Action/Adventure, Week 1: Bibula Harena (1/2)
Title: Bibula Harena (Part 1)
Author: jadesfire2808
Prompt: Slavery, captivity or hostages
Word Count: 17,000
Rating: M
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence/None
Summary: This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
Bibula Harena
It is not possible to fight beyond your strength, even if you strive.
Homer, The Iliad
The Garaldi have cleaned the arena since he was last here, the bloodied ground raked and swept, the earth replaced and packed down again, sprinkled with fresh sand ready for fresh blood.
John intends to spill a lot of it today.
It's not particularly hot, the clouds giving some respite from the blinding sunshine of the past week. John half-shivers in the coolness, his body now too used to the heat for him to be comfortable. There's a breeze swirling round, lifting tiny whirlwinds of sand where the arena floor meets the wooden stands, and John notices it absently, wondering if there's any way he can use it to his advantage. Out here, he'll take anything he can get, and all the fighters know that a downed opponent can throw sand deceptively quickly.
Like many of the others, John prefers to go barefoot, taking the chance of getting his toes stepped on, rather than endure the blisters that come from getting sand in open sandals. Maybe if he manages to beat this guy, he'll win enough for a pair of proper shoes. Ones without holes, that will actually help rather than hinder, giving at least some relief from the heat rising off the ground.
He watches his opponent, assessing him as the bigger man prowls round the arena, sneering at John and playing to the crowd. He's big, heavy, and John's seen him use his weight advantage to literally crush smaller opponents back at the training ground. John will need to stay out of the reach of those long arms, wait for an opening, try to provoke a mistake. He flexes his fingers round the grip of his knife, adjusts the hold on his stick, digs his toes into the ground, feeling the breeze stirring the hairs on the back of his neck.
Eventually, the big man decides that he's had enough of enjoying the crowd's hoots and yells, and he turns his attention to John. It's probably supposed to be unnerving, the steady glare and the predatory grin, but compared to the Wraith John's faced down, hell, even compared to Ronon, this guy looks like what he is: a big, dumb idiot who's about to die.
*******
Rodney can hear the shouting from the arena, the yelling and screaming that means some poor sap is going to get it. If he climbs onto the bed, braces one hand against the wall, stands right up on his toes and leans perilously far to the right, he can just about see the tops of the stands. It's really not worth the effort, and one undignified fall was enough to convince him of that.
He goes back to the paper in front of him, or at least what passes for paper around here, lumpy and fragile and really, really hard to write on. Especially in pencil. They don't let him have pens any more, not after he took one apart to pick the lock and got halfway to the barracks before anyone noticed he was gone. The reward was ten days solitary, reduced rations and nothing to write on for a month. But it was worth it, if only to let these backward idiots know who they were dealing with. They wouldn't take him for granted again, oh no.
The pencil goes right through this time and he sighs. He can't write on the walls, because the dark brick swallows up the marks, and trying to write like this is like wading through sand. Giving in, Rodney leans back on his bunk and closes his eyes. He'll just have to do it in his head instead, and at least with his eyes closed he can't see the cell around him, the too-close walls, the cold stone floor and the thick, iron bars. It's probably better this way.
*******
It's not the arena that's the worst part. Okay, that's a lie, because the prospect of imminent death is always going to be the worst part, but at least John's in control of it, more or less. The worst part is the endless days of waiting, the practicing, the mock-fights, as though hands aren't as deadly as steel or iron. They're not supposed to kill each other in training, although it happens. John saw a throw go wrong as the falling man twisted at the wrong moment, heard the crunching of bone and looked into the glassy stare of another dead body. He's almost getting used to that.
For himself, he tries not to practice too much, tries not to give himself away. He does a lot of running, around the barracks, again and again. When he spars, he holds back, losing more than he wins, watching the others desperately trying to spot weaknesses and showing them all the openings that will be closed if they ever meet in the arena. It's not like anyone ever comes back to tell the tale, to tell the men around him that everything they've learned about him is going to mean precisely nothing if they ever have to fight for real. The guards, of course, don't say anything. Even the trainers don't say anything, watching silently as they fight, handing out fake weapons and collecting them all in at the end. They always count too carefully for John to take anything, not that a wooden knife or pencil thin spear would get him very far anyway. He hasn't picked up any of the mock-weapons in a long time, finding them more annoying than useful.
So he runs, more easily since his last victory won him some real shoes, padded with something soft and providing at least some protection for the soles of his feet. It's easier and harder than running on Atlantis. The shoes don't give anywhere near the amount of support that his sneakers would, but then the ground around the compound is softer, overgrown with grass and moss. He has to adjust the padding a few times to stop blisters, but it's still worth it.
He's allowed to run the perimeter, behind the barracks buildings and back to the practice ground. There are guards all around the palisade and more on the gates, so it's not like he can go anywhere. Not that it's stopped him from trying. He killed four guards before one of them got a spear to his throat, and it bumped him back down to the bottom of the rankings, having to fight his way back up to earn his pants, his shirt, his knife. This is sacred to the Garaldi, the continual supply of blood that feeds the arena and their gods. One of the other fighters said that the spectators take the sodden earth/sand mixture home, believing it will help their crops to grow. Maybe it does.
The weather's still relatively cool, and John's only a little warm when he jogs back to the training ground, watching two evenly matched, blond-haired men grapple with each other. He watches the way they wrestle, the grips and holds and throws that they use, wincing when one of them pulls the other's hair and making a note of the dirty trick. He may have to watch out for this one.
Carefully, he walks past them, stretching his arms and neck and heading for the water barrel. There's always food and water for the fighters; good stuff, too. The Garaldi offer it to them, part of the whole ingrained sacrifice thing they've got going on. They sacrifice the best of their produce to the fighters, then sacrifice the best of their fighters in the arena. They probably think of it as cyclical or reciprocal or some crap like that. John's not one to turn down the food, though. Not if he wants to stay alive.
He wonders what they're feeding Rodney.
*******
When you get right down to it, food's food, and apart from an ever-present fear that something in the thin stew is going to send him into anaphylactic shock, it's not too bad. Rodney's eaten worse on the various worlds they've traded with over the years, and he and Sheppard have a silent challenge about downing the weirdest of it. He who flinches, loses.
By comparison, this stuff is pretty good, although the pattern isn't very subtle. He gets stew for two days before a questioning, stew and the half-decent crusty bread that's fairly good on the first day and only edible when soaked in stew on the day after that. The first time he made the link, connected the better food with the coming interrogation, he'd spat out the morsel he'd been chewing and pushed the bowl aside. Now, he eats every last drop, saving the truly solid bread for when he gets back. Dipped in the measly porridge rations that are his standard daily fare, it helps fill him up again. He has no way of knowing how long the interrogation will last and they won't feed him until it's over.
Rodney sucks up the last of the juice off the spoon, tips the bowl to make sure he hasn't missed anything, savoring as much as he can, then goes and puts the empty bowl by the bars of the cell. His pants are even looser now, and he wonders if he should start asking for a belt again. But since he used the last one to rig a noose/tripwire combination that let him get all the way to the main hall before they could cut the guard down and come after him, they probably won't give him one.
Closing his eyes, he leans his head against the wall and tries not to let the hysteria overwhelm him. Because he thinks if he gets much thinner, he's going to be able to slip through the bars of his cell and walk right out of here. And then they'll be sorry.
He'll make sure that they're sorry.
*******
They don't tell the fighters who they're up against in advance. It stops them forming attachments, alliances, because who knows when they might be forced to kill each other. John's killed eight men with higher ranks than him, all self-defense; when the other guy's coming at you with a sword, a yell and eyes full of murder, it's not exactly the time to start talking about bonding over their shared experience. He's killed four men with lower ranks than him, also all self-defense, because they were desperate and he was all that stood between them and the next rank, the next privilege, the next breath. The two men of equal rank, he didn't kill, nor four more of lower rank and one poor wretch who'd barely seemed to know which way was up. Every single time, the guards stepped in when he refused to finish it, when he'd crippled or maimed or just plain beaten the other guy.
That had been enough for him, but not for the Garaldi, who demand blood and blood alone, and they'd had to knock him out before he'd let them kill the weakest of his opponents. It had been early in his time here, the first time he'd beaten rather than killed, before he'd learned that only one man could leave the arena alive, and that the Garaldi take no pleasure in torture, only in the spilling of blood. Even so, he'd been strong enough, good enough that he'd downed four guards trying to save the wretched man, only succumbing when they'd had his arms pinned, and one of them had decided he'd had enough. John had woken up on his pallet hours later, head ringing and sick to his stomach, knowing that whatever he did, it was never going to be enough. One of them was always going to die. Still, there are times when he just can't bring himself to do it, and has to turn away before the guards deliver their killing blow. It might make him a coward, but it keeps him sane.
Despite other offers and the privileges of rank, he still uses his own knife to fight with, balancing it with a fighting stick, long and solid, giving him the reach he needs against the spear fighters. He's not too good with a longsword, but the knife is an old friend, its familiar weight a connection to the past he refuses to give up. The Garaldi clean it carefully for him, and they've rebound the handle with good cloth that absorbs sweat and blood without losing grip. They must replace that every time, because after his last bout, when he'd squeezed the handle, the knife had dripped blood, bleeding onto the sand at his feet.
It's clean again today, though, and he double checks the wrapping before tucking it in its sheath and buckling on his belt. Across the chamber, he can see his opponent, one of the blond men he saw wrestling two days ago. He's unarmed, but is wrapping leather supports around his hands and wrists, and John thinks he sees the glint of metal in the leather. Not so unarmed, then. John hefts his stick, reminding himself of its weight and reach, swinging it experimentally, deciding to leave the knife where it is for now. It's not that he's above fighting dirty, or that he thinks the knife will give him an unfair advantage; it's that he wants to keep the other guy as far away as possible for as long as possible, and his knife's not going to be much use until they're in close. He can draw pretty quickly, faster than the other guys realizes, hopefully.
When the other man has finished winding the leather, he gives the guards a nod, and John does the same. The gates to the arena are dragged open and they walk out together, blinking in the sunlight and nearly deafened by the crowds. While the blond man lifts his hands in salute, John walks to the other side of the fighting ground, turning and waiting for his opponent to stop grandstanding, and trying not to get his hopes up. He's got the tactical advantage now, his back to the sun and his eyes have had time to adjust. It's too early to call the fight won -- he's seen the other man spar and knows he's quick and vicious -- but it's as good a start as he can hope for.
He swings the stick lightly again, clearing his mind and blocking out the screaming crowd. It used to unsettle him, the constant baying for blood. Now, it's part of the landscape, as familiar as the wooden stands and wide arena floor. Beyond the arena is the town, the prison, the Stargate. Rodney's out there, John hopes, probably still locked up, and Atlantis is just a little further and a few light years away. He dreams about it sometimes, but he's learned to keep it to dreams. Right now, he can't afford to get too distracted. This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
*******
Halfway through -- he hopes it's halfway through -- the questioning, Rodney starts to forget about the world beyond the interrogation room. From his cell, he can hear things, the streets below the prison, the arena. But in here, there is nothing, just the table and chairs and the examiner, asking him question after question until he's too tired, too hungry and thirsty to care about anything except making it stop.
"How does the shield work?" the examiner asks.
"What shield?"
"On your home planet's portal. How does it work?"
He doesn't remember telling them about the shield, but part of him is pleased that the word Atlantis hasn't been mentioned. That probably means he hasn't given too much away. Yet.
His mind is wandering, and he jumps when the examiner slams his hand onto the table.
"Tell me about the shield," he says again, and Rodney shakes his head.
"You've got the most secure Stargate I've ever seen," he says, aware that his mouth is running away with his brain but unable to stop himself. "It's in a cave with a solid rock wall four meters away, so anything coming through at speed, like, say, a Wraith dart, would get smashed to pieces almost before it finished materializing. And even if the Wraith came on foot, there's only one way out of the cave so you could pick them off the moment they stuck their heads out. Of course, if they come in ships you're totally screwed, but then, who isn't?"
The examiner just looks at him, as though he can't understand what Rodney's saying. "What do you use to power the shield?" he asks, apparently thinking that changing direction will get him the answers he wants.
Rodney shakes his head. Even if he tells them, the Garaldi have no way of understanding, no terms of reference that will let them understand words like electricity and conducting crystals and energy barrier. This is so totally pointless. He can't tell them anything they don't already know about the Wraith, and even if they manage to somehow get the name 'Atlantis' out of him, there's no way he's giving them the 'gate address. And even if he does, the first thing Sheppard did when he realized they were going to be captured was destroy both their IDCs, so it's not like they'd get past the shield anyway.
He resists the urge to tell the examiner all this, even though his head's spinning and his hands are shaking and it's a long, long time since they gave him any of the sweet drink that stops him passing out in the middle of an interrogation but does nothing to help his hunger. If he gives any kind of answer, no matter how small, he's allowed to go back to his cell, allowed to sleep and eat and sleep again. But he won't answer the questions this time, won't give the examiner the satisfaction, and so he forgets about the cell, about the prison he's in, the world he's trapped on, the barracks and the arena, Sheppard and Atlantis. He puts them aside, focusing instead on the table in front of him, looking for geometric shapes in the wood, tracing equations in his head and charting them on the x- and y-axes formed by two perpendicular lines.
"Prisoner!" The examiner is shouting at him, but when he looks up, Rodney's mind is still following the smooth curve of the equation, and he just blinks distantly as the man calls for the guards to take him back to his cell. They're not gentle as they drag him down the corridor and Rodney's only halfway there before he finally, mercifully passes out.
*******
John's been planning this for months. This isn't the kind of place you can just walk out of, not if you don't want a spear in the belly or throat, so he broke it down, took it in stages. The palisade around the barracks is wooden, held together with nails and ropes, and constantly in need of repair. He got the first length of rope weeks ago, long and strong and coiled tightly, just lying on the top of a cart while the workmen were up on the walkway. It's been lying hidden under a heap of earth and moss ever since, and John checks it every time he does his perimeter run. He also checks the second coil, shorter and thinner, lying five meters away from the first, where it had fallen during repairs just last week, and no one had bothered to retrieve it.
It's not much, but it's all he needs, or nearly all. The last piece of his puzzle is getting bumped up high enough in the rankings to merit his own cell. It's just a bare wooden room with a mattress on the floor, and a lock on the door, but it's better than the main dormitory and, best of all, it has a window.
They probably don't think he can get to it, as the sill is nine feet above the ground, and it's not much more than a small, square hole with bars across it. Most of the fighters would be too broad-shouldered to get through, and the Garaldi probably don't think anyone would try.
They're wrong.
As soon as John hears the patrolling guard pass by outside, he's on his feet, bending his knees and taking a deep breath before jumping up and getting his fingers on the edge of the sill. His bare toes -- no shoes for this one, he needs the grip more than the protection -- find the tiny gaps in the brickwork, and really, it's not much harder than rock-climbing once he gets going.
Still, he's breathing hard by the time he hauls himself onto the sill, twisting his body so that he can slither between the bars. It's risky, going headfirst like this, but he wants to be able to see what's coming. As his hips slide free, he takes a none-too-graceful dive towards the ground, tucking and rolling and getting away with just a slightly jarred shoulder. Double checking for guards, he begins the breathless dash towards the palisade, tucking himself against its base and scrabbling in the ground for the rope.
It takes him longer than he'd have liked to find both pieces, the torch-lit darkness casting shadows that make him lose his bearings a few times. But he's piloted through worse than this, with people shooting at him and men screaming from behind him and controllers yelling in his ear. The night is almost silent here, the footsteps of the guards above him on the palisade carrying well through the still air.
John moves towards the tower in the corner, wrapping the shorter piece of rope around his waist and coiling the other around his hands. There aren't enough guards for them to watch everything, all the time, and he's been timing their patrols for weeks. By the time he reaches the corner stairs, the guard has passed the corner, and John climbs as quietly as he can, trying to synchronize his movements with the guard's. At the top, he moves quickly, wrapping the loop he's made in one end of the rope over a pointed tree trunk that forms the wall of the palisade. He pushes it down far enough that, in the dark, it's hard to tell it from the ropes that hold the wall together. Perfect.
He gets rope burns trying to get down too quickly, and his feet land in something unmentionable at the bottom, but he ignores both sensations, taking a deep breath before beginning the most dangerous part of his run. There's no cover between the barracks and the edge of the town, and he feels far too visible as he sprints the five hundred meters or so to the nearest building. Once there, he slides along the wall into the deeper shadows, moving slowly from building to building, making his way steadily towards the prison on the other side of town.
*******
It's not been too bad a day. After three days of porridge and some really, really dry crackers, he's back on stew, and the bread is actually edible. The food is barely enough to keep him going, he knows that. He's getting more tired, weaker as the days go by. The stew means that he has another thirty-six hours before they come for him again, a shorter time between interrogations than usual and he wonders if he'll be able to tell them anything at all. At this rate, he's barely going to be able to remember his own name.
Except.
"Rodney?"
Rodney turns to the window, flinching as a rock is thrown past the bars, skittering across the floor.
"Sheppard?"
Rodney's on his feet so fast that his head spins. Forgetting that he's not tall enough, he hurries over to the window, looking up and out, and straight into Sheppard's upside-down, grinning face.
"How the hell ..." Rodney asks, trailing off as his balance falters and he has to hold onto the wall for support.
"Came down from the roof. Not many guards up there," Sheppard says, then taps the small strip of cloth that Rodney tied around the bars of his window, stretching up and feeling his way through it, so that any rescuer would know where he was. He'd forgotten about it, and he only realizes that he's caught up in the memory when Sheppard says his name again and he jumps. Rodney can hear the strain in Sheppard's voice. "Can you get out?"
"Oh yes, of course." The flash of sarcasm gives Rodney some of the energy he needs, and he stands upright again, glaring at Sheppard. "I was just biding my time while I starved to death." He hasn't seen Sheppard since they were separated, however long ago that was, but the other man looks far too healthy. Typical. Rodney's been languishing in prison while Sheppard's been living the high life.
"Rodney."
The tone of voice drags his mind back to the point.
"Right," he says, waving his hands vaguely, and trying to dredge up something from the depths of his memory. "I nearly got out a few times, but they caught me before I could get to the barracks."
"The barracks?" Sheppard sounds surprised.
"Yes, of course. Or don't you need rescuing?"
"Right at this moment?" There's too much amusement in the question, but Rodney's too busy being relieved to care. "Rodney," Sheppard goes on, "I need you to get yourself out of your cell and down to the door. Can you do that?"
There was the one thing he hadn't tried because it was completely insane, even for him. Taking a shaky step backwards, Rodney looks up into Sheppard's worried eyes.
"Not tonight. Tomorrow night."
Sheppard's face goes blank. "I'm due to fight tomorrow," he said softly.
"I can't-" Rodney breaks off, his mind racing. Then he shakes his head. "It's going to be a miracle if I can pull it off at all, let alone by tomorrow night. You've done alright so far, haven't you? It's just one more fight. And anyway, look at this, you're free! Can't you just hide out somewhere for the day, go to ground or whatever you call it?"
"Tried that," Sheppard says shortly. "They're very good at finding people. Tracker dogs."
"Oh." Rodney's head is starting to spin, and he puts a hand out, staggering a little before it hits the wall. He swallows. "Then you should get a head start. Make a run for the 'gate and come back for me. Once they know where we are, and you can use the 'gate address for that assuming you still remember it, the Daedalus can-"
"No." There's no arguing when Sheppard uses that tone of voice. Not that it stops Rodney trying.
"As much as I'm flattered that you're willing to put your life on the line like that, you're going to have a much better chance of reaching the 'gate without me, and they still think I'm going to tell them something useful, which I'm trying not to, but it's not that easy when they don't seem to realize that I need to eat and-"
"Rodney." Sheppard's voice is low and firm. "I get it. I'm not leaving without you. Tomorrow night?"
Leaning his head against the wall in a mixture of fear and relief, Rodney makes an affirmative noise. "Fourth bell. I can get myself as far as the main hall, but I don't know that I can get across it."
"Leave that to me."
"Right."
"Right."
For a long moment, neither of them speaks, until Rodney can hear Sheppard breathing even harder.
"Get out of here, you idiot," he says, trying to put some force behind the words. "Do you have any idea how bad for your health it is to hang upside down like that? Take it from someone who knows. Who do you think you are, Spiderman?"
"Gee, thanks for your concern." But it's another minute before Rodney hears him begin to move. "See you tomorrow."
"Right. Er, good luck. With the fight, I mean. Try not to die."
There's a muffled snort of laughter, then Sheppard is gone. Turning, Rodney lets himself gently slide down the wall, until he's sitting on the cold floor. It's bad for him in all kinds of ways that he doesn't want to think about, but he used up most of his energy in that brief conversation. Of course Sheppard had expected him to just break out, just like that. It's alright for Sheppard; judging by tonight's gymnastic display, he hasn't been kept on starvation rations for however long it is -- months and months and months, it must be -- they've been stuck in this hell hole, and really, Rodney can't be blamed if the whole thing goes horribly wrong because he doesn't think that well on no food.
But it can't go horribly wrong. It just can't.
Not even attempting to get back to his feet, Rodney crawls over to the bed, climbs onto it and flops onto his back. He doesn't try to sleep, just stares at the ceiling, running through the plans he rejected so long ago. This time, he is going to make them work.
*******
John wakes up with the first bell of the day, still tired and aching a little from the previous night's exertions. He takes a moment to curse Rodney for not being ready to just leave, then he remembers the other man's faltering steps, thin face and trembling voice, and decides it's probably forgivable.
It had been a long shot to think he'd get out of here without having to kill again, and part of him hopes he'll get an easy fight today. He's not become immune to what's happening, but after this long, all he wants to think about is getting out alive.
When his cell door is unlocked, John lies still for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to find the calm that he needs. It was easier, while all his plans were just pipe dreams, with responsibility only for himself, however much he might have hoped. Now, he keeps hearing Rodney's voice, ringing in his ears until he makes himself get up and head out into the practice yard.
Other fighters are already there, sparring in the cool of the morning and shouting to each other. Most of them are wearing the same rough shirt and pants as John, with only a few going bare-chested and even fewer wearing the small shorts that mark the lowest ranked fighters. That means the Garaldi will need to embark on new raids, snatching people from more worlds to take part in their sacrifices, find more victims for their gods, the gods who keep the Wraith from their skies. They haven't been culled in living memory, and Rodney had worked out that their planet was well away from the main feeding grounds, probably not worth bothering with usually. There's a weird kind of logic to the Garaldi belief, that somehow by offering so many lives to their gods, their gods pass them on to the Wraith, who are satisfied just with that. But with the Wraith awakening early, hungry, John guesses it's only a matter of time before they have to revise their theology, and he finds himself trying not to glance at the sky as he sets off on his morning run.
He only has until the second bell before the guards will come to take him to the arena, but it's enough to let him check that he hid the ropes sufficiently in the darkness last night, to let him drink a cup of fruit juice, to cast an eye round the other men and wonder who it's going to be today. The waiting, for the first time since his first fight, is making him jittery. Carefully, he puts the cup down and looks around, spotting the training sticks on the other side of the mock-arena.
When he picks up two of the shorter sticks, he feels eyes turn to him; the guards are staring, as are the trainers, but they're nothing compared to the surprise he can feel rolling off the other fighters. He never does this, never spars with weapons, although the fact that he keeps coming back from the arena alive tells them that he knows what he's doing with them. But now, he has nothing lose, because one way or another, this will be his last fight. And it might be really, really stupid, but he needs something to focus on, before the waiting drives him mad.
Closing his eyes and keeping his back to them all, he swings the sticks slowly, hating the lightness of them, the speed that they move through the air. They don't have the weight or balance of Teyla's bantos rods, but with his eyes closed, he can hear her voice, talking him through the basics. He starts with the first things that she taught him, moving carefully, not wanting to tire himself out, just warm his muscles. Her voice is clear in his head, low and steady, drowning out the sound-memory, the panic in her voice over the radio as she called his name, the choke-hold from the Garaldi guard stopping him from replying with more than a strangled yell.
His movements are faster now, as he begins to shift his feet, stepping carefully as he brings the sticks to each new position. Teyla had warned him of the Garaldi, of their raids and kidnappings, but he'd been unprepared for the speed of the attack, caught out by the primitive-looking weapons and slow smiles. He'd thought the men would be slow as well, only to be surprised by the hunt which had neatly separated him and Rodney from the others, splitting them up to track them down. They're good at hunting. His one comfort has been that Ronon and Teyla must have been better, since neither of them were dragged through behind him, and he doesn't doubt that they're still looking for him and Rodney. But the Garaldi are secretive and paranoid, 'gating people here via four other worlds before bringing them to their killing ground.
John is at full speed now, the sticks whistling through the air as he brings the exercise to a halt. Barely pausing, he switches to holding both sticks in one hand, moving into the steadier, more forceful routine that Ronon taught him. This one is more about strength than speed, about block and strikes and controlled power. He lacks Ronon's height and reach, but he manages well enough. Each stroke is controlled and measured, and he can feel Ronon's steadying hand, adjusting his stance, redirecting his strikes.
He hasn't thought about either Ronon or Teyla too much since he was brought to the barracks, thrust into the arena. Now, as the second bell rings and he stops the exercise, not really breathing hard, but feeling more warmed up, more prepared for the fight, they're all he can think about. He turns to face the guards, falling into step as they escort him towards the gates, and John can still hear the murmur of two familiar voices in his head as he walks to the arena, talking low and steady, as though they're watching his back. Like always.
*******
It's not as difficult as Rodney had feared. The Garaldi must think he's close to breaking, because when he asks for his laptop, his tablet, they nod and bring them, probably thinking that he's looking up answers for them. They don't know him very well, despite all the hours of questioning.
Fortunately, they also know very little about computers. As far as they're concerned, ripping the back off a laptop and pulling out wires is the normal way of operating it.
It's not easy, trying to work without tools, but he has his nails and teeth, and he makes do. The laptop battery isn't bad, one of the special ones he had made so that his computer wouldn't die on him in the middle of a mission. When he finishes linking it to the tablet's power source, he should have enough juice for what he needs. Once he modifies the tablet. If the wiring holds together. And assuming the whole thing doesn't just blow up the first time he uses it.
He's in the middle of painstakingly twisting two wires together when he hears the cheering. It might be a waste of time -- it is a waste of time -- but Rodney does it anyway. He climbs on his bed, leaning against the wall and standing on tiptoe. From here, he can see the tops of the stands, the waving hands of some of the spectators. It was better when he didn't know who was fighting, easier to ignore the screams and boos.
He sits down on the bed with a thump, trying not to let the realization of risk overwhelm him. What if Sheppard's luck finally runs out? What if his own stupid, stupid plan doesn't work? What if he gets to the main hall and Sheppard isn't there to let him out? He's on the verge on hyperventilating when he forces himself to calm down. They're on a schedule here, and he has to be done by fourth bell tonight. Work first, freak out later, he promises himself.
Moving slowly, clumsily, he sits back down on the floor and pulls the gutted laptop towards him again. Sure the risks are high, but Rodney's got his brain, which still seems to work, despite everything, and Sheppard's got that knack for survival that's saved their lives more than once, not to mention all the hours he spent getting smacked around the gym by Ronon and Teyla. They can do this.
They're going to get out of here.
*******
John picked a really lousy day for his last fight. His opponent is a head taller than him, as wide across as Ronon, big with muscle and strength and not an ounce of fat, wearing a stiff leather shirt that will probably turn away a casual strike. Better yet, he's got a broadsword, at least three feet long and double-edged. By the look of his shoulders, he knows how to handle it, too. John's got his knife and fighting stick, neither of which are going to be much help against a direct blow, unless he wants to lose a few fingers or end up with a hand full of matchsticks. Worse still, the man isn't playing to the crowd, barely acknowledging the cheers, which are louder than John's ever heard them. No grandstanding here, just a grim determination to get the job done. The Garaldi save their highest honors for those who sacrifice the most lives; this guy must be good.
Even through the soles of his shoes, John can feel the heat from the ground. The cool spell passed a few days ago, and they're back to the unrelenting heat of the Garaldi summer. John shifts his feet, judging how much grip he's going to get from the hot surface, blinking to keep his eyes clear and reaching inwards for the focus that Teyla tried to beat into him. He doesn't take too much of his attention from the other man, though, which means he doesn't miss the flicker of his eyes, the subtle shift in posture that means he's getting ready to strike.
When it comes, it's surprisingly controlled. John was right; this isn't going to be about brute force, for all that the sword is just about the biggest one he's ever seen outside the movies. He dodges the swing, moving not quite as fast as he can, just with enough speed to avoid getting hit. This isn't going to be over quickly, and he needs time to work out how it's going to go, but there's no time before the guy is coming at him again, and John does the only thing he can, dropping and rolling away, coming to his feet with bruises on his hip and shoulder.
He needs to catch his breath, needs to work out how the guy fights, and he could do that, if only he could get some space. Damn, that sword is long. It sweeps through the air where his stomach was half a second ago, and John feels something in his back protest at the frantic way he's arching it. Turning, he lets himself drop again, not stopping moving, rolling as the sword comes down beside him. The ground is dense, despite the drying heat, and it takes the guy a second to get the sword free again, time that John uses to get his feet under him, retreating backwards as fast as he can. He'd turn and run, but there's no way he's letting this guy out of his sight.
This time, when the charge comes, John waits for the last second to dodge, ducking and spinning to his right, trying to see if he can get behind and inside the reach of the blade. He can't. He's almost there when the guy starts to turn as well, knocking John out of the way with one shoulder and knocking him to the ground, so that John has to scramble out of the way of the downward strike.
By the time he gets to his feet again, he's breathing hard, although he takes some satisfaction in seeing that his opponent is as well. The sun is beating down on them, reflecting off the sand and making John long for his shades. He's vaguely aware that the crowd is going insane around him, and he wonders how long fighters usually survive against this guy. He'd guess not this long, from the contained anger that he can see in the man's eyes. Anger is good. Anger, John can use.
The guy waits a moment, apparently sizing John up. He already knows that John's fast, but he doesn't know how strong he is, if he can use that knife and that stick. But long-range attacks aren't working, so he seems to have decided that this needs to be more up close, more personal. He moves slowly this time, feinting towards John, and hell, John didn't even know it was possible to feint with a broadsword, but the guy's doing it. It's quick enough that John doesn't dare duck or turn or do anything that will lose him sight of that enormous blade.
Deciding it's worth the risk, John catches the third feint on his knife. The impact jars his arm so badly that he nearly drops it, and he can feel the shockwaves all the way up to his shoulder. Still, it was the right thing to do, because his opponent looks momentarily stunned, then properly stunned when John takes advantage and swings his stick towards the guy's head. It barely connects, some instinct making the guy jerk back at the last moment, but it's enough.
They separate, circling, and John can see a mixture of surprise and wariness on the guy's face. This isn't someone who's used to his opponents fighting back, probably more used to chasing them around the arena until they run out of energy. Or luck. John doesn't intend to run. He's ready for the next engagement when it comes, deflecting rather than blocking the sword, hitting it hard with his knife, using the force and rebound to dodge the backstroke. What he didn't know was that the guy really is as good with the sword as he looks, and the quick reversal catches him unawares. John barely has time to throw himself out of the way, and he feels something slice across his arm, sliding up to trail heat across his back. He has enough sense not to roll when he hits the ground, not wanting to add sand to the blood running down his arm and back, and he's back on his feet quicker than the other man expected, because the sword is still raised, ready to strike a killing blow to a man no longer on the ground.
It's John's only chance. Ignoring the screams of pain from his shoulder and back, he darts forwards, dropping the fighting stick and ducking under the upraised arm. The whole movement takes less than half a second, but he has time to realize that his knife won't do enough damage through the stiffened leather of the man's shirt. Dimly, he's aware that time has slowed for him, to the molasses-thick sensation that he always gets in these moments, when the chopper's taking a nose dive and the dials are going crazy and the g-forces slam him into his seat so hard that he can't breathe. He needs it, this extra time, to just think.
Turning inside the man's guard, John shifts his grip on his knife, spinning it in his hand and slamming it home as his back hits the man's jerkin. The blade slips underneath the leather, into the tiny gap between shirt and pants, and John feels warm stickiness spread over his hand. He realizes that he's yelling, the pain from his injured back making him cry out, but he only hears it dimly. He's not done yet.
Almost casually, he twists the knife, pulling it out, and bringing it up to slam hilt-first into the man's wrist. That stops the sword being brought towards him again as he turns, sweeping the knife up and along, feeling the slight resistance of skin before he cuts through the man's throat. Then he's staggering away, out of the bloody embrace and watching the sword drop, watching the blood trickle between the man's fingers as he clutches at the wound, watching the lines of red creep down his neck, down his pants from the hole in his belly, down the side of his mouth as the man's eyes go glassy and he follows his sword to the ground.
It takes John another moment to really register that his back hurts. More than hurts. It's screaming in agony, and the waist of his pants is already soaking and his shirt is clinging to him, sticky and warm. He drops the knife, falling to his knees, with his head down, trying not to pass out. Then, at last, he hears the roar of the crowd, the sound breaking over him in wave as he lets himself really listen to them, the baying and screaming that could be ecstasy or could be grief, he can't tell. Someone is pulling at his arms, getting him more or less on his feet again and half-dragging him out of the arena. He lets them, stumbling backwards and letting them catch him, because he doesn't want to turn, can't take his eyes off the body lying on the ground, blood already spreading to stain the sand. Dimly, as his vision starts to grey out and the pain takes hold, he hopes the gods of the Garaldi are satisfied at last.
Continue to Part Two
Author: jadesfire2808
Prompt: Slavery, captivity or hostages
Word Count: 17,000
Rating: M
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence/None
Summary: This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
Bibula Harena
It is not possible to fight beyond your strength, even if you strive.
Homer, The Iliad
The Garaldi have cleaned the arena since he was last here, the bloodied ground raked and swept, the earth replaced and packed down again, sprinkled with fresh sand ready for fresh blood.
John intends to spill a lot of it today.
It's not particularly hot, the clouds giving some respite from the blinding sunshine of the past week. John half-shivers in the coolness, his body now too used to the heat for him to be comfortable. There's a breeze swirling round, lifting tiny whirlwinds of sand where the arena floor meets the wooden stands, and John notices it absently, wondering if there's any way he can use it to his advantage. Out here, he'll take anything he can get, and all the fighters know that a downed opponent can throw sand deceptively quickly.
Like many of the others, John prefers to go barefoot, taking the chance of getting his toes stepped on, rather than endure the blisters that come from getting sand in open sandals. Maybe if he manages to beat this guy, he'll win enough for a pair of proper shoes. Ones without holes, that will actually help rather than hinder, giving at least some relief from the heat rising off the ground.
He watches his opponent, assessing him as the bigger man prowls round the arena, sneering at John and playing to the crowd. He's big, heavy, and John's seen him use his weight advantage to literally crush smaller opponents back at the training ground. John will need to stay out of the reach of those long arms, wait for an opening, try to provoke a mistake. He flexes his fingers round the grip of his knife, adjusts the hold on his stick, digs his toes into the ground, feeling the breeze stirring the hairs on the back of his neck.
Eventually, the big man decides that he's had enough of enjoying the crowd's hoots and yells, and he turns his attention to John. It's probably supposed to be unnerving, the steady glare and the predatory grin, but compared to the Wraith John's faced down, hell, even compared to Ronon, this guy looks like what he is: a big, dumb idiot who's about to die.
*******
Rodney can hear the shouting from the arena, the yelling and screaming that means some poor sap is going to get it. If he climbs onto the bed, braces one hand against the wall, stands right up on his toes and leans perilously far to the right, he can just about see the tops of the stands. It's really not worth the effort, and one undignified fall was enough to convince him of that.
He goes back to the paper in front of him, or at least what passes for paper around here, lumpy and fragile and really, really hard to write on. Especially in pencil. They don't let him have pens any more, not after he took one apart to pick the lock and got halfway to the barracks before anyone noticed he was gone. The reward was ten days solitary, reduced rations and nothing to write on for a month. But it was worth it, if only to let these backward idiots know who they were dealing with. They wouldn't take him for granted again, oh no.
The pencil goes right through this time and he sighs. He can't write on the walls, because the dark brick swallows up the marks, and trying to write like this is like wading through sand. Giving in, Rodney leans back on his bunk and closes his eyes. He'll just have to do it in his head instead, and at least with his eyes closed he can't see the cell around him, the too-close walls, the cold stone floor and the thick, iron bars. It's probably better this way.
*******
It's not the arena that's the worst part. Okay, that's a lie, because the prospect of imminent death is always going to be the worst part, but at least John's in control of it, more or less. The worst part is the endless days of waiting, the practicing, the mock-fights, as though hands aren't as deadly as steel or iron. They're not supposed to kill each other in training, although it happens. John saw a throw go wrong as the falling man twisted at the wrong moment, heard the crunching of bone and looked into the glassy stare of another dead body. He's almost getting used to that.
For himself, he tries not to practice too much, tries not to give himself away. He does a lot of running, around the barracks, again and again. When he spars, he holds back, losing more than he wins, watching the others desperately trying to spot weaknesses and showing them all the openings that will be closed if they ever meet in the arena. It's not like anyone ever comes back to tell the tale, to tell the men around him that everything they've learned about him is going to mean precisely nothing if they ever have to fight for real. The guards, of course, don't say anything. Even the trainers don't say anything, watching silently as they fight, handing out fake weapons and collecting them all in at the end. They always count too carefully for John to take anything, not that a wooden knife or pencil thin spear would get him very far anyway. He hasn't picked up any of the mock-weapons in a long time, finding them more annoying than useful.
So he runs, more easily since his last victory won him some real shoes, padded with something soft and providing at least some protection for the soles of his feet. It's easier and harder than running on Atlantis. The shoes don't give anywhere near the amount of support that his sneakers would, but then the ground around the compound is softer, overgrown with grass and moss. He has to adjust the padding a few times to stop blisters, but it's still worth it.
He's allowed to run the perimeter, behind the barracks buildings and back to the practice ground. There are guards all around the palisade and more on the gates, so it's not like he can go anywhere. Not that it's stopped him from trying. He killed four guards before one of them got a spear to his throat, and it bumped him back down to the bottom of the rankings, having to fight his way back up to earn his pants, his shirt, his knife. This is sacred to the Garaldi, the continual supply of blood that feeds the arena and their gods. One of the other fighters said that the spectators take the sodden earth/sand mixture home, believing it will help their crops to grow. Maybe it does.
The weather's still relatively cool, and John's only a little warm when he jogs back to the training ground, watching two evenly matched, blond-haired men grapple with each other. He watches the way they wrestle, the grips and holds and throws that they use, wincing when one of them pulls the other's hair and making a note of the dirty trick. He may have to watch out for this one.
Carefully, he walks past them, stretching his arms and neck and heading for the water barrel. There's always food and water for the fighters; good stuff, too. The Garaldi offer it to them, part of the whole ingrained sacrifice thing they've got going on. They sacrifice the best of their produce to the fighters, then sacrifice the best of their fighters in the arena. They probably think of it as cyclical or reciprocal or some crap like that. John's not one to turn down the food, though. Not if he wants to stay alive.
He wonders what they're feeding Rodney.
*******
When you get right down to it, food's food, and apart from an ever-present fear that something in the thin stew is going to send him into anaphylactic shock, it's not too bad. Rodney's eaten worse on the various worlds they've traded with over the years, and he and Sheppard have a silent challenge about downing the weirdest of it. He who flinches, loses.
By comparison, this stuff is pretty good, although the pattern isn't very subtle. He gets stew for two days before a questioning, stew and the half-decent crusty bread that's fairly good on the first day and only edible when soaked in stew on the day after that. The first time he made the link, connected the better food with the coming interrogation, he'd spat out the morsel he'd been chewing and pushed the bowl aside. Now, he eats every last drop, saving the truly solid bread for when he gets back. Dipped in the measly porridge rations that are his standard daily fare, it helps fill him up again. He has no way of knowing how long the interrogation will last and they won't feed him until it's over.
Rodney sucks up the last of the juice off the spoon, tips the bowl to make sure he hasn't missed anything, savoring as much as he can, then goes and puts the empty bowl by the bars of the cell. His pants are even looser now, and he wonders if he should start asking for a belt again. But since he used the last one to rig a noose/tripwire combination that let him get all the way to the main hall before they could cut the guard down and come after him, they probably won't give him one.
Closing his eyes, he leans his head against the wall and tries not to let the hysteria overwhelm him. Because he thinks if he gets much thinner, he's going to be able to slip through the bars of his cell and walk right out of here. And then they'll be sorry.
He'll make sure that they're sorry.
*******
They don't tell the fighters who they're up against in advance. It stops them forming attachments, alliances, because who knows when they might be forced to kill each other. John's killed eight men with higher ranks than him, all self-defense; when the other guy's coming at you with a sword, a yell and eyes full of murder, it's not exactly the time to start talking about bonding over their shared experience. He's killed four men with lower ranks than him, also all self-defense, because they were desperate and he was all that stood between them and the next rank, the next privilege, the next breath. The two men of equal rank, he didn't kill, nor four more of lower rank and one poor wretch who'd barely seemed to know which way was up. Every single time, the guards stepped in when he refused to finish it, when he'd crippled or maimed or just plain beaten the other guy.
That had been enough for him, but not for the Garaldi, who demand blood and blood alone, and they'd had to knock him out before he'd let them kill the weakest of his opponents. It had been early in his time here, the first time he'd beaten rather than killed, before he'd learned that only one man could leave the arena alive, and that the Garaldi take no pleasure in torture, only in the spilling of blood. Even so, he'd been strong enough, good enough that he'd downed four guards trying to save the wretched man, only succumbing when they'd had his arms pinned, and one of them had decided he'd had enough. John had woken up on his pallet hours later, head ringing and sick to his stomach, knowing that whatever he did, it was never going to be enough. One of them was always going to die. Still, there are times when he just can't bring himself to do it, and has to turn away before the guards deliver their killing blow. It might make him a coward, but it keeps him sane.
Despite other offers and the privileges of rank, he still uses his own knife to fight with, balancing it with a fighting stick, long and solid, giving him the reach he needs against the spear fighters. He's not too good with a longsword, but the knife is an old friend, its familiar weight a connection to the past he refuses to give up. The Garaldi clean it carefully for him, and they've rebound the handle with good cloth that absorbs sweat and blood without losing grip. They must replace that every time, because after his last bout, when he'd squeezed the handle, the knife had dripped blood, bleeding onto the sand at his feet.
It's clean again today, though, and he double checks the wrapping before tucking it in its sheath and buckling on his belt. Across the chamber, he can see his opponent, one of the blond men he saw wrestling two days ago. He's unarmed, but is wrapping leather supports around his hands and wrists, and John thinks he sees the glint of metal in the leather. Not so unarmed, then. John hefts his stick, reminding himself of its weight and reach, swinging it experimentally, deciding to leave the knife where it is for now. It's not that he's above fighting dirty, or that he thinks the knife will give him an unfair advantage; it's that he wants to keep the other guy as far away as possible for as long as possible, and his knife's not going to be much use until they're in close. He can draw pretty quickly, faster than the other guys realizes, hopefully.
When the other man has finished winding the leather, he gives the guards a nod, and John does the same. The gates to the arena are dragged open and they walk out together, blinking in the sunlight and nearly deafened by the crowds. While the blond man lifts his hands in salute, John walks to the other side of the fighting ground, turning and waiting for his opponent to stop grandstanding, and trying not to get his hopes up. He's got the tactical advantage now, his back to the sun and his eyes have had time to adjust. It's too early to call the fight won -- he's seen the other man spar and knows he's quick and vicious -- but it's as good a start as he can hope for.
He swings the stick lightly again, clearing his mind and blocking out the screaming crowd. It used to unsettle him, the constant baying for blood. Now, it's part of the landscape, as familiar as the wooden stands and wide arena floor. Beyond the arena is the town, the prison, the Stargate. Rodney's out there, John hopes, probably still locked up, and Atlantis is just a little further and a few light years away. He dreams about it sometimes, but he's learned to keep it to dreams. Right now, he can't afford to get too distracted. This is all there is, the stick in his hand, the knife in his belt, the crowd roaring around him, and the man he has to kill.
*******
Halfway through -- he hopes it's halfway through -- the questioning, Rodney starts to forget about the world beyond the interrogation room. From his cell, he can hear things, the streets below the prison, the arena. But in here, there is nothing, just the table and chairs and the examiner, asking him question after question until he's too tired, too hungry and thirsty to care about anything except making it stop.
"How does the shield work?" the examiner asks.
"What shield?"
"On your home planet's portal. How does it work?"
He doesn't remember telling them about the shield, but part of him is pleased that the word Atlantis hasn't been mentioned. That probably means he hasn't given too much away. Yet.
His mind is wandering, and he jumps when the examiner slams his hand onto the table.
"Tell me about the shield," he says again, and Rodney shakes his head.
"You've got the most secure Stargate I've ever seen," he says, aware that his mouth is running away with his brain but unable to stop himself. "It's in a cave with a solid rock wall four meters away, so anything coming through at speed, like, say, a Wraith dart, would get smashed to pieces almost before it finished materializing. And even if the Wraith came on foot, there's only one way out of the cave so you could pick them off the moment they stuck their heads out. Of course, if they come in ships you're totally screwed, but then, who isn't?"
The examiner just looks at him, as though he can't understand what Rodney's saying. "What do you use to power the shield?" he asks, apparently thinking that changing direction will get him the answers he wants.
Rodney shakes his head. Even if he tells them, the Garaldi have no way of understanding, no terms of reference that will let them understand words like electricity and conducting crystals and energy barrier. This is so totally pointless. He can't tell them anything they don't already know about the Wraith, and even if they manage to somehow get the name 'Atlantis' out of him, there's no way he's giving them the 'gate address. And even if he does, the first thing Sheppard did when he realized they were going to be captured was destroy both their IDCs, so it's not like they'd get past the shield anyway.
He resists the urge to tell the examiner all this, even though his head's spinning and his hands are shaking and it's a long, long time since they gave him any of the sweet drink that stops him passing out in the middle of an interrogation but does nothing to help his hunger. If he gives any kind of answer, no matter how small, he's allowed to go back to his cell, allowed to sleep and eat and sleep again. But he won't answer the questions this time, won't give the examiner the satisfaction, and so he forgets about the cell, about the prison he's in, the world he's trapped on, the barracks and the arena, Sheppard and Atlantis. He puts them aside, focusing instead on the table in front of him, looking for geometric shapes in the wood, tracing equations in his head and charting them on the x- and y-axes formed by two perpendicular lines.
"Prisoner!" The examiner is shouting at him, but when he looks up, Rodney's mind is still following the smooth curve of the equation, and he just blinks distantly as the man calls for the guards to take him back to his cell. They're not gentle as they drag him down the corridor and Rodney's only halfway there before he finally, mercifully passes out.
*******
John's been planning this for months. This isn't the kind of place you can just walk out of, not if you don't want a spear in the belly or throat, so he broke it down, took it in stages. The palisade around the barracks is wooden, held together with nails and ropes, and constantly in need of repair. He got the first length of rope weeks ago, long and strong and coiled tightly, just lying on the top of a cart while the workmen were up on the walkway. It's been lying hidden under a heap of earth and moss ever since, and John checks it every time he does his perimeter run. He also checks the second coil, shorter and thinner, lying five meters away from the first, where it had fallen during repairs just last week, and no one had bothered to retrieve it.
It's not much, but it's all he needs, or nearly all. The last piece of his puzzle is getting bumped up high enough in the rankings to merit his own cell. It's just a bare wooden room with a mattress on the floor, and a lock on the door, but it's better than the main dormitory and, best of all, it has a window.
They probably don't think he can get to it, as the sill is nine feet above the ground, and it's not much more than a small, square hole with bars across it. Most of the fighters would be too broad-shouldered to get through, and the Garaldi probably don't think anyone would try.
They're wrong.
As soon as John hears the patrolling guard pass by outside, he's on his feet, bending his knees and taking a deep breath before jumping up and getting his fingers on the edge of the sill. His bare toes -- no shoes for this one, he needs the grip more than the protection -- find the tiny gaps in the brickwork, and really, it's not much harder than rock-climbing once he gets going.
Still, he's breathing hard by the time he hauls himself onto the sill, twisting his body so that he can slither between the bars. It's risky, going headfirst like this, but he wants to be able to see what's coming. As his hips slide free, he takes a none-too-graceful dive towards the ground, tucking and rolling and getting away with just a slightly jarred shoulder. Double checking for guards, he begins the breathless dash towards the palisade, tucking himself against its base and scrabbling in the ground for the rope.
It takes him longer than he'd have liked to find both pieces, the torch-lit darkness casting shadows that make him lose his bearings a few times. But he's piloted through worse than this, with people shooting at him and men screaming from behind him and controllers yelling in his ear. The night is almost silent here, the footsteps of the guards above him on the palisade carrying well through the still air.
John moves towards the tower in the corner, wrapping the shorter piece of rope around his waist and coiling the other around his hands. There aren't enough guards for them to watch everything, all the time, and he's been timing their patrols for weeks. By the time he reaches the corner stairs, the guard has passed the corner, and John climbs as quietly as he can, trying to synchronize his movements with the guard's. At the top, he moves quickly, wrapping the loop he's made in one end of the rope over a pointed tree trunk that forms the wall of the palisade. He pushes it down far enough that, in the dark, it's hard to tell it from the ropes that hold the wall together. Perfect.
He gets rope burns trying to get down too quickly, and his feet land in something unmentionable at the bottom, but he ignores both sensations, taking a deep breath before beginning the most dangerous part of his run. There's no cover between the barracks and the edge of the town, and he feels far too visible as he sprints the five hundred meters or so to the nearest building. Once there, he slides along the wall into the deeper shadows, moving slowly from building to building, making his way steadily towards the prison on the other side of town.
*******
It's not been too bad a day. After three days of porridge and some really, really dry crackers, he's back on stew, and the bread is actually edible. The food is barely enough to keep him going, he knows that. He's getting more tired, weaker as the days go by. The stew means that he has another thirty-six hours before they come for him again, a shorter time between interrogations than usual and he wonders if he'll be able to tell them anything at all. At this rate, he's barely going to be able to remember his own name.
Except.
"Rodney?"
Rodney turns to the window, flinching as a rock is thrown past the bars, skittering across the floor.
"Sheppard?"
Rodney's on his feet so fast that his head spins. Forgetting that he's not tall enough, he hurries over to the window, looking up and out, and straight into Sheppard's upside-down, grinning face.
"How the hell ..." Rodney asks, trailing off as his balance falters and he has to hold onto the wall for support.
"Came down from the roof. Not many guards up there," Sheppard says, then taps the small strip of cloth that Rodney tied around the bars of his window, stretching up and feeling his way through it, so that any rescuer would know where he was. He'd forgotten about it, and he only realizes that he's caught up in the memory when Sheppard says his name again and he jumps. Rodney can hear the strain in Sheppard's voice. "Can you get out?"
"Oh yes, of course." The flash of sarcasm gives Rodney some of the energy he needs, and he stands upright again, glaring at Sheppard. "I was just biding my time while I starved to death." He hasn't seen Sheppard since they were separated, however long ago that was, but the other man looks far too healthy. Typical. Rodney's been languishing in prison while Sheppard's been living the high life.
"Rodney."
The tone of voice drags his mind back to the point.
"Right," he says, waving his hands vaguely, and trying to dredge up something from the depths of his memory. "I nearly got out a few times, but they caught me before I could get to the barracks."
"The barracks?" Sheppard sounds surprised.
"Yes, of course. Or don't you need rescuing?"
"Right at this moment?" There's too much amusement in the question, but Rodney's too busy being relieved to care. "Rodney," Sheppard goes on, "I need you to get yourself out of your cell and down to the door. Can you do that?"
There was the one thing he hadn't tried because it was completely insane, even for him. Taking a shaky step backwards, Rodney looks up into Sheppard's worried eyes.
"Not tonight. Tomorrow night."
Sheppard's face goes blank. "I'm due to fight tomorrow," he said softly.
"I can't-" Rodney breaks off, his mind racing. Then he shakes his head. "It's going to be a miracle if I can pull it off at all, let alone by tomorrow night. You've done alright so far, haven't you? It's just one more fight. And anyway, look at this, you're free! Can't you just hide out somewhere for the day, go to ground or whatever you call it?"
"Tried that," Sheppard says shortly. "They're very good at finding people. Tracker dogs."
"Oh." Rodney's head is starting to spin, and he puts a hand out, staggering a little before it hits the wall. He swallows. "Then you should get a head start. Make a run for the 'gate and come back for me. Once they know where we are, and you can use the 'gate address for that assuming you still remember it, the Daedalus can-"
"No." There's no arguing when Sheppard uses that tone of voice. Not that it stops Rodney trying.
"As much as I'm flattered that you're willing to put your life on the line like that, you're going to have a much better chance of reaching the 'gate without me, and they still think I'm going to tell them something useful, which I'm trying not to, but it's not that easy when they don't seem to realize that I need to eat and-"
"Rodney." Sheppard's voice is low and firm. "I get it. I'm not leaving without you. Tomorrow night?"
Leaning his head against the wall in a mixture of fear and relief, Rodney makes an affirmative noise. "Fourth bell. I can get myself as far as the main hall, but I don't know that I can get across it."
"Leave that to me."
"Right."
"Right."
For a long moment, neither of them speaks, until Rodney can hear Sheppard breathing even harder.
"Get out of here, you idiot," he says, trying to put some force behind the words. "Do you have any idea how bad for your health it is to hang upside down like that? Take it from someone who knows. Who do you think you are, Spiderman?"
"Gee, thanks for your concern." But it's another minute before Rodney hears him begin to move. "See you tomorrow."
"Right. Er, good luck. With the fight, I mean. Try not to die."
There's a muffled snort of laughter, then Sheppard is gone. Turning, Rodney lets himself gently slide down the wall, until he's sitting on the cold floor. It's bad for him in all kinds of ways that he doesn't want to think about, but he used up most of his energy in that brief conversation. Of course Sheppard had expected him to just break out, just like that. It's alright for Sheppard; judging by tonight's gymnastic display, he hasn't been kept on starvation rations for however long it is -- months and months and months, it must be -- they've been stuck in this hell hole, and really, Rodney can't be blamed if the whole thing goes horribly wrong because he doesn't think that well on no food.
But it can't go horribly wrong. It just can't.
Not even attempting to get back to his feet, Rodney crawls over to the bed, climbs onto it and flops onto his back. He doesn't try to sleep, just stares at the ceiling, running through the plans he rejected so long ago. This time, he is going to make them work.
*******
John wakes up with the first bell of the day, still tired and aching a little from the previous night's exertions. He takes a moment to curse Rodney for not being ready to just leave, then he remembers the other man's faltering steps, thin face and trembling voice, and decides it's probably forgivable.
It had been a long shot to think he'd get out of here without having to kill again, and part of him hopes he'll get an easy fight today. He's not become immune to what's happening, but after this long, all he wants to think about is getting out alive.
When his cell door is unlocked, John lies still for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to find the calm that he needs. It was easier, while all his plans were just pipe dreams, with responsibility only for himself, however much he might have hoped. Now, he keeps hearing Rodney's voice, ringing in his ears until he makes himself get up and head out into the practice yard.
Other fighters are already there, sparring in the cool of the morning and shouting to each other. Most of them are wearing the same rough shirt and pants as John, with only a few going bare-chested and even fewer wearing the small shorts that mark the lowest ranked fighters. That means the Garaldi will need to embark on new raids, snatching people from more worlds to take part in their sacrifices, find more victims for their gods, the gods who keep the Wraith from their skies. They haven't been culled in living memory, and Rodney had worked out that their planet was well away from the main feeding grounds, probably not worth bothering with usually. There's a weird kind of logic to the Garaldi belief, that somehow by offering so many lives to their gods, their gods pass them on to the Wraith, who are satisfied just with that. But with the Wraith awakening early, hungry, John guesses it's only a matter of time before they have to revise their theology, and he finds himself trying not to glance at the sky as he sets off on his morning run.
He only has until the second bell before the guards will come to take him to the arena, but it's enough to let him check that he hid the ropes sufficiently in the darkness last night, to let him drink a cup of fruit juice, to cast an eye round the other men and wonder who it's going to be today. The waiting, for the first time since his first fight, is making him jittery. Carefully, he puts the cup down and looks around, spotting the training sticks on the other side of the mock-arena.
When he picks up two of the shorter sticks, he feels eyes turn to him; the guards are staring, as are the trainers, but they're nothing compared to the surprise he can feel rolling off the other fighters. He never does this, never spars with weapons, although the fact that he keeps coming back from the arena alive tells them that he knows what he's doing with them. But now, he has nothing lose, because one way or another, this will be his last fight. And it might be really, really stupid, but he needs something to focus on, before the waiting drives him mad.
Closing his eyes and keeping his back to them all, he swings the sticks slowly, hating the lightness of them, the speed that they move through the air. They don't have the weight or balance of Teyla's bantos rods, but with his eyes closed, he can hear her voice, talking him through the basics. He starts with the first things that she taught him, moving carefully, not wanting to tire himself out, just warm his muscles. Her voice is clear in his head, low and steady, drowning out the sound-memory, the panic in her voice over the radio as she called his name, the choke-hold from the Garaldi guard stopping him from replying with more than a strangled yell.
His movements are faster now, as he begins to shift his feet, stepping carefully as he brings the sticks to each new position. Teyla had warned him of the Garaldi, of their raids and kidnappings, but he'd been unprepared for the speed of the attack, caught out by the primitive-looking weapons and slow smiles. He'd thought the men would be slow as well, only to be surprised by the hunt which had neatly separated him and Rodney from the others, splitting them up to track them down. They're good at hunting. His one comfort has been that Ronon and Teyla must have been better, since neither of them were dragged through behind him, and he doesn't doubt that they're still looking for him and Rodney. But the Garaldi are secretive and paranoid, 'gating people here via four other worlds before bringing them to their killing ground.
John is at full speed now, the sticks whistling through the air as he brings the exercise to a halt. Barely pausing, he switches to holding both sticks in one hand, moving into the steadier, more forceful routine that Ronon taught him. This one is more about strength than speed, about block and strikes and controlled power. He lacks Ronon's height and reach, but he manages well enough. Each stroke is controlled and measured, and he can feel Ronon's steadying hand, adjusting his stance, redirecting his strikes.
He hasn't thought about either Ronon or Teyla too much since he was brought to the barracks, thrust into the arena. Now, as the second bell rings and he stops the exercise, not really breathing hard, but feeling more warmed up, more prepared for the fight, they're all he can think about. He turns to face the guards, falling into step as they escort him towards the gates, and John can still hear the murmur of two familiar voices in his head as he walks to the arena, talking low and steady, as though they're watching his back. Like always.
*******
It's not as difficult as Rodney had feared. The Garaldi must think he's close to breaking, because when he asks for his laptop, his tablet, they nod and bring them, probably thinking that he's looking up answers for them. They don't know him very well, despite all the hours of questioning.
Fortunately, they also know very little about computers. As far as they're concerned, ripping the back off a laptop and pulling out wires is the normal way of operating it.
It's not easy, trying to work without tools, but he has his nails and teeth, and he makes do. The laptop battery isn't bad, one of the special ones he had made so that his computer wouldn't die on him in the middle of a mission. When he finishes linking it to the tablet's power source, he should have enough juice for what he needs. Once he modifies the tablet. If the wiring holds together. And assuming the whole thing doesn't just blow up the first time he uses it.
He's in the middle of painstakingly twisting two wires together when he hears the cheering. It might be a waste of time -- it is a waste of time -- but Rodney does it anyway. He climbs on his bed, leaning against the wall and standing on tiptoe. From here, he can see the tops of the stands, the waving hands of some of the spectators. It was better when he didn't know who was fighting, easier to ignore the screams and boos.
He sits down on the bed with a thump, trying not to let the realization of risk overwhelm him. What if Sheppard's luck finally runs out? What if his own stupid, stupid plan doesn't work? What if he gets to the main hall and Sheppard isn't there to let him out? He's on the verge on hyperventilating when he forces himself to calm down. They're on a schedule here, and he has to be done by fourth bell tonight. Work first, freak out later, he promises himself.
Moving slowly, clumsily, he sits back down on the floor and pulls the gutted laptop towards him again. Sure the risks are high, but Rodney's got his brain, which still seems to work, despite everything, and Sheppard's got that knack for survival that's saved their lives more than once, not to mention all the hours he spent getting smacked around the gym by Ronon and Teyla. They can do this.
They're going to get out of here.
*******
John picked a really lousy day for his last fight. His opponent is a head taller than him, as wide across as Ronon, big with muscle and strength and not an ounce of fat, wearing a stiff leather shirt that will probably turn away a casual strike. Better yet, he's got a broadsword, at least three feet long and double-edged. By the look of his shoulders, he knows how to handle it, too. John's got his knife and fighting stick, neither of which are going to be much help against a direct blow, unless he wants to lose a few fingers or end up with a hand full of matchsticks. Worse still, the man isn't playing to the crowd, barely acknowledging the cheers, which are louder than John's ever heard them. No grandstanding here, just a grim determination to get the job done. The Garaldi save their highest honors for those who sacrifice the most lives; this guy must be good.
Even through the soles of his shoes, John can feel the heat from the ground. The cool spell passed a few days ago, and they're back to the unrelenting heat of the Garaldi summer. John shifts his feet, judging how much grip he's going to get from the hot surface, blinking to keep his eyes clear and reaching inwards for the focus that Teyla tried to beat into him. He doesn't take too much of his attention from the other man, though, which means he doesn't miss the flicker of his eyes, the subtle shift in posture that means he's getting ready to strike.
When it comes, it's surprisingly controlled. John was right; this isn't going to be about brute force, for all that the sword is just about the biggest one he's ever seen outside the movies. He dodges the swing, moving not quite as fast as he can, just with enough speed to avoid getting hit. This isn't going to be over quickly, and he needs time to work out how it's going to go, but there's no time before the guy is coming at him again, and John does the only thing he can, dropping and rolling away, coming to his feet with bruises on his hip and shoulder.
He needs to catch his breath, needs to work out how the guy fights, and he could do that, if only he could get some space. Damn, that sword is long. It sweeps through the air where his stomach was half a second ago, and John feels something in his back protest at the frantic way he's arching it. Turning, he lets himself drop again, not stopping moving, rolling as the sword comes down beside him. The ground is dense, despite the drying heat, and it takes the guy a second to get the sword free again, time that John uses to get his feet under him, retreating backwards as fast as he can. He'd turn and run, but there's no way he's letting this guy out of his sight.
This time, when the charge comes, John waits for the last second to dodge, ducking and spinning to his right, trying to see if he can get behind and inside the reach of the blade. He can't. He's almost there when the guy starts to turn as well, knocking John out of the way with one shoulder and knocking him to the ground, so that John has to scramble out of the way of the downward strike.
By the time he gets to his feet again, he's breathing hard, although he takes some satisfaction in seeing that his opponent is as well. The sun is beating down on them, reflecting off the sand and making John long for his shades. He's vaguely aware that the crowd is going insane around him, and he wonders how long fighters usually survive against this guy. He'd guess not this long, from the contained anger that he can see in the man's eyes. Anger is good. Anger, John can use.
The guy waits a moment, apparently sizing John up. He already knows that John's fast, but he doesn't know how strong he is, if he can use that knife and that stick. But long-range attacks aren't working, so he seems to have decided that this needs to be more up close, more personal. He moves slowly this time, feinting towards John, and hell, John didn't even know it was possible to feint with a broadsword, but the guy's doing it. It's quick enough that John doesn't dare duck or turn or do anything that will lose him sight of that enormous blade.
Deciding it's worth the risk, John catches the third feint on his knife. The impact jars his arm so badly that he nearly drops it, and he can feel the shockwaves all the way up to his shoulder. Still, it was the right thing to do, because his opponent looks momentarily stunned, then properly stunned when John takes advantage and swings his stick towards the guy's head. It barely connects, some instinct making the guy jerk back at the last moment, but it's enough.
They separate, circling, and John can see a mixture of surprise and wariness on the guy's face. This isn't someone who's used to his opponents fighting back, probably more used to chasing them around the arena until they run out of energy. Or luck. John doesn't intend to run. He's ready for the next engagement when it comes, deflecting rather than blocking the sword, hitting it hard with his knife, using the force and rebound to dodge the backstroke. What he didn't know was that the guy really is as good with the sword as he looks, and the quick reversal catches him unawares. John barely has time to throw himself out of the way, and he feels something slice across his arm, sliding up to trail heat across his back. He has enough sense not to roll when he hits the ground, not wanting to add sand to the blood running down his arm and back, and he's back on his feet quicker than the other man expected, because the sword is still raised, ready to strike a killing blow to a man no longer on the ground.
It's John's only chance. Ignoring the screams of pain from his shoulder and back, he darts forwards, dropping the fighting stick and ducking under the upraised arm. The whole movement takes less than half a second, but he has time to realize that his knife won't do enough damage through the stiffened leather of the man's shirt. Dimly, he's aware that time has slowed for him, to the molasses-thick sensation that he always gets in these moments, when the chopper's taking a nose dive and the dials are going crazy and the g-forces slam him into his seat so hard that he can't breathe. He needs it, this extra time, to just think.
Turning inside the man's guard, John shifts his grip on his knife, spinning it in his hand and slamming it home as his back hits the man's jerkin. The blade slips underneath the leather, into the tiny gap between shirt and pants, and John feels warm stickiness spread over his hand. He realizes that he's yelling, the pain from his injured back making him cry out, but he only hears it dimly. He's not done yet.
Almost casually, he twists the knife, pulling it out, and bringing it up to slam hilt-first into the man's wrist. That stops the sword being brought towards him again as he turns, sweeping the knife up and along, feeling the slight resistance of skin before he cuts through the man's throat. Then he's staggering away, out of the bloody embrace and watching the sword drop, watching the blood trickle between the man's fingers as he clutches at the wound, watching the lines of red creep down his neck, down his pants from the hole in his belly, down the side of his mouth as the man's eyes go glassy and he follows his sword to the ground.
It takes John another moment to really register that his back hurts. More than hurts. It's screaming in agony, and the waist of his pants is already soaking and his shirt is clinging to him, sticky and warm. He drops the knife, falling to his knees, with his head down, trying not to pass out. Then, at last, he hears the roar of the crowd, the sound breaking over him in wave as he lets himself really listen to them, the baying and screaming that could be ecstasy or could be grief, he can't tell. Someone is pulling at his arms, getting him more or less on his feet again and half-dragging him out of the arena. He lets them, stumbling backwards and letting them catch him, because he doesn't want to turn, can't take his eyes off the body lying on the ground, blood already spreading to stain the sand. Dimly, as his vision starts to grey out and the pain takes hold, he hopes the gods of the Garaldi are satisfied at last.
Continue to Part Two