly staring up at the sky.

“Bastard's fast.”

“Yeah, he'd be good in a balick match.”

“Whatever. Give it a few cycles and they'll be harvesting his life.”

John blinked at dark, blurry faces. Unable to wet his lips, he made a low noise in his throat. A face with a high forehead and long pointed chin decorated with green dots and lines loomed over him. “Not bad. You don't show fear. I admire that.” The guy reeked of orris. “You cannot talk, but it'll wear away. The thorns of the topra plant have potent properties.”

“Ziffka, let's go. They're comin'.”

“Hush. I'm talking to a new friend.” Ziffka smiled with yellow stained chipped teeth. “I'm going to leave you some water,” and shook the nearly empty pouch over John's face. “Not much, but consider it a gift. Besides, we got plenty from the others. Maybe if you show some worth, we'll talk again.”

“Why not make a claim?”

“Never kill a potential customer,” Ziffka hissed back.

“They're almost here!”

“Got to go,” Ziffka whispered.

The gang left John a helpless pile of bones to the mercy of those approaching. His head twitched in a weird spasming motion, his other muscles slow at responding. All that remained was the next shakedown; when none came his brain was slow to interpret the fact that this newest entourage was not interested in him.

Five robed men descended upon the scarecrow’s corpse; sunlight reflected off metal blades as they cut away the man's clothes, rolling him up in a tarp in seconds. John curled his fingers, tried to wiggle his feet. One figure started towards him and John's left leg jerked in response. The effects of whatever crap he'd been injected with was wearing away, but not fast enough. He expected another sneering convict, but not the phantom looming over him.

A giant hood partially obscured a grayish face and pale-milky eyes not covered by the usual goggles. It looked as if he’d finally come face to face, literally, with the mythical Shan’ka. They were damn freaky. The Shan’ka's robe was a simple pale blue, the edges stained by the omnipresent orange dust and dirt.

The Shan'ka jerked his head and another, smaller figure scampered over, bowing his head quickly and looked at John, his face hidden by his robe. “Those who are unable to contribute to the whole must relinquish their water to the rest.”

John managed a hoarse, “'kay.”

“You are still of able body. Your water will be recorded,” the man said.

He moved aside as the larger Shan'ka bent over John. A strong hand gripped his jaw, forcing it open, and a tube was shoved into his mouth. John gagged, squirming uselessly as it scraped against his tongue, sucking away what little spit was left before he was let go. His encounter with the Shan’ka lasted one or two minutes, just in time for John's body to recover from its temporary paralysis and for the men in blue robes to drag away the nearby scarecrow.

Left dizzy and sick, there was still a twenty minute walk back to the cave to deal with. Grabbing his handkerchief that had fallen off during his earlier fight, he tied it around his face with uncooperative fingers. John had come out here with two empty pouches and would return with less than a day's supply of water.

Ronon dug his fingers in the dirt, gathering hundreds of ants and smashing them into a paste that was easier to swallow. Areas of the roof of his mouth and tongue were badly swollen after being stung with their pincers.

He used to hunt Wraith; now he chased bugs and listened for Sheppard's return.

Part of him secretly hoped that monsters stalked those who entered the mountains above, that rumors of a powerful warrior were true. Even if it was wrong to wish for more trouble, to seek out danger when they were surrounded by so many threats. It almost gave him something to focus on, to divert the growing fire in his leg and the brewing storm of anger and guilt inside his head.

The sounds of the transport roared overhead as it departed, the engine noise hovering in the background over the mountains. When it too finally disappeared, he counted the seconds until his team leader returned.

When Sheppard returned he wordlessly handed Ronon the water pack and crawled away into the darker part of the cave.

“Hungry?” he asked, checking to see if Sheppard was conscious.

“No.”

An hour or so went by; it was hard to tell. Sheppard spoke of the water tanks, of desperate, thirsty people. And the attack and theft of his hard-won water.

“Let me see your shoulder,” Ronon ordered. There wasn’t much to be done for bruised muscles or a concussion made worse, but he could pull out the tiny thorns that were still buried in Sheppard's skin and could still be slowly poisoning him. “Is everything on this planet toxic?”

“Plants have always been used to make drugs, big guy. I just need to find them.” Sheppard's voice carried in the confines of the cave.

I, not we.

This should’ve been Ronon's cue to remind Sheppard that he didn't have to do everything by himself. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t true. So instead he dragged his body back towards the hole he’d made, to do the only thing he could right now. Catch more ants.

Sheppard fell asleep with his boots on again so Ronon undid the laces and pulled them off. Scooting closer, he eased Sheppard's head up enough to rest against his uninjured leg. The man didn't even stir.

Ronon leaned against the wall, knife at ready and stood guard against the demons that lurked outside.

“Why didn't you wake me up?”

Ronon popped his neck. “You needed to sleep.”

“What I need is to go back to the settlement.” Sheppard got to all fours, swaying slightly from an obvious head rush. “I'm gonna trade my watch. Keeping time here is worthless, but maybe the glass and metal parts might be good for something.”

“You keep running into trouble when you go out.”

“Yeah, it's a gift.”

“You need to find an ally, Sheppard.”

“We'll find one, buddy. In the meantime, what did you make for breakfast?”

Ronon stared at the ceiling of the cave, wondering if it had gotten lower in the last couple days. Sheppard had left to trade for supplies, leaving him to face the pain he'd fought hard not to show. In battle you reported any injury because it affected the mission and could compromise your unit. You made adjustments, re-grouped, and set out with a new strategy.

Objectives had specific goals. When he was a teenager it was to live long enough to defend his home. Train, work hard, protect others. As a runner it was simple. Kill or be killed. Live off the land, never stop moving. There wasn’t thinking of another; he had no one to think about.

It was one thing to fight for survival on your own, another when you had to look out for someone else.

There was a noise, leather on dirt. Ronon held his breath, waiting for the familiar tread and only exhaled when he recognized Sheppard's gait.

“It's me. Put the knife away.”

Ronon sheathed it, surprised that much time had really passed. “You have something.”

“How'd ya guess?”

“Could smell it.”

“Yeah, they kind of stink, but our choices were limited today. A guy charred it over a flame for us, but its still kind of undercooked.”

Ronon's mouth salivated at the thought of food.

“They call it fernandi. Sorta tastes like chicken.”

Sheppard ripped off a tiny leg and peeled away the scaly skin. “I’m going to see…if we can dry this out…use it for later,” he said between bites.

The creature’s eyes were on either side of its skull and Ronon snapped the head off the animal, studying the rest of its tiny body. He gulped down a hunk of dried flesh, discarding the flexible bones to the side. They seemed too bendable to be made into tools, but maybe after a few days in the sun, they would harden enough to be useful. Eating gave them both something to do and extended their chances of finding a way home for a few days more.

“I only got an additional half gallon of water and fernandi for the watch. Food's trading for more because the weather is bad where they gather this stuff.”

And the Spraza controlled the other types of food. That was the unspoken problem. It was hard to barter when you couldn't get close enough to the people that traded.

They rationed the fernandi, one chunk of meat a day. Enough to last a week. They only drank when they ate. Talking passed the time, but neither of them was very big on chatting in the first place. Ronon concentrated on the parts of his body that worked, stretching muscles that trembled, and made Sheppard find him stones large enough to use as free weights. That required painful trips to the back of the cave where there was more room to move, but left him totally dependent on Sheppard to get back and forth.

The cave was getting smaller.

The headaches started on the sixth day, like he'd drunk an entire jug of Athosian wine and Earth whiskey. When they took a piss, they kept it in the second water pouch and used it later. Rationing wasn't pretty, but they did what they had to.

“The transport should be arriving soon,” Sheppard mumbled, breaking the silence.

Ronon handed him the knife when it was time to leave and watched him crawl out. The freighter was noisy, announcing its presence when it arrived, the engines roaring even louder as it took off. It always went over the mountains, teasing him with fantasies of shooting it down and escaping aboard. He hated waiting, with nothing to do and no way to tell time. When Sheppard returned after what seemed like hours, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Sheppard stumbled inside with fresh bruises on his face, clutching a water pack at three-fourth's capacity. “My detour plan didn't work out,” he coughed.

“You still brought some back,” Ronon reassured him.

He waited the usual amount of time it took Sheppard to give him the bare minimum about what had taken place out there. Sheppard couldn't get through the hordes to the tanks before the water ran low and once he got most of his pouch filled there were too many roaming bandits for one guy to avoid.

“You need to make an alliance with someone.”

“No.”

“Sheppard!” Ronon growled.

“No! End of discussion.”

“Fine. Then you need another strategy.”

On day eight the muscle cramps hit, tissues contracting without mercy in his legs and arms, attacking the middle of his gut. When the spasms wracked his calves, Ronon bit down on his leather bracelet, nearly gnawing through it.

“Hey,” Sheppard whispered, holding Ronon's leg still to keep him from further injuring it.

Ronon eyes squeezed closed, he balled up his fists, digging his nails into both palms.

The cave provided a cloak for awkward acts of comfort. Sheppard kneaded the affected area to release the cramps, careful of the misaligned bones. “We‘re not getting enough salt, but this should help ease the pain,” he explained, massaging away the knots.

Ronon didn't say anything, sparing them both further moments of embarrassment.

“I can't find a guide who'll take me to the Tharsqin Sands. Storms won't clear out. During my time in Afghanistan, the Seistan winds could last for weeks or months, so we can‘t count on that for a while,” Sheppard said, slumping against the opposite wall. “I've seen bowls of gruel and soup being swapped around. Means there are plants and other small animals somewhere.”

Sheppard wasn't a tracker and searching a wasteland when you didn't know how was impossible. To give themselves a sense of direction John gave landmarks designations. The settlement was south; their cave was north, nestled under treacherous mountains. “The Tharsqin Sands are west?”

“Yeah. Deep desert. And even deeper desert in the east.”

Which meant exploration to find out. But how? Ronon wasn't going anywhere and no matter how much Sheppard tried to hide how badly he was being affected, the lack of water and food was taking its toll on him. To go for more than an hour’s walk at this stage was to risk not coming back.

“I'm thinking about searching the hillside for critters since I haven't seen any type of path through the mountain. The incline looks fairly rough, but it might be worth it to check out the surrounding area. And if there’s any rainfall at all, it’ll be at higher ground where the air’s cooler. The key’s collecting it before it evaporates.

The hillside was near the Void.

“Don't,” Ronon found himself warning.

“Why?”

There was no explaining it. Ronon had felt it...felt something or someone close by. Watching. Studying them. Whatever it was, was deadly, could probably strike at will, but hadn't. Not yet.

“Ronon?”

“How far out is it?” Ronon let the question hang in the air, their dire circumstances crushing down upon them. Neither of them could hike the miles they were used to and the hidden possibilities of the Void were beyond either of their means to reach.

They didn't speak the rest of the night, each lost in plans that had little chance of success.

The next time Sheppard returned from the transports he collapsed and didn't budge. Ronon ignored it when his vision grayed, ignored the terrible pain of moving and inched toward the entrance. “Hey, let me see,” he grunted.

“I'm...good,” Sheppard rasped, pushing Ronon's hands away.

They became identical piles of limbs, both too exhausted to argue or fight. Ronon's pulse raced in his ears; his skin sizzled down the length of his arms and legs. Being this close to the outside was like being in an oven.

Sheppard recovered enough to tug on his sleeve and mumble 'move', and the two of them crawled into the deeper section of the cavern. It took agonizing minutes of stop-drag-stop-drag, but the blessed blackness soon cooled their bodies. Sheppard breathed noisy rapid inhalations, his body trembling from exertion.

When Sheppard spoke his voice went monotone, like the events had happened to someone else. “The tanker cracked like an egg when it landed and all the water flooded out. People...people panicked. It was a stampede... I...fought...fought my way through.”

When you're treated like a wild animal, you become one. Ronon knew about this. Seven years on an invisible leash made it hard to hold onto your humanity. If you're lucky, someone comes along and offers you a chance at a new life.

But this was new territory for Sheppard. There was war and there was doing what it took to survive. Ronon smelled the faint hints of blood on Sheppard’s clothes and imagined the carnage during the melee.

And it was bound to get worse.

By day eleven Ronon had learned to ignore his stomach's protests. It had gotten used to endless MREs and second helpings in the mess. Going from regular meals of meat and vegetables to ant-patties left a chasm of hunger he hadn't felt in a long time. Even during those rare times of rationing in the midst of a crisis they’d all had the proper nutrition.

It was a war against his body, trying to keep the pain at bay, but fighting took energy that Ronon didn't have. Sheppard had gone back to barter for food using Ronon's necklaces and bracelets. It took half a day for Sheppard to return nearly empty handed.

The sandstorms kept people from gathering fernandi and the Spraza had intimidated anyone Sheppard tried to trade with. Apparently, Sheppard had injured several members of that gang during his fight and flight after the tanker accident. Ronon suspected John was gaining a reputation out there. For a man to make it on his own for so long was an impressive feat.

They’d run out of fernandi a few days before and would drink the rest of the water that night. Or was it daytime again?

Ronon closed his eyes, listening to the skittering of insect legs and the rapid breaths of Sheppard next to him. Underneath the noise of the cave was the sound and scent of alien leather. Pretending to sleep, he kept track of the thing biding its time outside. Just waiting for the perfect moment.

John felt the familiar bumps on his arms, resisted the urge to scrape raw the areas under his knees. Not to mention a certain horrible desire to scratch the other parts that were inflamed.

“Don't rub at it,” he scolded Ronon when he heard the scratching.

“I want to peel my skin off.”

“Yeah. But don't. If you irritate the blisters they could get infected.”

“Don't care.”

“You will.”

“What is it?”

“Prickly heat. Too much sweating and not enough showers. Our sweat glands are plugged up by a skin bacteria.”

Ronon actually snarled and John didn't blame him. The rash had spread like wildfire all over Ronon's body overnight. It was quick like that, spreading in hours, engulfing him in mind-numbing hell.

“Just try to lie still.”

It was the wrong thing to say because Ronon went a bit berserk. John threw himself on top of him, digging his arms into the bigger man's chest. “Ronon... Ronon!”

His teammate thrashed and screamed, doing anything to create friction and relieve the itch. John barely hung on, his brains a scrambled mess inside his skull. “Stop it!” The last thing they needed was for Ronon to re-injure his leg. “Stand down!”

Ronon went limp, his roar ending in a whimper. “Just...just...”

Just leave me, the scarecrow had whispered with his last breath. Telling John not to save him.

“No!” He rolled onto his side, unwilling to listen. “I'll find us some water. I promise. I'm gonna fix this.”

There was one goal and one goal only.

John didn't know how or what deal needed to be made, but he couldn't watch Ronon suffer any further. The lesions were a plague that itched and burned like a fever, ravaging his friend's chest and back, and up his face. When prickly heat got bad it was like a million pinpricks digging into your flesh. Add a broken leg and a body weakened from dehydration and lack of food and the rash became deadly. A simple bacteria could infect the blood system and lead to sepsis if left untreated for too long.

Only a patchwork of redness dotted John's body but moving caused his clothes to chafe his irritated skin. The walk to the transport area took longer and he constantly had to pull up Ronon's pants and roll them at the waist. They had both lost weight the last few days. Not the kind where their ribs poked out. Not yet. But he was all lean muscle without any to spare. Soon that would start wasting away when his body had nothing left.

Headaches were constant now and his vision fuzzed on the edges. He'd taken too many glancing blows to the skull recently. John knew if he got hit full on in a fight, there would be no getting up any time soon. Images sparkled in the distance, mirages teasing relief of pools and lakes. The desert mirages screwed with your head and messed with your sense of distance. Objects one mile away were usually four. There was no running this time; the plan was to arrive before the freighter landed and find some shade to stay under to gather his strength. Maybe if he didn't expend too much energy before the big brawl, he might win a round.

John lay on his belly on a nice comfy spot behind a hillside, the rock formations protecting him on all sides. The shade brought relief, but he had nothing to lie on to add a layer between his body and the searing heat of the ground. Yanking off the makeshift handkerchief, he pulled up his baggy shirt to protect his face. Breathing his own foul air was worth removing the heat conducting black material and he kept his mouth closed and took in air through his nose like he was trained. Staying hidden in the shade for a few hours would work as long as he didn't move.

Waiting was a bitter enemy.

His ears roared with the pounding of his heart, the rising and falling of his chest too fast. Time lost all meaning. Hours could have been days and he wouldn't be able to tell. He poked his head out of his shirt like a turtle, scouting the area for others with the same idea. Everything was a dark tinted brown simmering through his goggles; the sun was a giant fire in the same exact part in the sky.

A dot approached from the distance, the fuzzy figure solidifying into a set of ragged clothes. The man stumbled and got up. Stumbled again and crawled into the shadows. John tensed, but the newcomer kept his distance, the guy's breathing harsh and wheezy.

“I...I only want to lie here,” the newcomer rasped.

“There's plenty of sand,” John replied.

The two eyed each other with suspicion then fell into an uncomfortable silence. Talking took effort, but maybe they both needed the company of another voice.

“It is not coming.”

“Give it time,” came John’s reply.

“I have no time to give.”

John scanned the empty horizon; he’d come out here for water and couldn't leave without it. “Has it skipped a run before?”

“Many times. Sometimes to weed us out. Sometimes to fix problems. We never know.”

John thought of Ronon, of what these people would do with him. “Do they come the next cycle?”

The newcomer laughed then sputtered into a dry choking fit. “No... If they miss a cycle, they do not return until the next three.”

“What do people do?” John didn't mean to say it out loud, but the words poured out of his head.

“The weak will be hunted down...” the newcomer groaned, grabbing his head. “The others will begin searching soon.”

John squeezed the empty pouch. “I have to keep looking. I can't just lie here.” Standing up caused his world to go white, the dizziness only receding after a few rapid breaths.

The newcomer turned his head, a gnarled face peeked out between layers of a honey-yellow headband. “Where will you go?”

John staggered, fighting for equilibrium. For the first time he peered at the man, noticed the long scars where tattoos used to be before the man adjusted the yellow layers of his headgear to conceal them again. “I don't know.”

“There is nowhere to search.”

“There has to be.”

Yellow headband guy stared at him. “What are you willing to give up?”

“Whatever I have to.”

“Then there is one place.”

John made his way to the settlement, past the living sectors and barter areas. If he hadn’t known what to look for, he would have missed the entrance. The path twisted behind a wall of jutting rock and the hole was concealed by a natural overhanging of sandstone. Pale blue swirling patterns were splashed above the alcove and when he entered, his spine tingled with unease.

It was pitch black and he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. But he pulled down his eye gear, relishing the hint of moisture in the air. The wall guided him further inside. He counted his footsteps and after eight, two sets of hands grabbed his forearms with an amazing amount of strength and pulled him into a hidden room.

Two men in blue robes crushed his biceps and held him still. It took a panicked heartbeat for his eyes to adjust to the strange indigo glow that emanated from chunks of crystalline rock imbedded in the walls.

One of the Shan’ka appeared before him, his sickly gray face ghoulish in the dim room. “You here. For...exchange?” he asked, his speech broken and hoarse.

John swallowed dryly. “Yes.”

The goons never released his arms and manhandled him toward a slab of rock. His feet froze at the sight of the restraints, but he was already being forced to lie on his back. Terror set in as two more robed men joined their pals, each taking a limb and securing it in place.

Leather straps bound his ankles and wrists, and one was tightened across his chest and thighs to keep him still. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes.”

John willed himself to relax. He’d agreed to this. There was no other choice. One of the Shan’ka pulled out a familiar-looking pouch and hung it on a scale next to him. Then he unfolded a purple cloth onto a smooth stone table and pulled out a piece of tubing.

Who were these people? Where did they get all this stuff? “You guys rob a hospital?” he joked.

“We begin.”

The Shan’ka rolled up John's sleeve and picked up a long thin object with a sharp tip. It was crafted out of bone and looked like a large sewing needle. “We take two dunkas of your fluids,” he said in a voice of someone suffering a horrible sore throat. “Give you one in water.”

John did the math in his head. Two pints; he could live without that amount. But it was hard to ignore the nagging doubt that that was under normal, healthy circumstances. “Mind telling me how you guys work your magic?”

The Shan’ka didn't respond. John bit his lip; it took two tries to find a vein, but then the thick needle pierced his skin and he tried not to watch while the container started filling with his blood.

Something that appeared more like a straw than a needle had been jammed into the crook of John's elbow; his blood drained loudly into a container that hung beside him. The room was cast in mystery, the light from the crystals doing little to expose its secrets. The whole chamber felt like a morgue or Doctor Frankenstein's lab with him a willing participant in an ongoing experiment.

The sound of his blood rattling the container set his teeth on edge. He let his eyelids flutter closed and his body surrender to lethargy and pain. He teetered on the brink of awareness and tried to blink away the halos in his vision.

It was visceral, watching his strength bleed away, as his arms twitched instinctively against the straps. With his energy gone there was nothing left to fight the hunger that he’d kept at bay, and now it clawed at his insides.

The blood merchant waited quietly nearby, like a vulture, as John’s life continued to pour into the container. A strange figure, nothing like the eerily robed Shan’ka, entered the room and joined the other, leaning in closely to speak.

They probably think you're unconscious.

“No need for you... to be here,” the Shan'ka's voice vibrated with anger.

“Just making sure you uphold your end of the deal. I think you've been holding back on me lately. Can't have that,” a deep voice replied calmly.

“Our word is law. We... do not break agreements.”

“Why don't I believe you?”

John cracked his eyes open to mere slits, allowing him a view of the fuzzy outlines of the two figures.

The Shan'ka's words buzzed in and out. “You have...job....keep the...in the Void....”

“Be sure...to....blood samples....”

The conversation faded into the background as white noise filled his head and he fell deeper into the haze. Then a pale, blurry face peered down at him. “We are done. Be still,” the Shan'ka instructed.

The needle was plucked out and blood quickly welled up into the hole. The merchant turned to one of his blue-robed brethren who silently handed over an object. John noticed the burning smell, but it wasn't until the Shan'ka held up a rod that he realized what was going to happen next.

“We must seal the wound. No drops should be lost.”

John could barely hold back the scream as the heated tip cauterized the puncture. He'd barely recovered from the sterilization when his bonds were removed and the ground rushed up to meet him. His feet refused to hold his weight, and his addled mind was unable to figure up from down. Vertigo triggered a round of dry heaving, sending him to his hands and knees.

“The exchange is complete, 45482.”

“Goody, another assigned number.” Hands hauled John upright, and his boot toes dragged on the floor before barely gaining purchase. “What?... No juice and cookies?”

John wanted to die. Giving blood when already so dehydrated had been a giant risk and he wasn’t coping like he needed to. But he had to walk on his own power in front of the blood merchants or risk being seen as too weak to survive.

“Easy boys,” he grunted when his left shoulder slammed into a corner.

Steel-boned hands let him go and he almost failed to keep himself upright before grabbing the wall to steady himself.

A Shan'ka appeared from out of nowhere handing him a small pouch with blue alien lettering on it. “Your dunka of water.”

John tried not to vomit on the merchant’s boots. “Gee, thanks.”

He funneled all his focus on the pouch, stuffing it in the knapsack he’d almost forgotten was around his shoulder.

The Shan'ka's opaque eyes bored into him. “We will see you again.”

“Maybe,” John quipped with an answer that would make him right either way.

As the Shan'ka slipped back into the darkness, John stayed clinging desperately to the wall, knowing if he let go of it he'd be part of the floor. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he finally loosened his grip and headed for a faint light at the end of the narrow cavern. It wasn't the way he'd come in, but he heard voices and followed them out of the Hall of Horrors.

The aroma of food hit his nose and his stomach growled and clenched with anticipation of being filled. Seconds later nausea tore through his gut and doubled him over. He stumbled toward a corner, only the wall controlling his slide to the floor.

Get a grip, John. You have to do this again tomorrow.

People filled the next chamber he entered. They were bleary-eyed and hopeless, haggling trinkets and other things to anyone who'd listen. Many were turned away and forced to seek the Shan'ka for an exchange.

His stomach rumbled again and John realized how truly fucked he was. He had one dunka of water and nothing left to trade. They needed food; hell, Ronon needed a lot of food. And medicine, if medicine existed. If there were opiates, there might be other drugs. Staring at his boots, he wondered if his feet could handle the rough desert terrain without protection.

“Did you go in there?”

John schooled his features, hoping not to show how relieved he was at seeing a relatively friendly face. “Yeah.” He hadn’t seen Lyle enter the cavern. Which meant he had come out the exit. “What were you doing there?”

“I have business with the Shan'ka.”

“Really. What kind?” John's voice was hostile, but he felt like twenty miles of dead road and needed a target.

Lyle squatted down next to him, removed his dirty-orange turban, and scratched his head. He was a tough nut to crack; a face weathered by the sun obscured his true age. The beard misleading. Early fifties perhaps? But under the simple business façade was a quick mind. “I have things they desire.”

The merchant scraped at his scalp absently and John resisted the urge to rub his nails over the red splotches on his arms. “What do they want?”

Lyle's eyes darkened. “Nothing you need to know about.” Then his expression softened into its usual grin, reminding John of McKay when he thought he'd discovered some new kind of tech. “You have anything to trade? You look like you need to,” he said, reaching for John's knapsack.

“Touch it and I'll kill you.”

Lyle chuckled, unintimidated. “Maybe. But I'm not going to take your water, stranger. It is forbidden to steal from an exchange. That belongs to the Shan'ka. You’re only borrowing it.”

“What do they do? Recycle the blood?”

“They extract the water from it. Give you two-thirds of what they harvest and keep the rest. The Shan'ka can take water from almost anything. They are the reason we survive,” he said, almost in admiration.

John knew all you needed was an elaborate centrifuge of some kind to separate all the parts of the blood. But where did they get the technology? And how?

He rubbed his eyes as pain spiked through his temples. “Why obey them?”

“They control the balance. Without them, there’s not enough water to drink or to use for food or trade. ”

“Supply and demand meets Darwin,” John muttered.

“Water is the key to life; it is sacred. The Saurin do not bring enough for all. The Shan'ka control the transformation of water. So they control us.” Yeah, there was admiration there, even respect. Lyle rolled another a cigarette with uncalloused hands inexperienced to physical labor.

“Then the easiest way to get water is to kill.”

“We are not allowed to take a life; the punishment is worse than any death. But if one is not of able body, then they can be claimed. Without the Shan'ka we would kill each other and no one would live.”

John wondered if that was the Spraza's real source of wealth. Find the strongest to join their gang and pick off the weak in the process. Like some sick black market trade. “Is that why people don't steal all my water when I get jumped? Some weird honor code?”

“If you’re not able to keep your water, then you deserve to have it taken. But you must be left with just enough for a chance. The desert kills enough; we need people to hunt and farm. To make and barter what is needed. To complete the cycle.”

What if the water didn't show up when it was supposed to? When did the Spraza and everyone else start hunting down the weak for the only source of viable water for drink or trade?

“Do you have a shop around here?” John asked.

“Why?”

“I need food.”

“I don't have any.”

“But you can get it.”

“Yes. And what are you gonna give me in return?”

John only had one thing. “You can claim me if I die.” The merchant's eyes glinted wildly for a split second and John wondered if this was another bad idea. “You lend me food and water and if I don't live long enough to pay back the debt, you'll make ten times the profit.” Or more.

“I can provide you enough food for eight cycles. I have no water to spare.”

“I'm offering you twenty, thirty, hell, maybe a hundred dunkas of water!” John growled.

“No, you’re giving me nothing,” Lyle’s voice matched John’s intensity. “None of us should ever expect to see tomorrow. You have my offer. Take it or leave it.”

Lyle was no fool. John was the one who couldn't bargain, and he could only assume the trader had little room for charity. “What about medicine?”

“Medicine? Herbs are for the weak. To use it would mean--”

“Humor me.”

“You can only get healing herbs from the Jad and eight cycles of food is not enough for that.”

The news was sobering. John would have to find a way obtain that too, but one thing at a time.

Lyle stood up, adjusting his robe. “We both return to the Shan'ka two times in a cycle and plan on walking back out. Is a rare thing, stranger.”

“Since you'll be carrying around my deed, how about calling me Sheppard?”

“Very well, Sheppard. Shall we conduct our business?”

Returning to the Shan'ka lair revealed little more than the first time. Shan'ka drifted in and out silently—in fact they never spoke aloud to each other. They blended into the darkness, becoming one with it.

John searched for signs of their technology, scouting ways to sneak back in to steal it. There was no evidence that the Shan'ka carried any weapons, but the burly guards posed enough of a threat. It was a challenge to canvass a layout when he constantly battled lightheadedness. Holding onto the wall, he brushed his fingers over the crystals that illuminated the room, and tried to wiggle one loose to no avail.

The surface beneath his fingers was smooth, lacking the coarseness of sandstone, and he imagined the rivers that might have carved out this cavern. How old was this world? Eyes peered at him from hidden shadows and his stomach grew queasier.

“45482. Do you give your water upon death to 78435?” The Shan'ka's raspy voice startled John. Their stealth would make Ronon envious.

“What does a guy have to do to get these first class accommodations?”

Lyle held himself stiffly, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was the poster child for pent up tension and it couldn’t be a good sign that Mr. Laid Back was ready to bolt. The Shan'ka waited and there really was no way to tell them apart. Of course, there was only enough light for a cat.

“Okay, no small talk. Got it. Yeah, I agree.”

The Shan'ka were deceptively quick. Clammy hands grabbed John's jaw, again, forcing it open and another damn tube was scraped over his tongue.

“I would've spit on it if you wanted me to,” John griped, trying to wet his mouth and failing. “You can collect DNA from hair. I've got plenty of that.”

The Shan'ka ignored him, wordlessly handing over what had to be a sample of his saliva to Lyle.

“We must go,” Lyle said, grabbing John's arm and dragging him away.

John memorized the route outside and shielded his eyes when they reached the exit. Business was brisk for the Shan'ka. People carried armfuls of plant material and sacks that wiggled with the struggles of whatever was trapped inside, waiting to be converted into water.

“You live far? Because--”

The sight of a limp body being dragged by two men caused John's thoughts to go off the rails. His heart slowly regained a normal rhythm after noticing the small size of the unconscious man. It wasn't Ronon.

“You're still alive.”

John's head snapped up at the voice. Damn. He didn't need this.

Kadar slowly circled him much like an alpha dog. “Went in for an exchange, huh?”

“Just taking a stroll.” John shrugged, resting his hand on his knife. “And you?”

“Making a claim. Something you'll learn soon enough.”

Time was ticking and getting involved in a cockfight wasn't on the agenda. John started to walk away, never taking his eyes off Kadar. With a glance at the body, he noticed the raspy wheeze and the yellow headband of the guy who'd helped him. “Hey, he's still alive.”

“Not for long.”

John got into Kadar's face. “He's still breathing.”

“He cannot stand,” the Spraza said dismissively. “His arm is badly broken. He is not able bodied.”

“He didn't have a broken arm earlier!”

Kadar’s minions dropped the dying man with a thunk. John went for his weapon, but Kadar held his men back. “No need, boys. Wouldn't want any of you to get hurt.” His smirk widened. “This is what happens to the weak, my friend. They fall victim to thieves and scavengers. The Shan'ka will examine this poor dod. When they see the severity of the injury, they will follow the law.”

John could barely contain his anger. The odds were the guy would have died soon enough. But that didn't mean that a bunch of thugs should be allowed to speed up the process.

“Does it make you feel tough to break the arm of someone who can't fight back?”

“It is time to leave. We have business,” Lyle spoke, stepping up before things came to a head.

Kadar played with his braided beard. “Lyle, my good friend. You have dealings with this newcomer? You do realize that he belongs to me.”

It was a risk to announce their association out loud; then again it was obvious the merchant was with him. “We just finished some paperwork on a deal. Crossed all the Ts. Dotted the Is on a future claim.” It was fun to watch the gang leader's face screw up in confusion. “See. In the event of my death, Lyle has claim to my water. This means if I were to have an accident, you don’t get a drop.”

Kadar looked like he was trying to set him on fire from behind his goggles. John didn't want to abandon the guy from the desert, but he looked at his sprawled form and knew things were not quite right. Bending down for a pulse, he felt nothing.

“Going to the transports is dangerous. You might want to be careful. And your pal. Who is watching him?” Kadar pointed at the dead man and his goons picked up the body and went on their way without hesitation.

Just another death in the desert. John reluctantly watched them walk away, fighting the urge to go after them.

“Very well played, Sheppard. The Spraza cannot claim your water if I own it.”

That hadn't been the point, but he'd take the unintentional benefits. John went to smooth things over when Lyle broke into his personal space. “It might buy you some time. Why risk killing someone if you can't have their water?”

“It has its advantages.”

Lyle got even closer if that was possible, his fragrant oil unable to mask his pungent smell. “Don't forget that it makes no difference. The desert, the Spraza. If you die, it all goes to me.”

It took everything in John's power to give one of his cocky grins. “Unless I outlive you.”

Medena was a land shrouded in secrets. Desert sands wiped away all traces of her history and a void promised mysteries within a great darkness. Roaming gangs survived using deceit and obeyed the laws of ghosts hidden beneath blue robes. Even Lyle concealed small truths, from his business deals with all those who fought for their slice of power, to the contents inside his cave. He'd forced John to simmer in the heat for an eternity before finally returning with the promised rations.

Now back in their impromptu ‘home’, John chewed on something that tasted like a cross between a radish and a carrot, the measurement of his life reduced to the contents of a knapsack. He wanted to devour all of the roots and mentally had to tell himself to slow down. His mouth was on autopilot, starting to eat the next vegetable before he’d swallowed the first one. “This actually isn't half bad.”

Ronon didn't hold back, powering down his rationed portion in minutes. “Where did you get them?”

“Hey, careful. Don't eat your hand,” John said, watching his friend lick the residue from his fingers.

They both eyed the knapsack, their stomachs loudly digesting dinner. It was a blessing in disguise that Lyle didn't have any meat; eating more undercooked food would likely lead to other health problems.

John munched on the last root, his belly craving more. “Hope you like this stuff; couldn't get much variety.”

“I've been hungry before,” Ronon reminded him.

“I know.”

“You gave me the biggest ones.”

“You're a bigger guy.”

Ronon slammed his fist on the wall in rage. The simple outburst left him exhausted and shaking, hurting John at his core to bear witness to his deterioration.

John allowed his friend to let it out, to exorcise all that pent up frustration. Then he busied himself cleaning up their area; there was no such thing as privacy, just the silent promise never to mention the things normally expressed alone.

Ronon had bitten away his fingernails to keep from scratching at his skin, but the rash was active bacteria and practically covered him head to toe. “What did you trade for the food?

John gave his friend the dunka of water. “Drink some of this. I'll get more tomorrow.”

Ronon's hands trembled while he stared at the alien lettering on the outside of the small container. John steadied the pouch after Ronon almost dropped it, helping him take a few sips.

“Why aren't you answering my questions?”

Because ignorance was bliss. John dug through the foodstuffs and pulled out a clump of bulbous roots. “Here, try these. They remind me of Brussels sprouts. Hated those as a kid.”

Ronon didn't grab them.

“You need to eat more.”

“I'm not taking a larger share.”

“I'm not asking.” John wasn't about to back down, but Ronon was as pigheaded as they came. “If I was injured or sick, you'd tell me to shut up and eat. Or force it down my throat. Don't make me do the latter.”

“You couldn't.”

But John could. That was the problem. “Please, Ronon. I'll order you.”

“Sheppard.”

“You need to regain your strength. When you're back on your feet, we'll find a way off this rock. I need you on my six, buddy.” Playing the loyalty card was low, but it was the truth.

Ronon took the sprouts, sniffed the tops and shoved them in his mouth, not caring about manners. “You...gonna...tell me...the truth?” he asked in between chewing.

“No.”

If he didn't answer, it wasn't really lying.

John had an intimate relationship with pain, understood the complexity of living with it. Ronon couldn't seduce or make a deal with it. And the one thing about pain: it hated being ignored. His teammate was losing the battle no matter how hard he fought. John never fell asleep; he merely drifted between states of consciousness. They took turns keeping watch, but it was difficult to relax when your friend was in constant agony.

John gathered his things and crawled over to where Ronon lay. “I'm going to get today's water. But I want you to eat before I leave.”

Cutting away a section of his shirt, he used the knife to smash a double sized portion of roots into a baby food substance to make it easier to spoon feed. Breakfast was gathered in the makeshift cloth plate and he helped ease Ronon into a sitting position to eat.

Ronon used his fingers to scoop the mash into his mouth. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” John gave him the mostly empty dunka pouch. “There's enough until I get back. It‘s better to take a few sips every few minutes than a lot all at once.

“Sheppard.”

“I'll be fine.”

The second exchange went as horribly as the first one. John gritted his teeth when the Shan'ka used their version of a band-aid and he threw up the carrot-turnip things all over the floor. The vertigo was so bad that he dug his fingers into his temples, wishing they’d go straight into his brain.

“45482.”

The voice sounded like one of those devices that people with laryngectomies used against their vocal cords. “Gimme a second,” John rasped before dry heaving again.

Crawling on the ground was a good start but left a bad impression. John staggered to his feet; the blue-robed goon squad added to the ring of bruises on his biceps and hauled him up. They took a different way out and for a frightening second John imagined that they were taking him to be embalmed alive.

Dumped outside another chamber, John curled on his side, waiting for the cramps to subside and his vision to clear.

The orris fumes from the den hit him and the rawboned dealer from his first encounter scurried over like an insect. “Knew you'd be back.”

“Said I wasn't interested.”

John stay slumped against the wall so the dealer took that as an invitation, kneeling down next to him. God, the guy smelled like he rolled around in the stuff.

“You're hurting, friend. Your belly is sick. Empty. Orris will help.”

“Will...will it help with pain?”

“If you smoke enough, it'll make you forget all about it.”

John lurched to his feet, his legs buckling from the sudden movement. The dealer grabbed onto him and John shoved him away, losing his balance in the process. “Get off me!” he snapped, clutching the wall.

What an idiotic idea! Orris wouldn't help Ronon. Even considering the idea was evidence of his poor sense of judgment. John scrubbed a hand over his scruffy beard, resisting the urge to scrape his nails across his rash-covered neck. His entire body felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper, and he yanked down his shirt collar, revealing a blotchy, reddened chest.

There was something wrong when he crawled back inside their hole.

It was silent.

“Ronon? Buddy!”

John scrambled toward his unmoving friend, searched for a pulse that was fast and thready beneath his fingers. Satisfied that the bigger man was alive, he took the opportunity to examine Ronon's broken leg. Carefully, he removed the BDUs that provided the weakest of splints and was horrified at a limb covered in yellow, blue and black bruises; the bone uneven and swollen from not healing properly.

Damn it!

“Sheppard?”

“Hey, right here.”

Ronon sat up frantically. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Only for a short while. How are you feeling? Think you could eat something?”

“I didn't mean to,” Ronon mumbled.

John gathered a mix of sprouts and roots and started to smash them together, mixing in most of his share for the day, knowing his teammate needed the nourishment.

“Here. Let's see if you've still got an appetite.”

Ronon may have been half out of it from pain, but he still knew how to suck down dinner. Or breakfast. Who could tell at this point? John ate what remained of the day's ration, lost in thought.

“I need to--”

“You need to rest,” John informed him. “You can take the next shift.”

Fighting injuries without basic treatment had a way of creeping up on the strongest of people. John should have seen this coming. Force of will could only do so much.

Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.

Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?

The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp somethings. Barbed. Like pine needles.

They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. That skinny rat bastard!

John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none.

Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?

When did the line start to blur?

If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.

They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water.

Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.

John walked in a daze, not bothering to run, the transport engines a dull rumble behind his eardrums. The ship, the screaming and shouting were all one large distraction to his mission. If he blocked out all the noise, it made things less real. He was almost at his destination, distance and time a single disconnect. John glanced behind his back, images of helping Ronon eat and drink when he woke up a hazy dream.

His true nightmare loomed ahead, shrouded in sunlight and miles of sand. His skin was stretched tightly over his body, the newest blisters reminding him of shriveled up blue scales and scabs. He remembered being told not to scratch and restraints that kept him from gouging long trails down his arms. John held out his hands in front of his face and pretended they belonged to someone else.

It helped imagining that it was a stranger in line at the least crowded faucet. Teeth, nails, and fists didn't hurt as much. John gave as much as he received, returned punches without holding back. He didn't think; he didn't feel. He couldn't afford to. John had to give it his all because he didn't have any blood left to give.

The tank ran dry after he filled his first pouch and he unsheathed his knife. “Move,” he growled.

John reckoned he looked a little wild, a little crazy. Maybe he was. He felt like it. No one wanted to screw with a lunatic whose brain was baked by the sun and who knew how to use a blade.

Except people who cared even less.

They rushed him, three sets of hands. Three uncoordinated attacks. John went limp, surprising the thieves. Once on the ground, their lower legs made easy targets. He lashed out, smashing the nearest kneecap with his boot and jabbing his knife into the closest ankle.

Both men went down, leaving the third. John saw the rock bearing toward his skull and he rolled out of the way. The third thief smashed the spot where his face had been and brought the stone up for another try.

John threw the knife out of instinct and the blade struck the guy in the chest. His two buddies staggered to their feet, took one look at their pal, and limped away as fast as they could.

The lone thief sank to his knees and stared at the blade protruding above his heart, the front of his robe already soaked with blood. John crouched next to the prisoner who gurgled and coughed a fine spray of crimson onto his shirt.

“Fin...finish me off.”

“No. I'll...I'll…” What could John do? Call for help? Bandage a four inch chest wound?

The thief ripped away his goggles, revealing a formerly young face aged beyond his years. “Please...make sure I'm dead... Be...before they...c-come.”

John knew who 'they' were, already saw them off in the distance, the sun reflecting off their blue robes. A twist of the blade would be merciful.

Without warning the thief thrust the knife deeper into his chest, doing the deed himself. John stared as the man's life poured out of him. The thief took one last gasp and slumped to the ground. Then there was nothing. Just vacant eyes.

John checked for a pulse and, after finding none, slowly closed the lids. When he looked up, the Shan'ka were there, staring back. John pulled out the knife, wiped the blade onto his pants and scooped up some sand to wipe his hands clean.

Four Shan'ka made quick work of the body, stripping away the thief's clothes and rolling him up into a tarp. One of the Shan'ka folded up the garments, retrieved the dead man's water pouch and handed them over and once again a smaller figure hurried over, inclining his head to the larger Shan'ka and turned to John. “We have deemed this a clean death. 44782's possessions belong to you,” he spoke in a normal voice.

John slung the second pouch over his shoulder, rolled up the man's clothes and stuffed them under his arm. The Shan'ka gathered up all the blood splattered sand, making sure not a single bit was wasted.

There were still others out there. Other thieves, other gangs, other desperate people. But they wouldn't go after him today. Not with blood so fresh on his shirt that it would came away wet on his fingers. Not after the Shan'ka transferred another man's water to him.

John came out here half out of his mind and would return with double the water, double a chance for Ronon's survival. There was less of a disconnect than at the start of his mission. But he wished for that detachment. It'd make the stench of death easier to ignore and would allow him to pretend again.

To keep him from feeling anything at all when he killed a man and happily walked away with his water.

Ronon always had an eye for patterns. An artist's eye like his mother's. She’d spent a lifetime in front of a canvas, recreating her dreams. And providing for her family, knitting the blankets on their beds and the curtains that hung in the windows.

He’d spent hours helping mix oil paints and dyeing fabrics, soaking up every stitch, every dab of the brush. His mother had taught him how to blend colors to discover new ones and how any mistake could be turned into something beautiful. Her art was the hidden world of the abstract, the secrets between shapes and form. Ronon painted what he saw, the reality of their world. And even took up the needle to sew his own clothes, and the hammer to build the tables they ate on and the chairs they sat in.

All Satedan children were taught the legend of Kosk, their greatest warrior. When Ronon was a kid he’d illustrated those triumphs in blacks and whites. At age ten, he’d looked beyond the words and studied Kosk's battle tactics. There were patterns in war, too. The lines of troop movements, the strategy and models behind engagements.

Ronon had entered the Academy like all fourteen year-old males. His taskmaster had recognized Ronon's ability to see the fine art of combat. Kell had honed those skills. Fingers that used to weave elaborate designs, learned how to swing the blade, and his palette became the blood of his enemies.

On his nineteenth birthday, Ronon had chosen to stay with his unit, following in the steps of his father and older brother.

Lorena couldn't conceal her disappointment, but had still hugged him tightly, trying to hide her tears. She was a teacher and her son had passed on a chance to study at the University. On Sateda most men joined the ranks of military, but those who could beautify their world held a special honor.

“You could share your gifts with others,” she’d argued.

“If there's no Sateda, there'll be nothing left to share.”

“If nothing preserves our culture, then we might not as well have existed.”

“I don't deserve to be a Satedan if I'm not willing to protect my people. Actions define us. Not what we leave behind.”

It was a shock to wake up from fever dreams, picturing his mother's paintings in the rocky ceiling above. Ronon blinked upwards in the darkness, clawing the ground with the nubs of his fingernails. He wished for his knife, to pick it up and slice off his skin, or plunge it into his leg.

“Pathetic,” Kell's voice echoed in his head. “We live to serve.”

His duty was to his team, to his CO. It was all he had left.

Scouring for ants had made him useful. They were all gone now, all the digging and searching for their burrows coming up empty. He was too weak to move or look for them in other parts of the cave, leaving him to slowly broil alive.

Sheppard finally returned to the cave and was covered by the stench of blood. Ronon ignored the blinding pain of his leg and forced himself to sit up. His vision swam, and he blindly reached out for his friend. “Sheppard?”

“It's...it's not mine,” Sheppard rasped, slumping against the cave wall, his breaths fast and shallow. “I've got us an entire thing of water.”

A whole pouch was unfathomable, the difference between taking ten and fifty sips. Ronon resisted the urge to grab it, to squeeze the water down his throat and splash it all over his burning face. Sheppard didn't talk about ways to ration it, or joke about why he had 'to cook'.

Maybe he'd dreamed of his friend's return, his mind lost between the present and the past. But the stench of death was overpowering in the small confines of the cave, and the nausea abated enough for him to take in Sheppard's sorry state.

“You should take your shirt off and put it outside. Let the sun dry it,” Ronon suggested.

“Good idea,” Sheppard said absently, shrugging out of the baggy thing. “I've got a new one now.”

Ronon didn't ask about the clothes, grabbing the second shirt and scraping the bloodstains over the ground. “You'll need to take this one out there, too.”

Sheppard crawled to the entrance, the sunlight exposing the toll of their lack of food on his leaner frame. He returned bare-chested, leaving nothing to conceal the fresh blues and fading yellow bruises of fights endured alone. It was the first time Ronon noticed the restraining marks around Sheppard's biceps, or the strange healing scars on the inside of his arms.

“I'll make something to eat,” Sheppard said, after he caught Ronon staring at him.

There was something off about his voice, but Ronon's thoughts were scrambled by his body's plight. Sheppard steadied Ronon's shoulders and held the water to his lips, fed him when his arms trembled too much to lift on their own.

Sheppard fell asleep in the middle of drinking his own ration of water, the dunka balanced between his knees.

“Wake up,” Ronon grunted.

“M'mm tir'd.”

“I know, but you need to drink that.”

“Yeah.”

But Sheppard didn't budge and Ronon couldn't make him no matter how hard he tried.

The Great Hall had stood for six hundred years. The Central Plaza had survived the land quake of his Ronon's youth, and even the bridges between the city and country side had endured two civil wars.

The Wraith had reduced everything to dust in hours.

He would return to Sateda to mark holidays or times of tradition. Other visits were more personal, including the search for the family home his great-grandfather had built. It'd been difficult to pinpoint the exact location. It was just intuition, a tingle in his gut that a particular patch of rubble had been the floor where he’d played as a child. There was nothing left, of course, not even the foundation.

What had become of his world's greatest treasures? Of its amazing culture?

A year ago he’d found the art museum where his mother had volunteered and brought back the shattered pieces of several masterpieces. In his spare time he’d tried restoring the paintings, beginning with the one of Sateda's victory at Greadstand that hung on his wall.

He could have taken up the brush for the rest of his life, but had taken up the gun. Ronon wanted to defend his people; when he failed doing that, he did the next best thing.

Killed the Wraith.

“A warrior lives to fight,” Kell had taught him.

Ronon startled awake, but the fists he tried to swing were too heavy to use.

“Easy, buddy. It's just me.”

Sheppard's face blurred into view and it took Ronon a moment to gain his bearings. For the heat and pain to grasp him in their iron grips. “You're awake...I thought...I wasn't sure...”

“I'm fine,” Sheppard downplayed any worry.

“What's our status?”

“Two more days ‘til the next transport. There's enough water and food until then.” Sheppard's voice was haggard and his gaze drifted around the cave as if he couldn't focus on a single spot for too long.

“You don't look good,” Ronon commented.

Sheppard didn't say a word. He grabbed the water pouch and transferred a small amount into the more manageable dunka, running fingers over the alien symbols painted on the outside. Ronon hadn't recalled those before. “Where did you get that one?”

“From a trade,” Sheppard replied absently, holding the dunka to Ronon's mouth and supporting his head to drink.

He tried to control how fast he gulped the tiny dribble and tried not to drink it all. “I'm good,” Ronon lied.

“You need the fluids.”

“I'm not taking a bigger portion.”

“I can get more.”

“From where?” Ronon waited for an answer that never came.

Instead his CO rummaged through their food supplies. “Hope you're not tired of mashed roots.”

Ronon was tired of being ignored, but lacked the stamina to argue. It was hard enough struggling against all the memories and voices that wanted to drag him away. Digging his palm into his eyes, he sought a center between sickness and injury.

It was taking a long time for Sheppard to prepare the meal. Ronon propped himself on one elbow and gazed over. “John?” Sheppard looked up from where he'd been smashing the roots repeatedly. “I think they're done,” Ronon told him.

Sheppard stared at the smear of food at the bottom of the knife handle in a daze. “Oh. I forgot what I was doing.”

They ate in silence for the rest of the meal.

Ronon still admired art. Random paintings on random halls. Sculptures that guarded entrances or various gardens. He didn't try to hide this side from others; he just didn't want to share it. There was a difference. It had nothing to do with his past and more to do with a life he'd walked away from.

When he was on other worlds, his eyes sought out danger, hidden movement, concealed weapons. “Don't trust your eyes,” his training dictated. The Saurin had pinged on his radar from day one. He ignored what they wanted him to see and searched for what they didn't show him. He found himself in a hundred similar rooms, struck by the intricacy of the symbols scrawled all over the walls.

Every hall and room was minimal and sparse. Each exactly like the other. Except for the designs. Silver lettering etched on smooth black walls.

“Cool looking, huh?” Sheppard asked.

“Yeah.”

“Something wrong?”

“I recognize this,” Ronon said, tracing over the lines.

“I thought they were just decoration?”

“That's what the Saurin told us.”

“But?”

“It's everywhere. But the closer we get to important parts of the city, the markings get weirder.” Ronon closed his eyes, finger gliding up and over, and into a semi-circle. “You always use a plain background to draw attention to the important stuff,” he said, copying the pattern.

There, in the third loop. The symbols were connected, one line merging with the next. That was the problem. All the hash marks had been stripped away. He opened fresh eyes and they burned in anger. “I know what this is.”

Sheppard tensed next to him and lowered his voice. “What?”

“This whole city has the Wraith language written all over it.”

Ronon dreamed of ocean waves, of the salt in the air and the bright sun overhead. He shielded his eyes against the orange glare and waded into the waters, the mist spraying his face. The drops were soothing ice cubes over his skin. By cupping his hands, he scooped up the sea and splashed it over his chest. Savoring it all.

He wanted more.

“Hey, buddy.”

The mainland was engulfed by blackness and Ronon blinked droplets out of his eyes. “What?” he asked, wiping the wetness from his face in shock.

Sheppard pressed a cloth to Ronon's forehead. “Your fever's spiked. Lie still.”

The fabric was paradise and Ronon felt himself melt in relief, his raw skin greedily soaking up all the moisture. Except this was water. And they didn't have any to spare.

His eyes shot open and somehow Ronon snagged Sheppard's wrist. “Don't.”

“Ronon.”

The fire burning beneath his flesh raged through all his pores, but it didn't matter. He channeled what little strength remained into his fingers and squeezed. “You're wastin' it.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Stop.”

“Can't do that.”

Words were pointless so Ronon tightened his hold until his whole arm shook from the strain.

Sheppard pulled the piece of fabric away.

It took a while before Ronon noticed the strips of cloth wrapped around his forearms and he stared at them.

“You clawed open your skin in your sleep. The sores are infected. I cleaned them the best I could,” Sheppard explained.

Another waste of water.

“How much do we have left?”

“Enough.”

Ronon didn't buy it. “You used some of your share on me.”

“I can get more.”

That was the second time he'd heard that. “What have you been doing?”

“Whatever I have to.”

Hands that would have never gotten near him in the past supported Ronon's neck, guided liquid and food down his throat and dripped water across his ravaged skin. He growled and snapped at them and they still ignored his wishes to leave him alone.

When the hands were gone, silence swept Ronon away. Silence was peaceful, but peaceful wasn't good. Peace was the feeling danger hid behind, to attack when you weren't looking. The quiet stretched on too long and he opened both his pupils, focusing on a familiar shape huddle nearby.

Sheppard was curled on his side, hands wrapped up in the folds of the other shirt to keep from scratching his own skin. He wasn't asleep; his body trembled and jerked when the muscle cramps struck repeatedly. Normally Sheppard dragged himself to the back of the cave to suffer silently in the dark. The fact that he hadn't, that lethargy had beaten back Sheppard's intense need for privacy scared Ronon. Of course his team leader hadn't noticed Ronon's emergence from his fever's stranglehold before slipping away again.

Ronon could tell he'd slept for a long time because his stomach had grown accustomed to the half-days between meals. It took a long time to rouse Sheppard and panic squeezed his chest.

Ronon argued when Sheppard reapplied the wet strips of cloth to his arms. The whole thing felt like a dream and he fought to stay awake, to overcome the comfort his friend tried to provide. Sheppard didn't understand the danger it represented, or feel its claws dig in deeper.

The transport engines roared overhead and Ronon woke to Sheppard's quick squeeze of his arm, “I'm going to get our rations.”

Ronon managed to haul himself up by using his arms and pressed his cheek to the wall, wondering where the days went. Pressing down on the injured bone in his leg, he welcomed the sharp influx of pain. It was a temporary fix, one that consumed one type of energy over another. But it worked and he kept doing it to keep his mind's sluggishness at bay.

He was more alert when Sheppard returned, aware of the newest signs of battle.

“Hey,” Sheppard greeted, his chest heaving as if he'd run back the whole way. “Good to see you up.”

“Sit down,” Ronon replied.

Sheppard didn't comply right away, eyes darting around the cave. His friend had changed out of Ronon's baggy trousers; the stranger's pair fit more snugly around his waist. Sheppard's blade was stained red, matching the random streaks on the front of his shirt and down the sides of his pants.

“Any of that yours?” Ronon asked.

“No.” Sheppard shook his head as if to clear it. “I didn't kill anyone,” he said as an afterthought, slipping down to the ground. His normally sharp eyes were dull and flat. “At least I don't think I did.”

“Were you jumped?”

Sheppard still held the knife, the vein in his throat throbbing madly. “I don't know.” His expression was more confused than scared and when he glanced at Ronon, his voice was devoid of any emotion. “It doesn't matter. Does it?”

Ronon didn't know how to reply to such an unSheppard-like question. So he didn't, pushing on the broken bone until his jaw clamped shut to keep away the building scream.

“I almost got another full pouch...I.” Sheppard paused. “There were some problems getting near the tank but I made them go away.”

The pain thing wasn't working anymore no matter how hard he pressed. Ronon closed his eyes in defeat, cursing himself for failure. Sheppard stayed propped up against the cave wall next to him, breathing way too fast. One hand still held the knife in a death grip; the other was balled into a trembling fist.

Ronon couldn't help with whatever was ever wrong with Sheppard and didn't even have enough energy to fight the illness that was starting to win.

The fever spiked no matter how much water Sheppard wasted on him. Ronon begged him to stop, pleaded to save the rest. “You're killing yourself,” Ronon rasped.

Sheppard looked half-dead and half insane. His wild beard and disheveled hair stuck out in all directions, giving him a manic appearance. The heat rash had spread from his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes were sunken into his skull.

“I'm fine.”

“I don't want you...to die, too.”

“You're not gonna die.”

“Yes, I am. You need to leave, make an alliance with someone.”

“I'm going to get you medicine,” Sheppard said, shaking Ronon's shoulder. “You hear me?”

“With what?”

“I'll find something.”

Ronon grabbed Sheppard's hand. “Don't.” There wasn't enough moisture left his eyes to produce tears. “Please, John.”

Sheppard wouldn't listen to him and gathered his knapsack for his trip outside. “I have an idea, don't worry. Hang on, buddy,” he said, leaving.

Ronon screamed at his friend's retreating form.

Kell crouched beside him some time later. “Who are you?” he asked in disdain. “Where is Specialist Dex? Where is the Satedan whose face you wear?”

“I'm right here!” Ronon yelled back.

“No, you're not. Dex wouldn't be lying there. He'd be fulfilling his duty. He would do what's right.”

Ronon had always watched Sheppard's back, willing to follow him to hell. They were there now, caught in the roaring flames. But they weren't fighting the way it should be. Ronon was trapped on one side of the flames and Sheppard wouldn't take the exit on his.

Sheppard needed to run away, but the fires were going to burn him alive if he didn't move.

Ronon knew Sheppard would die trying to save him.

And he couldn't allow that to happen.

Ronon screamed and yelled and cried over every inch he dragged his broken body. The pain felt good; it gave him the motivation to keep pushing and keep moving. He’d never strayed too far from the mouth of the cave, needing the light that crept in to see by. There was no telling how long it took him to reach the opening or the number of times he almost passed out from trying.

There was bound to be something sharp enough out there to do what he needed to. If not, the sun would take care of things quickly. Sheppard would need the cave and Ronon didn't want punish him even more by having to remove his body.

He hoped deep inside John would forgive him, that he wasn't taking the coward's way out. Ronon would rather die with a gun in his hand, but if his last act saved Sheppard, then the death was honorable.

It was hotter and brighter then he remembered it. Ronon used his last bit of strength to grip the nearest hunk of rock and closed his eyes and took a deep breath before completing the act he set out to do.