Disclaimer- It's MINE! All mine!!! Mwahahaha!!! No really, it is! Okay okay, you caught me. Stargate Atlantis is not mine, nor are any of the characters in it. However, the story line is mine.
P.S. Updates may be a little slow in coming, and I'm a new writer in FanFic, so please don't flame. Oh, swearing is ---, so…
John lay there, the dark surrounding him, the rain clouding his view, brightened only by the lightning that illuminated the woods around him. His leg that was trapped under the fallen tree had long ago gone numb. He had managed to patch the bullet wound in his side, but he knew it was still bleeding. He reached up to his head and gingerly felt the bump he found there.
"Great going Sheppard," He muttered to himself. "Escape from that --- hole and look where you get!" With a grunt he forced himself up slightly, but the sharp pain from his side caused him to gasp and fall back to the ground. He managed to lean sideways before he wretched, drenching the already wet ground beside him with vomit.
"Okay, John, you can do this." Sheppard forced himself into a sitting position, a muffled cry of pain nearly escaping his lips. He pressed his fingers to his side. "--! Common John!" He grimaced as he reached over and pushed against the log over his leg. It moved slightly, and greatly encouraged he pushed all his weight against it. The pain made his vision go white and teeth clashed together. Pulling his leg away he gasped in relief. "Oh --. Oh –."
He struggled to stand, the pain clouding his vision. He grabbed onto the trunk of one of the surrounding trees. He was lucky. The tree that had landed on his leg was small, not nearly the size of the usual trees here on WYT-548. He and his team had come to do the usual – seek out alliances, make trade partners, friends, the usual. They certainly hadn't expected to be captured, taken off world and told that they were going to be sold as slaves. He remembered it clearly. One of many things he wished he didn't.
He remembered the look on Ronon's face when Teyla had been led away to her new master, a man whose face clearly showed his intentions. Her head had been held high, her face proud, yet John knew her well enough to see the fear in her eyes. She had resisted her new 'master' if any could lay that claim, and had been struck across the face. He remembered clearly how his jaw had clench and the sick feeling that had settled in his stomach. Ronon had lunged forwards, the chains keeping him back – barely.
He remembered Ronon being led off, the man saying loudly how he anticipated seeing Ronon in action in the Arena. Ronon's face had been deadly, and he had looked at Sheppard, the man he had allowed himself to trust, his eyes had been filled with hope struggling with despair. Hope in John. Despair of help arriving. And the Colonel had looked away. He knew as well as Ronon did what the changes of either did. Ronon knew even better than he.
Rodney was the only one that John knew was in a relatively safe place. It was always apparent to all that Rodney was smart. In fact, no matter how much other people would argue to the contrary, was impossible to hide that fact that McKay was a genius. He had been sold to a scholar, to a fate that almost fitted him. Rodney's face had been a strange mixture of red and white, constantly glancing at John to make sure he was alright. It didn't even seem to register for a second to him that he had been the one sold. Typical Rodney. Total mass of cowardice and arrogance on the outside, but when it came right down to it, he was more than willing to step in front of a gun to save a friend, or put aside his own fears and doubts to save a life. He had proved that many a time.
And John? Himself? He had been sold to the mines. The dark death traps that supplied the other half of this world's commerce. He and most of the other slaves that hadn't been sold had been tied together, roped to a chain by a tie around their neck and led away. The treck up the mountains had been tedious and they received no food and little water. Many of the weak fell to the ground, dragged along by the noose around their necks. If the exposure hadn't killed them, then the choking surely would have.
John had managed to save one, though later he wondered if it would have been kinder to let him die. Hondaas was a young lad, scarcely fourteen, thin scrawny, and terrified. He had been tied just in front of John, who had struck up a casual friendship with him. As they walked John found out that Hondaas was the second youngest of his family, and in circumstances that really reminded John of that Bible story his Mom used to tell him, the one about Joseph, he had been sold into slavery. Hondaas loved to ride cathephos, an animal that he described as being a cross of a cat and a duck, a really strange image to conjure. During the long trek, Hondaas would use his failing streanth to talk about anything that came to mind. Looking back, John realized that he had been trying to keep John's mind off of the fates that awaited his team. Somehow at the beginning of the journey the boy had managed to find out everything about them.
Hondaas had become weaker and weaker as the treck wore on, and one day his strength left him. John caught him when he fell, and had supported him with his own weary strength until Hondaas had finally managed to walk again. On the sixth day, they finally reached the opening.
It was like a huge yawning mouth, open to swallow all who went in, and according to the rumors, none who entered went out. The mines mined Tracosil, a highly explosive rock that was native to this world. It was difficult to reach, hard to mine, and even harder to carry without blowing yourself up. It was not rare for the slaves to die. Hondaas had been with the dispatch group, assigned to the duty of getting rid of the bad Tracosil which was too volatile. On his seventh day he had been trapped, stuck in a cave in caused by the Tracosil in front of him blowing up. His wounds killed him, but not before he nearly ran out of air and had come close to starving to death. John had been there when he had been dug up, and had had to leave immediately to keep from loosing what little food was in his stomach. Hondaas hadn't even been buried, but rather thrown into a pit beside the mine, just another body among the thousands.
Sheppard had endured this torment for four weeks and three days, or so the calendar he had checked when he escaped said. For him it had seemed like months and years, and he had often wondered if he had been there for eternity.
The escape had been helped by a revolt staged by the slaves. John had used this as a distraction, and using the bare minimum of Tracosil crystals had managed to blow open his chain and again the door. He had disappeared into the woods. The guards had bigger problems than a single slave. He had made a clean getaway.
John entered a cave, lowering himself gingerly to the floor. He tore his already ragged shirt and bound the leg with two relatively strait sticks that he had found. The good thing about the Tracosil mines, had been that he could keep anything that the guards didn't take and the slaves didn't steal. He didn't have his gun or knife of course, but they had seen no use to his IDC. If his codes weren't locked out, he could get to Atlantis. But he had something else to deal with first. He had to find the others.
The next morning came and he stumbled to his feet, trying not to put pressure on his leg. He grabbed onto the wall and slowly began limping out. The pain surged in his side and he mouthed curses at the --- who had shot him. He had made a clean getaway, until the Genii had showed up in the middle of the town. Always the Genii! It didn't matter that they were rouge, the remains of Kolya's rebellion. They were still Genii, and they had recognized him immediately. The first shot had been wild, flying over his head and giving him enough warning to start running. The second had caught him even as he ran towards the cover of a stack of wine barrels.
His escape had been hectic after that, and he still wasn't clear on how it happened. However, he did remember that a certain ten year old girl deserved a medal for saving his life. He didn't know why she had chosen to help him, or how she had known how to do it, but she had cut loose a wagon of rashbul trunks, which had then set off rolling down the road towards the Genii. They had scattered instantly.
She had then grabbed his hand and drug him into her house, showed him an alley way, and after shoving a few copper coins in his hand – coins that she couldn't afford to spare, she pointed him a way out of the city and to the Stargate. Not one to waste an opportunity, he had sunk to his knees, hugged her, honest to goodness hugged her, then promptly forced himself to his feet and hauled out of there.
Looking back, Sheppard realized it probably would have been better for him to ask her for bandages, directions to the Arena, rescue Ronon, and wing it from there. Except, he knew that she was only ten, and he wasn't willing to put her in danger to cover his rear.
He grabbed onto a tree branch to stop himself from slipping in the slippery mud that was an inevitable side effect of the heavy rain. It seems that the weather on this planted had trigger finger changes. One second he had been returning from spying out the gate, which happened to be guarded by some very heavy duty guards, the sun was shining with almost unbearable heat, and the next the clouds rolled over the sky and a full blown hurricane was upon him. He had struggled to reach the cave he had found while running to the gate, but the cave was up hill, and the new rivers of water that was running down that hill made it nearly impossible. Soon after that a lighting strike, coupled by the severe wind and the erosion, toppled a relatively small tree. Relatively small being the size of a full grown walnut tree. He had been pinned, his leg trapped under a large tree, his side bleeding anew, and no help in sight for the next thousand, or perhaps even million light years. The rain soon eroded a ditch low enough that he could pull himself out.
So now he found himself here, his wound sending sharp pains through his side, his leg unable to support him, and still three members short of his team. He reached the top of the hill and glanced down. The village wall was just in front of him. The wall was patrolled by guards. The gate protected by three guards, who by now had his picture, supplied by the genii. This he knew because of the guards at the gate had his picture in their hands. He would have to get around those, dodge the Rouge Genii, dodge the slavers who would recognize them (he now knew the disadvantage of being a trouble maker) to the arena in the exact center. That's where Ronon was, and that's where he had to get