Damaged Goods, Chapter 19/20
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Be sure to check out the rubygirl29's lovely cover art, while you're at it!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal.
Today might be it. The last day. Ever.
Woolsey had checked in last night, instructing him to rest up, sleep in, tonight was going to be a long, hellish ride.
"I don't want to see you there before noon," he'd said, and if his optimism had sounded forced, John hadn't been about to mention it.
Watching the daylight spread into his bedroom, he's not certain he's slept a wink. He gives up trying around nine in the morning after several hours berating himself for not getting up in time to see the sun rise. It had seemed like the sort of thing one was supposed to do, their last day on Earth. It was right up there with getting blasted on tequila and screwing anyone you wanted, as far as final plans went.
He hadn't actually given a damn about the sunrise, and the rest of it wasn't really an option. Stopping for a latte on his way to the facility is about all the grand final blowout he can afford. He throws a twenty in the tip jar, though, just in case, and spends the rest of his drive out feeling foolish and superstitious.
If he'd slept in as late as he'd been ordered to, he would've missed Ronon completely. They're by the loading dock, shoving the last few crates of equipment into the back of the trucks. There's enough time to shake hands, wish Ronon luck, and wish for telepathy as Stackhouse gives the order to move out.
He's completely sideswiped by the anger as he watches the trucks pull out of the lot. Ronon's sitting in back; all John gets as they pass are the profiles of soldiers he barely recognizes. Once they're over the hill and gone from sight, there's literally nothing here that he can be bothered to care about, right now.
It takes him another five minutes to actually go through the doors to sign in. When he does, he does so with a grin, and pretends he hadn't just been standing in the parking lot contemplating climbing into his truck and driving off, too. Heading east, the way he'd always thought he would.
He'd done that once before, with a bag full of cash and nothing resembling a plan. It had nearly killed him. Trying it again would just finish the job.
---
Ronon had woken when the others had, just before dawn, and he'd joined them for their morning exercises in the yard. The soldiers had sparred with a focus that would have surprised him, had he not known what it all meant, the urge to be ready for absolutely anything.
It's all becoming real, now. The last of them who'd been holding out had managed to understand it. The enemy was approaching the gate. This wasn't a drill.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he'd gone down to the mess. Markham and Stackhouse had tried to engage him in conversation as they ate, but had been hard to focus, hard to keep himself from staring at the door that he'd known John wouldn't be coming through.
He'd spent the morning telling himself they'd said everything that needed saying the night before, and still hasn't convinced himself that he's not lying.
There are rations and weapons and equipment that needs to get loaded into the trucks.
Rifles and sidearms are passed around among the team, it's a little irritating that he's being given neither. He's already proven that he can handle a wraith without them, and if he'd had his choice, he'd be using a proper blaster, anyway.
But it's clear. For all the recent attempts at friendliness, they might trust him when this is over, but they don't now.
It's insulting. It's not at all unexpected. And anger is as good a weapon as anything they have on this world, anyway.
So he's more than a little surprised when, once all the weapons have been doled out and checked off on Markham's clipboard, and the extra ammunition divided between the trucks, that Markham calls him over and hands him a hard black plastic case.
"What's this?"
"Open it," Markham grins.
Nestled into the gray foam padding is his blaster, a nylon holster wound tightly in the space next to it. The four strange devices in the row along the bottom, he realizes once he pulls one out, are charge units.
"Our guys in R&D have been having a field day with this," Markham nods, and Ronon suddenly feels the weight of half a dozen sets of eyes watching them. "Couldn't replicate the firing mechanism, but they figured out enough to build some charge clips. The one that was in there was a little-"
"Dead," Ronon agrees, not knowing what else to say. Frowning, he glances up in disbelief. "You found it." He doesn't mean for it to sound like a question. It's not the one he thinks he wants to ask, anyway.
"Guys brought it through when they brought you through. Figure it might be more up your alley than the P90's," he nods down at his own weapon in the case at his feet. "Seeing as how we don't exactly have time to train you in. You remember how to use it?"
Ronon hefts it, checks the sights as he points it at a speck that could be anything out in the desert. The weight's right, though it feels top heavy without the charge mounted at the base. Resisting the urge to plug it in and test it is almost devastating, but it's probably not the kind of thing these people do in a parking lot, seeing as how they tend to put on headgear and goggles just to practice.
He satisfies himself with spinning it once, then back again, before placing it back in the case. It's not until he tries to talk that he realizes he's laughing.
"When we get out there, I'll show you," he closes the case carefully, as if now, after all these years of rain and mud and grit in the workings, a mild jostling proved any threat to the blaster at all.
He's moving it over to the truck when he catches sight of John's truck pulling in, and considers dragging it out to show it off.
It ceases to matter the moment he sees John's face.
They wish each other luck, and if Ronon's hands feel too empty when John pulls away, at least he'll have the familiar weight of his blaster to replace it.
He tells himself that it's enough.
---
Forcing himself to believe that he needs to be there, John spends most of the afternoon in the chair room as Zelenka and McKay uplink and test the chair's connections. For hours, he stares blankly at the computer screens, trying halfheartedly to will them into making sense.
Ronon's team has probably set up camp already. Beyond that, it's hard to imagine what Ronon's doing, or even how he's getting along with the others. Not that it matters. Ronon hadn't been overly concerned with people's impressions of him when he'd been a prisoner, there's no reason to think it wouldn't go fine now.
But right now, there's just nothing else for John to do. Which is why he's so relieved when, after an afternoon of McKay's endless litany of complaints and Zelenka's muttered cursing, he's relieved to be finally waved back into the chair and told to think of where he is, in the world.
As he feels the chair connect, and the projection begins to hover above him, he notices that something's changed. There's a tension to the connection now, like it's wound itself just a bit deeper into his head. Like it's trying to hold his attention, keep him from being distracted.
It's more comforting than he would've imagined. Zelenka and McKay's increasingly raised voices barely catch his attention. He glances away from the sky above him to see Zelenka storming off, talking darkly to himself in Czech.
"Everything all right?"
"He thinks we're going to blow up the base," McKay shrugs. "He's probably wrong, but he should be used to that by now."
"Probably?"
"Yes, well. We'll never know without proper testing. Which is why we're going to test it now, if it's all the same to you."
"Live rounds?"
"The concept of rounds is- you know what? Never mind. Just sit back and scan the sky."
The same astounding amount of junk and noise blares into sight above him. "Filter out the satellites?"
"Mute them, but don't disregard them completely. Plotting a trajectory through a major communications satellite wouldn't do us any favors. Lock onto the International Space Station."
The hologram above him wavers for the briefest of seconds, and a few hundred pinpoints of light dim. As the image rolls above him, the space station magnifies and comes into clear relief. "Locking onto it's orbit. You want me to uplink directly again?"
"The key you've been using so far has been Tier One. You need Tier Seven this time."
"Password?"
"1643 1879 1968 42."
The numbers feel familiar as he concentrates on them in sequence, and as if the tumblers in a lock are falling into place, he feels the connection opening completely. With the station acting like a router, the images of nearly a dozen ships burst into view. "Got it," he says, though there's no need. McKay can see this as clearly as John can.
"Okay," McKay mutters, moving back to one of the computers. "You normalized yet?"
"Done. Now what?"
"The Dawson Research satellite. Burned out months ago. Another year or so and it's going to come down. Nice multibillion dollar boondoggle of a target if ever there was one."
A blink, and one of the satellites comes back into full view. "Locked on."
"Airways clear?"
"Yep."
"One shot only. Fire at will."
Taking a breath, he stares at his target. Letting it go, he thinks fire, and he can feel it in his spine like a recoil when the drone is released. A terrifying twenty three seconds pass as it cuts a thin swath through the atmosphere and up and up and-
The explosion is completely silent, here, but incredibly vivid, and it leaves his skin tingling. He hasn't felt this awake in ages. Years, maybe.
"We still here?" McKay sounds barely interested, as if what John's just done is unworthy of notice. A quick glance confirms it; his head's buried behind his screens again.
"Seem to be all in one piece."
"Hah!" McKay snaps his fingers happily. "Knew it. Zelenka owes me fifty bucks. Oh. And you're all set to save the world, too," he adds, and John elects not to notice that it's done as a mere afterthought.
John eats because he knows he should, and tries to take a nap in one of the vacant beds in the barracks. Though comparatively silent compared to the sensory overload he's acclimated to when sitting in the chair, some noise does filter in through the closed door. What little he manages to hear from the hallway is tense and quiet, like a hospital after visiting hours, though the sun's barely down. Panicked and peaceful and ghostlike.
He's not nearly tired enough to sleep, anyway.
It occurs to him that if he were a better person, maybe just a different one, he'd call his brother, say hello. Saying goodbye would be too obvious. But they're under a communications blackout anyway. Have been since yesterday. For hours, it seems, he casts his half-open eyes around the room, forcing them to the ceiling or the window down at the end whenever he catches himself looking too hard at any given bed and wondering if Ronon had slept there. He waits to be called into action. When it comes, he'll start living.
For now, he just drifts, and tries not to think.
---
Ronon considers the scenery, what little there is of it, and scowls. There are a few hills that could be of tactical use should the need arise- he's already marked off three on the map that bear closer examination- but there's little by way of real cover in the immediate vicinity. It hadn't been surprising, back in McKay's office, but during the drive in, they'd passed at least a dozen better locations to make a stand.
"So why'd they choose this place, anyway?" he finally asks Markham.
"If the wraith are drawn anywhere on Earth in particular, this'll be it."
"Because of my tracker?" If that's the case, and if it's not already too late, they can easily set up somewhere that's more easily defensible.
"Because this was the exact spot where the wraith was when it sent out a beacon announcing his- and Earth's- location."
This is where John had fought, though no signs remain. "There's nothing here." He grabs another case out of the back of the truck, props it against the bumper as he looks to Markham for explanation.
"We scrubbed it a few months ago. Sheppard tell you about how it went down?"
"A little. Were you there?"
"Afterwards, yeah. Came out as part of the cleanup crew. Right over there's where we found Sheppard bleeding out," Markham grimaces as he nods to where the other truck is parked.
Ronon gives the spot Markham had indicated a wide berth as he hauls the case over to the tent Stackhouse is setting up, but he can't stop himself from looking for signs in the dirt. Markham hadn't been lying; the entire area had been scoured down to the sand.
He avoids it on the next trip back to the truck as well, and afterwards, he's too busy learning the lay of the land to think about it. Maps are great, they're wonderful, but they can only do so much.
When they search the area, at least, the terrain begins to reveal itself in a way that makes sense. There are six routes up into the hills across the road, two kill boxes he can use if he gets to them first, four workarounds to use if he doesn't. There are eight places to hide and wait, ten if it gets suitably dark, and there's one really nice stretch behind the crag to the east to use to double back if he needs to.
Stackhouse had assigned the patrol rotation the moment they'd finished setting up camp, and were it not for the fact that they'd seemed as unenthusiastic about training him in on the computers as he'd been on learning them, Ronon might've found himself stuck in the tent, staring at screens instead of staring at the sky.
The sun's been down for hours before he allows his thoughts to turn back to John. He's sitting cross-legged, back against the wheel of the truck and imagines that the ground beneath him is soaked in John's blood. His fingertips brush the dirt, as if searching it out, but they only come up dusty. There's no sign at all that John had nearly died out here, but with his back to the tent, looking out over the desert before him, it's easy to imagine how alone he'd been when it had happened.
He doesn't have to imagine it, though. He'd been there himself, more than once. It's not the only thing they have in common, but right now, it claws strongest against the rest.
Ronon turns whatever it is he's feeling into anger, then turns his anger into fuel for the fight, and wonders why it is that with everything that's happened, this is still where they've wound up.
At least John's not alone, this time. He's not even going to be fighting alone, there are ships up there and he'll probably have scientists looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. Ronon wonders if John knows they're there, when he's connected to the chair, seeing nothing but the galaxy fighting above him.
He doesn't turn when Markham steps out of the tent.
"You get a chance to test out your gun?" There's a dim flash on the slope across the way, but it's just Saunders and West, heading out on their patrol.
"Yeah." The fact that there'd been nothing worth shooting goes without mention. "Works good."
Markham nods. "Stackhouse and Schweiger are monitoring comms. You and I are out on patrol when Saunders and West get back, so you should try and get some sleep while you can," he says.
Ronon nods, leaning back against the side of the truck, and lowers his head until Markham leaves. Once his boots clear the side of the trailer, he opens his eyes again. Markham has a point. But the fact that there are other eyes out there, telescopes capable of seeing much farther afield than he can, doesn't diminish the impulse to keep watch on the skies. Anything else would be wrong.
He's got five men with him. Good size for covert infiltrations, but awful, really, for mounting any sort of defense. It would be easier if the others had fought the wraith before; easier still if they weren't there at all. More men on the ground, all too often, meant little beyond more bodies hitting the ground.
The surrounding terrain wasn't ideal, but he'd worked with so much less.
---
There's too much light in the sky to the southwest, though, Las Vegas is always announcing its presence to the sky, brightly enough that spotting actual stars is barely possible, but for the last little while, fireworks displays have been turning the night into day. The noise- loud even over so great a distance- had been astounding at first, and had it not been for Schweiger poking his head out of the tent and grinning at the sight of it, he would've had his blaster set to kill in a heartbeat.
Instead he watches as the blues and reds and golds flash out into white, floating for a moment in the sky before beginning to fall, and merely thumbs the switch on the side of his blaster rhythmically.
They're starting up to the north as well, and they're beautiful.
It's when they start up to the east and south that Ronon realizes that they're a distraction. Nobody would notice strange lights in the sky on a night like this.
It's starting.
Jumping to his feet, he dashes towards the tent to find Schweiger and Stackhouse bent over their computers.
"We've got contact," Stackhouse says, glancing up only briefly. Schweiger doesn't look up at all.
"Anything coming through?"
"Not yet. Relay from the Daedalus says that the drones are just entering the arena now. Base confirms that Sheppard's engaged."
Markham, Saunders and West come into the tent to crowd around Stackhouse's screen, where the battle- hundreds of miles away and above- is already underway. All they're really receiving here, though, are the transmissions from the ships' various system scanners, and their basic navigational positions.
He doesn't understand most of what's on the screen. The others are fluent, watch the streaming data like it's television, and all Ronon understands is the white knuckle grip that Markham's got on the back of Stackhouse's chair.
We should be there, Ronon thinks, and spins his blaster in his hands just for the sake of doing anything at all. They're too far out of position, almost laughably so.
The frustration is suffocating, but he forces it into something he can use, and it's enough to get him out of the tent again, back out into the night.
In the sky above, another shower of light explodes across the sky, all red and blue fading to gold, blending with the few stars visible from here. There are more flashes coming from the southeast, too, and at first, Ronon's not sure what he's seeing. Telling himself that he's hoping for a better look, he walks a few meters away from the tent, until he's passed the trucks and is heading for the road.
The southeastern fireworks are nowhere near as awe-inspiring as the boisterous celebrations to the southwest, but looks can be deceiving, and he's struck dumb with the knowledge that right now, he might as well be their only witness.
Those blasts, heading higher and higher until they disappear without fanfare, are the most important fireworks in the world. If anyone in the world is bothering to look, it's unlikely that they know their source or destination.
He stands in the middle of the deserted road with his blaster in his hand, watching every steady flash curve through the atmosphere before fading. Awed, he refuses to blink. It's almost hypnotic.
Maybe not almost He's jolted back to himself the third or fourth time Saunders' voice cuts in through his forgotten earpiece.
"Ronon, get your ass back here We're heading to base. Something's wrong."
It's not until he's climbing into the truck that he glances at the sky again and realizes that the southeastern sky's gone quiet.
That it's been quiet, for several minutes now.
---
Chapter 20
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
A/N: Be sure to check out the rubygirl29's lovely cover art, while you're at it!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal.
Today might be it. The last day. Ever.
Woolsey had checked in last night, instructing him to rest up, sleep in, tonight was going to be a long, hellish ride.
"I don't want to see you there before noon," he'd said, and if his optimism had sounded forced, John hadn't been about to mention it.
Watching the daylight spread into his bedroom, he's not certain he's slept a wink. He gives up trying around nine in the morning after several hours berating himself for not getting up in time to see the sun rise. It had seemed like the sort of thing one was supposed to do, their last day on Earth. It was right up there with getting blasted on tequila and screwing anyone you wanted, as far as final plans went.
He hadn't actually given a damn about the sunrise, and the rest of it wasn't really an option. Stopping for a latte on his way to the facility is about all the grand final blowout he can afford. He throws a twenty in the tip jar, though, just in case, and spends the rest of his drive out feeling foolish and superstitious.
If he'd slept in as late as he'd been ordered to, he would've missed Ronon completely. They're by the loading dock, shoving the last few crates of equipment into the back of the trucks. There's enough time to shake hands, wish Ronon luck, and wish for telepathy as Stackhouse gives the order to move out.
He's completely sideswiped by the anger as he watches the trucks pull out of the lot. Ronon's sitting in back; all John gets as they pass are the profiles of soldiers he barely recognizes. Once they're over the hill and gone from sight, there's literally nothing here that he can be bothered to care about, right now.
It takes him another five minutes to actually go through the doors to sign in. When he does, he does so with a grin, and pretends he hadn't just been standing in the parking lot contemplating climbing into his truck and driving off, too. Heading east, the way he'd always thought he would.
He'd done that once before, with a bag full of cash and nothing resembling a plan. It had nearly killed him. Trying it again would just finish the job.
---
Ronon had woken when the others had, just before dawn, and he'd joined them for their morning exercises in the yard. The soldiers had sparred with a focus that would have surprised him, had he not known what it all meant, the urge to be ready for absolutely anything.
It's all becoming real, now. The last of them who'd been holding out had managed to understand it. The enemy was approaching the gate. This wasn't a drill.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he'd gone down to the mess. Markham and Stackhouse had tried to engage him in conversation as they ate, but had been hard to focus, hard to keep himself from staring at the door that he'd known John wouldn't be coming through.
He'd spent the morning telling himself they'd said everything that needed saying the night before, and still hasn't convinced himself that he's not lying.
There are rations and weapons and equipment that needs to get loaded into the trucks.
Rifles and sidearms are passed around among the team, it's a little irritating that he's being given neither. He's already proven that he can handle a wraith without them, and if he'd had his choice, he'd be using a proper blaster, anyway.
But it's clear. For all the recent attempts at friendliness, they might trust him when this is over, but they don't now.
It's insulting. It's not at all unexpected. And anger is as good a weapon as anything they have on this world, anyway.
So he's more than a little surprised when, once all the weapons have been doled out and checked off on Markham's clipboard, and the extra ammunition divided between the trucks, that Markham calls him over and hands him a hard black plastic case.
"What's this?"
"Open it," Markham grins.
Nestled into the gray foam padding is his blaster, a nylon holster wound tightly in the space next to it. The four strange devices in the row along the bottom, he realizes once he pulls one out, are charge units.
"Our guys in R&D have been having a field day with this," Markham nods, and Ronon suddenly feels the weight of half a dozen sets of eyes watching them. "Couldn't replicate the firing mechanism, but they figured out enough to build some charge clips. The one that was in there was a little-"
"Dead," Ronon agrees, not knowing what else to say. Frowning, he glances up in disbelief. "You found it." He doesn't mean for it to sound like a question. It's not the one he thinks he wants to ask, anyway.
"Guys brought it through when they brought you through. Figure it might be more up your alley than the P90's," he nods down at his own weapon in the case at his feet. "Seeing as how we don't exactly have time to train you in. You remember how to use it?"
Ronon hefts it, checks the sights as he points it at a speck that could be anything out in the desert. The weight's right, though it feels top heavy without the charge mounted at the base. Resisting the urge to plug it in and test it is almost devastating, but it's probably not the kind of thing these people do in a parking lot, seeing as how they tend to put on headgear and goggles just to practice.
He satisfies himself with spinning it once, then back again, before placing it back in the case. It's not until he tries to talk that he realizes he's laughing.
"When we get out there, I'll show you," he closes the case carefully, as if now, after all these years of rain and mud and grit in the workings, a mild jostling proved any threat to the blaster at all.
He's moving it over to the truck when he catches sight of John's truck pulling in, and considers dragging it out to show it off.
It ceases to matter the moment he sees John's face.
They wish each other luck, and if Ronon's hands feel too empty when John pulls away, at least he'll have the familiar weight of his blaster to replace it.
He tells himself that it's enough.
---
Forcing himself to believe that he needs to be there, John spends most of the afternoon in the chair room as Zelenka and McKay uplink and test the chair's connections. For hours, he stares blankly at the computer screens, trying halfheartedly to will them into making sense.
Ronon's team has probably set up camp already. Beyond that, it's hard to imagine what Ronon's doing, or even how he's getting along with the others. Not that it matters. Ronon hadn't been overly concerned with people's impressions of him when he'd been a prisoner, there's no reason to think it wouldn't go fine now.
But right now, there's just nothing else for John to do. Which is why he's so relieved when, after an afternoon of McKay's endless litany of complaints and Zelenka's muttered cursing, he's relieved to be finally waved back into the chair and told to think of where he is, in the world.
As he feels the chair connect, and the projection begins to hover above him, he notices that something's changed. There's a tension to the connection now, like it's wound itself just a bit deeper into his head. Like it's trying to hold his attention, keep him from being distracted.
It's more comforting than he would've imagined. Zelenka and McKay's increasingly raised voices barely catch his attention. He glances away from the sky above him to see Zelenka storming off, talking darkly to himself in Czech.
"Everything all right?"
"He thinks we're going to blow up the base," McKay shrugs. "He's probably wrong, but he should be used to that by now."
"Probably?"
"Yes, well. We'll never know without proper testing. Which is why we're going to test it now, if it's all the same to you."
"Live rounds?"
"The concept of rounds is- you know what? Never mind. Just sit back and scan the sky."
The same astounding amount of junk and noise blares into sight above him. "Filter out the satellites?"
"Mute them, but don't disregard them completely. Plotting a trajectory through a major communications satellite wouldn't do us any favors. Lock onto the International Space Station."
The hologram above him wavers for the briefest of seconds, and a few hundred pinpoints of light dim. As the image rolls above him, the space station magnifies and comes into clear relief. "Locking onto it's orbit. You want me to uplink directly again?"
"The key you've been using so far has been Tier One. You need Tier Seven this time."
"Password?"
"1643 1879 1968 42."
The numbers feel familiar as he concentrates on them in sequence, and as if the tumblers in a lock are falling into place, he feels the connection opening completely. With the station acting like a router, the images of nearly a dozen ships burst into view. "Got it," he says, though there's no need. McKay can see this as clearly as John can.
"Okay," McKay mutters, moving back to one of the computers. "You normalized yet?"
"Done. Now what?"
"The Dawson Research satellite. Burned out months ago. Another year or so and it's going to come down. Nice multibillion dollar boondoggle of a target if ever there was one."
A blink, and one of the satellites comes back into full view. "Locked on."
"Airways clear?"
"Yep."
"One shot only. Fire at will."
Taking a breath, he stares at his target. Letting it go, he thinks fire, and he can feel it in his spine like a recoil when the drone is released. A terrifying twenty three seconds pass as it cuts a thin swath through the atmosphere and up and up and-
The explosion is completely silent, here, but incredibly vivid, and it leaves his skin tingling. He hasn't felt this awake in ages. Years, maybe.
"We still here?" McKay sounds barely interested, as if what John's just done is unworthy of notice. A quick glance confirms it; his head's buried behind his screens again.
"Seem to be all in one piece."
"Hah!" McKay snaps his fingers happily. "Knew it. Zelenka owes me fifty bucks. Oh. And you're all set to save the world, too," he adds, and John elects not to notice that it's done as a mere afterthought.
John eats because he knows he should, and tries to take a nap in one of the vacant beds in the barracks. Though comparatively silent compared to the sensory overload he's acclimated to when sitting in the chair, some noise does filter in through the closed door. What little he manages to hear from the hallway is tense and quiet, like a hospital after visiting hours, though the sun's barely down. Panicked and peaceful and ghostlike.
He's not nearly tired enough to sleep, anyway.
It occurs to him that if he were a better person, maybe just a different one, he'd call his brother, say hello. Saying goodbye would be too obvious. But they're under a communications blackout anyway. Have been since yesterday. For hours, it seems, he casts his half-open eyes around the room, forcing them to the ceiling or the window down at the end whenever he catches himself looking too hard at any given bed and wondering if Ronon had slept there. He waits to be called into action. When it comes, he'll start living.
For now, he just drifts, and tries not to think.
---
Ronon considers the scenery, what little there is of it, and scowls. There are a few hills that could be of tactical use should the need arise- he's already marked off three on the map that bear closer examination- but there's little by way of real cover in the immediate vicinity. It hadn't been surprising, back in McKay's office, but during the drive in, they'd passed at least a dozen better locations to make a stand.
"So why'd they choose this place, anyway?" he finally asks Markham.
"If the wraith are drawn anywhere on Earth in particular, this'll be it."
"Because of my tracker?" If that's the case, and if it's not already too late, they can easily set up somewhere that's more easily defensible.
"Because this was the exact spot where the wraith was when it sent out a beacon announcing his- and Earth's- location."
This is where John had fought, though no signs remain. "There's nothing here." He grabs another case out of the back of the truck, props it against the bumper as he looks to Markham for explanation.
"We scrubbed it a few months ago. Sheppard tell you about how it went down?"
"A little. Were you there?"
"Afterwards, yeah. Came out as part of the cleanup crew. Right over there's where we found Sheppard bleeding out," Markham grimaces as he nods to where the other truck is parked.
Ronon gives the spot Markham had indicated a wide berth as he hauls the case over to the tent Stackhouse is setting up, but he can't stop himself from looking for signs in the dirt. Markham hadn't been lying; the entire area had been scoured down to the sand.
He avoids it on the next trip back to the truck as well, and afterwards, he's too busy learning the lay of the land to think about it. Maps are great, they're wonderful, but they can only do so much.
When they search the area, at least, the terrain begins to reveal itself in a way that makes sense. There are six routes up into the hills across the road, two kill boxes he can use if he gets to them first, four workarounds to use if he doesn't. There are eight places to hide and wait, ten if it gets suitably dark, and there's one really nice stretch behind the crag to the east to use to double back if he needs to.
Stackhouse had assigned the patrol rotation the moment they'd finished setting up camp, and were it not for the fact that they'd seemed as unenthusiastic about training him in on the computers as he'd been on learning them, Ronon might've found himself stuck in the tent, staring at screens instead of staring at the sky.
The sun's been down for hours before he allows his thoughts to turn back to John. He's sitting cross-legged, back against the wheel of the truck and imagines that the ground beneath him is soaked in John's blood. His fingertips brush the dirt, as if searching it out, but they only come up dusty. There's no sign at all that John had nearly died out here, but with his back to the tent, looking out over the desert before him, it's easy to imagine how alone he'd been when it had happened.
He doesn't have to imagine it, though. He'd been there himself, more than once. It's not the only thing they have in common, but right now, it claws strongest against the rest.
Ronon turns whatever it is he's feeling into anger, then turns his anger into fuel for the fight, and wonders why it is that with everything that's happened, this is still where they've wound up.
At least John's not alone, this time. He's not even going to be fighting alone, there are ships up there and he'll probably have scientists looking over his shoulder, watching his every move. Ronon wonders if John knows they're there, when he's connected to the chair, seeing nothing but the galaxy fighting above him.
He doesn't turn when Markham steps out of the tent.
"You get a chance to test out your gun?" There's a dim flash on the slope across the way, but it's just Saunders and West, heading out on their patrol.
"Yeah." The fact that there'd been nothing worth shooting goes without mention. "Works good."
Markham nods. "Stackhouse and Schweiger are monitoring comms. You and I are out on patrol when Saunders and West get back, so you should try and get some sleep while you can," he says.
Ronon nods, leaning back against the side of the truck, and lowers his head until Markham leaves. Once his boots clear the side of the trailer, he opens his eyes again. Markham has a point. But the fact that there are other eyes out there, telescopes capable of seeing much farther afield than he can, doesn't diminish the impulse to keep watch on the skies. Anything else would be wrong.
He's got five men with him. Good size for covert infiltrations, but awful, really, for mounting any sort of defense. It would be easier if the others had fought the wraith before; easier still if they weren't there at all. More men on the ground, all too often, meant little beyond more bodies hitting the ground.
The surrounding terrain wasn't ideal, but he'd worked with so much less.
---
There's too much light in the sky to the southwest, though, Las Vegas is always announcing its presence to the sky, brightly enough that spotting actual stars is barely possible, but for the last little while, fireworks displays have been turning the night into day. The noise- loud even over so great a distance- had been astounding at first, and had it not been for Schweiger poking his head out of the tent and grinning at the sight of it, he would've had his blaster set to kill in a heartbeat.
Instead he watches as the blues and reds and golds flash out into white, floating for a moment in the sky before beginning to fall, and merely thumbs the switch on the side of his blaster rhythmically.
They're starting up to the north as well, and they're beautiful.
It's when they start up to the east and south that Ronon realizes that they're a distraction. Nobody would notice strange lights in the sky on a night like this.
It's starting.
Jumping to his feet, he dashes towards the tent to find Schweiger and Stackhouse bent over their computers.
"We've got contact," Stackhouse says, glancing up only briefly. Schweiger doesn't look up at all.
"Anything coming through?"
"Not yet. Relay from the Daedalus says that the drones are just entering the arena now. Base confirms that Sheppard's engaged."
Markham, Saunders and West come into the tent to crowd around Stackhouse's screen, where the battle- hundreds of miles away and above- is already underway. All they're really receiving here, though, are the transmissions from the ships' various system scanners, and their basic navigational positions.
He doesn't understand most of what's on the screen. The others are fluent, watch the streaming data like it's television, and all Ronon understands is the white knuckle grip that Markham's got on the back of Stackhouse's chair.
We should be there, Ronon thinks, and spins his blaster in his hands just for the sake of doing anything at all. They're too far out of position, almost laughably so.
The frustration is suffocating, but he forces it into something he can use, and it's enough to get him out of the tent again, back out into the night.
In the sky above, another shower of light explodes across the sky, all red and blue fading to gold, blending with the few stars visible from here. There are more flashes coming from the southeast, too, and at first, Ronon's not sure what he's seeing. Telling himself that he's hoping for a better look, he walks a few meters away from the tent, until he's passed the trucks and is heading for the road.
The southeastern fireworks are nowhere near as awe-inspiring as the boisterous celebrations to the southwest, but looks can be deceiving, and he's struck dumb with the knowledge that right now, he might as well be their only witness.
Those blasts, heading higher and higher until they disappear without fanfare, are the most important fireworks in the world. If anyone in the world is bothering to look, it's unlikely that they know their source or destination.
He stands in the middle of the deserted road with his blaster in his hand, watching every steady flash curve through the atmosphere before fading. Awed, he refuses to blink. It's almost hypnotic.
Maybe not almost He's jolted back to himself the third or fourth time Saunders' voice cuts in through his forgotten earpiece.
"Ronon, get your ass back here We're heading to base. Something's wrong."
It's not until he's climbing into the truck that he glances at the sky again and realizes that the southeastern sky's gone quiet.
That it's been quiet, for several minutes now.
---
Chapter 20