Ronon Dex suppressed the urge to squirm in the molded plastic chair. Much too small to hold his 6 foot 4 inch muscled frame, it seemed a subtly calculated torture in itself, a tactic he would not put past the ones in charge of this tribunal. But fidgeting conveyed weakness and Ronon Dex never showed weakness to an enemy.
"State your name and planet of origin for the record," the amplified voice of the interrogator boomed into the small locked room in which Ronon awaited judgment.
"You know who I am!" Ronon retorted. "You have no right to keep me here." He threw himself out of the chair and paced the room, his long legs closing its distance in two strides. He felt naked without his weapons but he had been completely disarmed before his placement in this secure chamber. Not only his energy pistol but each and every one of the knives secreted about his person had been located and removed. The guards had been very thorough; he vaguely regretted the younger one's broken arm but nobody had ever looked for that particular knife before.
"State your name and planet of origin for the record," the unseen voice repeated, unmoved by his outburst.
Ronon swung around to face the camera high in the corner of his cell. He made a rude gesture, one he'd learned from Shepherd--the duck--no, the bird. He knew it accomplished nothing but it did make him feel better, just like Shepherd said it would.
"State your name and planet of origin for the record," said the interrogator for the third time.
"Alright!" Ronon cried. Maybe he if he answered a few questions, his captors would share some information he could use to his advantage and get out of here. "Ronon Dex, of Sateda. But you already know that."
"Ronon Dex of the planet Sateda, do you deny visiting the planet Belkan approximately 12 months ago?" The voice might have asked if he'd eaten breakfast that day, for all the inflection it carried.
"No." Ronon gritted out. He'd known this moment would come.
He was just surprised it had taken so long.
The tavern was no worse and perhaps a bit better than many he'd been in over the last several years. His regret over ruining Teyla's trade negotiation by threatening the Belkan leader Hendon at knifepoint receded in the face of news that there might be another Satedan survivor right here in this inn!
Maybe he wasn't alone, after all.
He followed Teyla up the stairs. His gut felt tight and prickly, the way it sometimes did before a battle. Someone was talking, in the cadence of one telling a story in which the narrator is the hero.
"Was I afraid? Course I was! But my people were counting on me."
The voice and the tale were familiar. Could it really be…?
"Now, I was alone, and I was low on ammo, but I managed to take out the three Wraith guards and gain access to their ship."
It was Solen! How could this be? Ronon felt a solar flare of joy burst inside, but kept his expression grim. He would not let Solen go unchallenged.
"Liar!" Ronon charged. All sound and movement in the tavern ceased. Teyla tensed beside him but he didn't care. Solen jumped up to face his accuser, but gave an astonished grin when he saw who it was.
"Ronon?!" Solen cried.
"There were two Wraith guarding that cruiser and he wasn't alone," Ronon corrected his friend, then swept him up in a giant bear hug. He introduced Solen Sincha, his former comrade, to Teyla.
Then he said quietly, seven years of solitude in his voice. "For years I believed I was the only survivor."
"So you don't know about the others?" Solen said.
Ronon jerked as if struck. "What others?"
"And did you, while in the company of Teyla Emmagan, plot the ambush and assault of one Kell of Sateda?" Again, the voice was toneless but the words exploded on Ronon like an Ancient drone.
He leapt up at the camera mounted in the corner but it was far too high, even for him. "You leave Teyla out of this! She had nothing to do with it," he snarled. "If anything happens to her, there'll be no hole deep enough to hide from me!"
"The complicity of Teyla Emmagan, if any, will be determined in a separate proceeding," the interrogator intoned, responding directly to him for the first time. "This hearing concerns your actions, the result of which will directly impact the outcome of hers."
"Why should I have to answer to you?" Ronon shouted. "You don't know anything!" He slumped against the wall and leaned his head back. "You weren't there," he whispered to the glaring lights that never went out. "You weren't there."
"There are others, Ronon." Solen laughed, eager to impart such good news. "Before the city fell, a few of us managed to make it to the shelters west of the capital. Over three hundred civilians found their way there too. When we emerged, we realized there was nothing to salvage, so we left -- all of us."
"Where?" Teyla asked the question Ronon was too stunned to form.
Solen shrugged. "Some came here, some went to Manaria …"
"Three hundred," Ronon murmured, and then he smiled, his grim face transformed by pure joy.
Solen nodded and handed his friend a tankard. "Drink, Ronon, and rejoice -- you're not alone!"
"This is a duly constituted tribunal formed under proper legal authority," said the interrogator. "The questioning will continue."
"I don't care about your questions," Ronon said stonily. "Whatever it is you say I did, it's true."
"So you admit that you are responsible for the death of Kell of Sateda?" The interrogator said. Ronon did not answer. "You admit you killed the victim so named?" the voice insisted.
"Yes!" Ronon cried finally. "I admit it. So what? I'd do it again!"
"Ronon Dex of Sateda," said the interrogator. "Based on your own testimony as well as other information received, this tribunal finds sufficient evidence to bind you over for judgment on the pre-meditated murder of Kell of Sateda."
If he was a murderer, he might as well act like one. Ronon seized the cursed chair and flung it at the camera and the invisible speaker. This time he connected and there was a satisfying shower of sparks amid the sounds of a mechanical death rattle. But, as Dr. McKay would say, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Ronon heard a high-pitched whine from a shallow depression that appeared in the wall. "Oh, shi--," he muttered, before falling unconscious to the floor.
Ronon dreamed.
Ronon and Solen celebrated their reunion in true Satedan style, by getting thoroughly drunk. Ronon saw a strange expression slide over Solen's face. Solen probably thought he looked cagey but Ronon thought his friend looked as if he had been stunned lightly with a rock. Ronon waited in bleary anticipation but never expected what Solen said next.
Kell was alive.
More than alive, Kell had saved his own family from the destruction of Sateda and become a wealthy arms trader on Belsa. Truly, there was no justice; no god who saw that the good were protected and the evil were punished. Kell was alive, when millions were dead; when Ronon's own unit spent their last drop of blood in a useless sortie just so Kell could run away.
Kell, Ronon's own military taskmaster from the time he was a green recruit of seventeen. Ronon admired him as only the hero-worshipping young can; made excuses for his brutality and greed until he could face his mentor no longer. In his early days of being a runner, cold and starving, hiding like an animal, Ronon had few pleasures. One he cherished was a fierce satisfaction that at least, Kell had been consumed in the holocaust the Wraith visited upon Sateda. But now he knew. All that time, Kell had been alive.
Ah, well. Nothing lasts forever.
Ronon woke up on the floor of his cell, with a massive post-stun headache. He suppressed a moan. Silent and still as if he remained unconscious, he felt all his extremities. Good. He seemed unharmed and, despite his temper tantrum, unrestrained.
A tray of food had been pushed through a small slot at the base of the door. Ronon, hungry despite the headache and dizziness, inspected the meal. A hefty sandwich, fruit and cheese, with water in a thin cup. The water tasted metallic but at least there was enough food to keep his large frame going. As a Runner, he'd eaten plenty worse.
He finished the last of the fruit and set the tray down beside him. He settled down on the floor to wait. The chair had been taken away--collateral damage or punishment, he wondered.
Ronon closed his eyes, allowed his body to relax as he had learned to do in years as a Runner, when survival required silent concealment, as much as battle readiness. He cleared his mind and in a few moments passed into a stillness so intense it seemed to disturb the very air.
Soon, he would present a defense on his own terms.