Title: Promises
Author: Sazz
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Hey-ho! Let's go! A new story! I've been playing with this guy for far too long now, and it won't let me forget about it, so in plenty of time for Halloween, here's a maybe scary fic. This was inspired by a fic challenge on the SGA/HC list to take a plot from another TV show and make it SGA's own with all its lovely characters. So, with that in mind, and going a little off-challenge, the basis of the plot for this story is shameless borrowed from the incredible novel I Am Legend (haven't seen the latest movie version), and the wonderfully campy Omega Man, and any dissimilarities are all my own. I can't remember who issued the challenge as it was issued at least a year ago, but if any of you out there remember please let me know so I can give fair credit.
This is set in season 3, after Common Ground, but before Sunday, so be mindful of spoilers if you're not caught up.
Just a quick update/explanation since I haven't been able to post any more chapters in eons:
When I first posted this story, I'd just gotten laid off from my job, which royalled sucked, of course, but then I figured, hey, lots of writing time! Bonus! And then as it usually happens while you're making other plan, life happened. I got offered a new position, which is awesome, of course, which also means no writing time until after my psychotic Christmas work schedule is done. So hopefully, in the New Year, I'll be able to finish editing and tweaking this story (which is largely, mostly written), and I can't say how long that will take, but do know that this time, I won't start postig again until the story is completely finished, and I'm as happy with it as any writer can ever be with one of their stories (which is never 100%, is it? I usually have to go with 95%...).
Anyway, huge apologies for the delay, and I wish everyone a festive holiday season, and peace, joy and happiness in the New Year.
John Sheppard leaned out the third-storey window and aimed at the figure scrabbling up the stone wall towards him. He pulled the trigger. The figure fell, and John couldn't help a grim measure of satisfaction at its outraged shriek and the solid thump as it hit the ground.
"Ten points," he said as he sat back down on the crate in front of the window. With his knife, he scratched a mark in the wall beside him. "Tricky angle."
The boy crouched on the floor by his feet looked up at him and grinned. Behind them, Ronon screamed as if in protest, and both John and the boy flinched. The 30 or so creatures scuttling outside the old building joined in; a chorus of high-pitched ululating howls. Though John should have been used to it by now, the noise made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The boy scowled and shifted closer to John's legs.
"It's okay, Max." John patted the boy on the shoulder. "It'll be okay."
Max stared up at him with those dark, old man eyes of his, so disconcerting in his seven or eight-year-old face. Then he nodded, a short jerk of his head, though they both knew that nothing would ever be okay in this place again. The howls outside went on and on, like a baying pack of wolves, but Ronon's shout faded as his breath gave out.
John looked back out the window just in time to see one of the creatures standing slightly apart from the others, its legs braced, arm thrust back, flaming bottle in hand. John squinted and took it down without hardly having to aim. He watched as it fell then lay still, the bottle rolling from its lax hand. The boy looked up at him expectantly.
"Five points," John said with a shrug and a cocky smirk. "Easy shot." He twirled Ronon's heavy gun like a baton and pulled a silly face. The boy made that odd yelping sound, which John had long since come to understand was a laugh. He gouged a shorter scratch in the wall to go along with the 40 or so others.
Outside, the creatures howled and shouted, comeoutcomeout, prancing around the fallen body, momentarily distracted. One of them picked up the still flaming bottle, waving it overhead, like a torch. John was tempted to take them down, to keep firing and end this already, but he'd learned the hard way that tactic would only cause them to swarm the building, battering at his makeshift fortress's old foundations and weathered wooden doors until they reached their prey. It would only bring more of them.
Rubbing his burning eyes, John couldn't suppress an exhausted yawn. He just didn't know how much longer he could keep this up – not without making a mistake, some stupid mistake that would get them all killed. But every night, as soon as the sun went down, the creatures always came. And every night, Max refused to let John out of his sight. John supposed he should have been more insistent when he'd first tried to get the boy under safer cover, but the screaming fits that left Max trembling and inconsolable for hours had left John just as shaken, and so he'd turned these nightly sieges into a game – as if he were merely gunning down vermin or virtual monsters. Though he was trained to protect, to kill as necessary, it had somehow become easier to think of them that way himself – as creatures, as 'its,' not 'hims or hers.' Easier to pretend they weren't human.
Even though he never allowed Max to look – that was one rule he remained firm on – John couldn't help thinking that he was messing the kid up even more than he already was. Then he thought of Max's terrible state when he and Ronon had first found him, and supposed it was too late to worry about it. Better to concentrate on nothing more than getting them through one more night. It was easier that way, too.
Ronon shouted again, this time a pain-filled cry. Darting another glance out the window – the creatures were now just standing there, watching, waiting – John risked going over to check on his friend. The boy immediately scurried after him, following so close that he bumped into the backs of John's legs as he walked.
Illuminated by the greenish gaslight, Ronon lay glaring at John, his yellow-tinged eyes wide and hate-filled.
"How are you feeling?" John asked carefully.
Ronon snarled and began tugging at the restraints that tethered his wrists and ankles to the old, metal bed frame. "Let me up, you bastard!"
"Sorry, buddy," John said, keeping his gaze averted from his friend's. He couldn't look into those eyes. "No can do."
"You coward," Ronon hissed, teeth bared in a snarl, the bed frame rattling from the force of his struggles. "You goddamned son of a bitch! If you won't finish this, then let me up!"
John winced as his friend's protests degenerated into garbled howls. Max pressed against John's side, staring at Ronon in mingled fear and fascination.
"Ronon…" John began, but then there was a hollow whup as something hit the outside wall. The window frame immediately caught fire. Max shrieked, and John quickly pushed the boy behind him. Cursing, he snatched up a spare blanket from the bed, rushed over and beat at the flames, ignoring the sparks that singed the backs of his hands, ignoring the flare of pain in his bad arm. Thankfully, the wood was still damp from the heavy rains of the night before, and the flames quickly sputtered. He pressed the blanket tight against the windowsill until the embers died out.
Furiously tossing the charred blanket aside, he darted a glance out the window. The creatures had compressed into a tight pack around something. It took a moment until John could make out the crude catapult amidst their swarming, prancing bodies. They were loading another flaming projectile onto it.
"Shit," John muttered under his breath and quickly pushed Max down and behind him again. Reaching under the crate, he pulled out the one remaining grenade. It was primitive and didn't pack that much of a wallop, but it was better than nothing. He crouched in front of the window, activated the explosive and lobbed it as hard as he could. He darted his head up in time to see it land right in front of the creatures and explode. The catapult disintegrated into blazing shards and fragments, some spearing the few creatures still scrabbling around in panic. More creatures lay strewn on the ground, screaming in pain and fury, their tattered clothing and flesh engulfed in flames.
John whooped and pumped a fist in the air. "Yes! Crispy zombies! That's a cool 50 points!"
"Fif'ee!" Max agreed behind him, raising his own small, grimy fist. He stood to look, and with one hand, John pushed him back.
"You gotta stay down, buddy," John reminded him. Max scowled, rebellion flaring briefly in his eyes before he slowly sat down again. John made five more scratches in the wall then lowered himself back to the crate. Max reached up to run his fingers along the raw gouges in the plaster.
"Hey, maybe one day we can even win that jumper, huh?" John said with forced cheeriness. Max nodded eagerly, though the kid likely had no clear idea of what a jumper would mean for them.
Behind them, Ronon cursed John some more, calling him filthy, Earth names that John was surprised the Satedan even knew. He ignored him though. There was nothing else he could do. He watched as the remaining creatures scurried away, disappearing into the shadows. But they would come back. They always came back, relentless until the sun came up.
Taking a deep breath and wiping the sweat and soot from his face, he glanced down at Max. "So where were we?" Max looked up at him and made a snarling face, raising his hands and pulling his fingers back to resemble claws. "Oh, right, the trash monster," John said, smacking himself in the forehead and earning another hooting laugh from Max.
"So Han, Luke and Leia are up to their knees in the middle of all this mucky water and stinky garbage. R2 and 3PO aren't answering their mike, and Luke is getting a little worried." As he spoke, John watched a few of the creatures re-emerging from the shadows. They darted forward and back, like slinking, cowardly dogs – still dangerous, but cautious of him now. "Unbeknown to our heroes, there's this slimy, hairy trash monster, sliding around in all that mess. It pops its head up, looking for a tasty meal," John mimed the motion by making a fist and swivelling it from side to side. "It disappears under the water again, and then… all of a sudden… it grabs Luke and pulls him under."
Max jumped, then grinned and leaned forward, his eyes wide with anticipation.
"Han and Leia frantically look for him, but they can't find Luke anywhere. They think he's trash monster lunch, and Chewie's being no help at all, growling and pounding at the walls, because the smell…" John wrinkled his nose in feigned disgust. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the creatures standing off by itself, staring straight up, as though coldly appraising him.
John squinted against the waning firelight and his heart fell as he recognized the multicoloured scarves and jaunty red jacket. Ari. He'd come back. No, not 'he,' John quickly reminded himself. It. Ari was one of them now.
Max nudged John's leg, grunting with impatience and startling him.
"Hey, it's not like you haven't heard this 20 times already..." John protested. Max scowled and shoved John's leg again. John rolled his eyes. "Finish the damn story, already, right?" Max nodded, and John sighed with mock resignation, all the while keeping an eye on the colorfully clad figure outside. "Okay, suddenly there's this rumbling sound, and Han and Leia are getting seriously worried now, because you know that can't be good."
He had just come to the part where R2 finally got the door open for the nearly flattened Star Wars heroes when Max fell asleep, curled on his side, his head resting on one arm, the other loosely wrapped around John's ankle. Though the creatures kept their distance, John maintained his vigil as the sky lightened from navy to gray blue. At the first hint of sunlight clearing the horizon, the creatures scurried away, the way cockroaches did at the flick of a light switch. Ari lingered, head still tilted up in John's direction. John raised the blaster, his finger twitched on the trigger, but he couldn't help but wonder if Ari remembered him, if maybe there was still something left. Then Ari darted a few steps back and scuttled away, disappearing amidst the black shadows of the hollowed-out buildings.
Stupid! John immediately chided himself. You idiot. Should have taken the damn shot.
Though his entire body ached with fatigue and his fingers had cramped around Ronon's gun, John waited until the sun was fully up before relaxing his posture and closing his eyes a moment. The bright sunlight washing over him was soothing, like a warm blanket. Safe. They were safe for a while.
He stood and closed what was left of the shutters, shoving the bolts in place, blocking out some of the sunlight and sealing them inside. He picked up Max, wincing at the instant twinge in his forearm. The boy stirred, whimpering in his sleep, and John hushed him. Carrying him to the piles of blankets and lumpy, straw-filled mattress that served as a bed, John laid Max down and covered him with a light sheet.
Then he went to check on Ronon. His friend's face was so pale it was tinged with grey, and dark shadows encircled his closed eyes. His lips were devoid of color and crusted with scabs and blisters. John paused, his breath catching in his lungs. Ronon looked like a corpse, as though he'd slipped away sometime during the long night. A strange mingling of fear and relief washed over John. Then he noticed the shallow rise and fall of the younger man's chest. John shook his head, angry at himself for the traitorous thought. He dipped a cloth in the half-filled basin by the bed and gently wiped Ronon's face and forehead. Through the pallor, he was still burning up with fever.
John adjusted the strips of soft cloth under the ropes that bound Ronon's wrists and ankles to the bed frame. His skin was a little red and bruised from his struggles, but otherwise intact. John dipped the cloth in the basin again and daubed at Ronon's lips, squeezing a few drops into his mouth. Ronon swallowed reflexively, and his eyes slid open. This time, John forced himself to meet his friend's gaze. Ronon stared dully at him a moment, then spat in John's face. John lurched back with a startled gasp, dropping the cloth to the floor. Sorrow, rather than anger filled him as he wiped the blood-tinged spittle off his cheek. Ronon's eyes drifted shut again, and John watched his chest slowly rising and falling, rising and falling with hypnotic regularity, seemingly asleep or unconscious again.
So weary he felt nauseated, John shuffled back to the straw bed and sat heavily down. He lay back, positioning the blaster on the floor within easy reach. Like always, the boy immediately slid over, and without waking, pressed tight against John's side. His fingers curled around John's arm, tiny, ragged fingernails pressing into his skin. Ronon made a garbled, pained sound, calling out a name John didn't recognize. He wondered if he should get up and check on him again, but sleep stole over him before he could fully finish the thought.
---tbc---