Author's Note: Sorry about not posting last night, this whole uni thing - and actually studying for a change... - can be a little evils. It's like they don't care that I'm meant to be posting or something...
On another note, I just walked home from work! Apart from two little not so good detours on the way, I'm feeling really good at the moment! Just thought you'd like to know. I'm nice like that.
Chapter 7: The Lost Boys
Footsteps jerked him awake, and he cursed under his breath. Judging by the blood caking his hairline, temple and eyebrow, he had a concussion and should really not be sleeping. But now that they knew that their desperate lives were his fault, Goldman and his men didn't seem to care if he lived or died.
God, he felt lonely.
Trying not to dwell on it, he tried instead to focus on what had woken him, rolling over and sitting up in time to see the hybrid approaching the cell they were stuck in. Goldman walked to the front, flanked by Tyler and Collins, as another two of the creatures emerged from the shadow. Forgotten or ignored, Sheppard staggered to his feet, fighting back the wave of dizziness that threatened to send him sprawling back to the floor.
The three hybrids paused at the front of the cell, and for a long second, silence reigned. Then the lead lifted his arm slowly, and pointed to Sheppard.
"Come," it ordered, and the three other men turned to look back at him, their curiosity not quite able to dispel the hatred fuelling the fire in their eyes.
Licking his lips, Sheppard did as he was told, walking forward and ignoring Goldman's glare. The cell door swung open for him, hinges squeaking as they moved, and he stepped out of the cage. The door swung shut once more, and he couldn't help but flinch as it banged. Two of the hybrids grabbed his arms and began jerking him forward.
Once outside of the room the cell was in, he yanked his arms free. "That's really not necessary," he spat at them, shrugging his shoulders. "I've just been in a crash, I'm not going anywhere."
They ignored him, but didn't move to retake their hold on his arms, for which he was grateful. Maybe that way he could take notice of the turns and halls the four of them walked down, so when he finally did manage to get free, he could rescue Goldman's ungrateful pansy ass and get them all the hell out of here.
"So, uh…" He looked around at his captors. "I'm guessing Mikey wants to see me. Have a little chat. Catch up. Exchange new numbers. That kind of thing."
The hybrids didn't answer, not that he expected them to. They just kept on marching, and he struggled to keep up with their persistent pace. He took note of the next turn and glanced at the hybrid to his right.
"So if you guys wiped out everyone, how is your kind even still around?" he asked, just seeing if he could get a reaction. "Cause I don't remember you from 50,000 years ago, and Mikey just didn't strike me as the equal opportunist type."
The hybrid behind him got it, giving a snarl and shoving him in the back. "Pick up the pace, Sheppard."
That made the pilot grin. "Oh, so you have heard of me?" he said, looking around. He didn't stop though. "I guess not everyone's forgotten about me then."
He could see enough of the hybrid to see it sneer. "Our leader told us enough of you," it spat at him. "You disappeared 50,000 years ago and left your people to their doom." John flinched, but said nothing, losing the amusement on his face. "Michael was sure you had turned and fled, like a coward."
Sheppard struggled to put a grin back on his face. "Well, guess I proved him wrong then, huh?" he told it as they approached a set of doors. One of the hybrids by his side picked up the pace and opened the doors for him. He nodded at it, mocking graciousness as he passed.
They had come to a small room a fair distance from the cell. The hybrids paused at the door, but John kept on walking, stopping only once he had reached the centre of the sparsely decorated room, a few feet in front of the cold metal table with the Wraith equivalent of a computer sitting on it. He recognised the type, which didn't say much for the advance of technology. What had been happening in the last 50,000 years?
Guessing he wouldn't get the chance to find out, he turned a circle in the room, taking in what little there was to notice. He had barely had time to recognise six familiar cases before a sound at the door made him spin.
"A little more lavish than your cell," Michael spoke up, and Sheppard immediately had to stop himself from rushing the ex-Wraith as his eyes came to rest on the frail creature before him. "But no where near what comfort you are used to, I am guessing."
Sheppard said nothing as Michael entered, never once taking his eyes off the half-human as it approached him. The desire to kill the beast who had destroyed his friends, family, and world, that need for revenge ran through him, stronger and more unbearable with every step Michael took towards him.
"I don't know," Sheppard answered, voice shaking. "I was in stasis for 1500 years. At least I'm awake to see this."
Michael paused three feet away from him – so close, within easy reach, if he could just… God, he wanted to kill the bastard with every fibre of his being. And why shouldn't he? Why not? Just because the hybrids were in the room? They wouldn't reach them in time, not before he snapped Michael's neck. A quick death, too painless, but it was a death.
The thoughts played over his face, easily readable, and Michael chuckled. "Go ahead, Sheppard," he whispered enticingly. "Try to destroy me. That was what you promised, wasn't it? You were going to kill me, rip me limb from limb. Wrap your hands round my filthy neck and tear me to -."
Sheppard snapped. With a great, barbaric, inhuman roar he lunged, tackling Michael before he could even finish his sentence. They both fell to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs.
Somehow his hands found Michael's neck, and, animalistic pleasure seething through him, he squeezed, tightening his grip as hard as he could. Beneath him, Michael squirmed, but he made no attempt to defend himself. Neither did the hybrids.
And Sheppard just didn't care.
He kept on squeezing, his hands strong, like stone as he choked the life from the half-human creation, the seconds ticking by so slowly it was as if he could almost feel Michael's life fading away beneath his very hands, so similar to the feeling so many of Michael's victims must have felt when the thing was pure Wraith.
And that only fuelled his strength further.
But somewhere, deep, deep inside, he knew this was too easy, and a moment later, Michael proved that drowning voice right. With a flash of his cold, hard eyes, the half-Wraith came to life under Sheppard's hands.
He lashed out, open palm connecting with Sheppard's jaw, and light flashed across his eyes, searing into his skull and brain. Unable to stop himself, he let go, falling backwards, the blow not helping his already concussed head. With the agility of a man a quarter of his physical age, Michael stood, apparently unaffected by a minute or so of not getting any air. Still on the ground, Sheppard looked up, glaring, hating the thing before him. He went to get to his feet, to try again, to keep on trying until either he or Michael was dead, but the half-Wraith had other plans. With the strength Sheppard remembered from millennia ago, Michael kicked out, connecting soundly with the pilot's bruised chest. Winded, he dropped to the floor, crying out as he landed awkwardly on his already sprained wrist.
But he was a stubborn man, always had been. Determined, blinded by rage, uncaring anymore, whatever the reason, he went to get to his feet again, and, once again, Michael kicked him down with a well-placed foot to his stomach.
Trying to suck in some air, something, anything to fuel the hatred, to keep it burning strong, Sheppard got his arms underneath his body and pushed up, trying to pull his knees in at the same time. It seemed to work, until Michael lashed out once more, venting his own loathing with a second kick to Sheppard's bruised chest, making the colonel grunt before he could stop himself.
And then John Sheppard lay still, unable to summon the strength to get back up and fight.
Laying there, on the floor, tired, hurting, heaving for air, and the hate far too draining on his energy, it took him a moment to realize Michael was squatting next to him, a mixture of amusement and triumph on his pasty face. Sheppard could barely gather the strength to glare.
"Just kill me already." Put me out of my misery.
Michael's face split in a twisted smile, and Sheppard immediately wished he could retract the statement. But he couldn't. All he could do was lie there, down and out for what had to be the first time in his life. Where had that burning will to survive gone?
Michael's face came in and out of focus before Sheppard could concentrate on those harsh blue eyes, trying to ignore everything else. The half-human shook his head.
"I think not, Sheppard. There are things I need from you first. Very important things."
"Like what?" he demanded, shifting slightly on the hard ground, trying to will himself to his feet, to fight. But it was just so damn hard, and he was so damn tired.
Michael's grin deepened, though it never touched his eyes, and the result was far darker and far scarier than Sheppard would ever have admitted to anyone.
"You, Colonel Sheppard, are going to help me wipe humanity from this universe once and for all."
John snarled instantly, some of that fight flaring up once more, giving him hope for his own survival again. This was more like it!
"The hell I am!" he spat, and it even managed to sound menacing and promising from his oh-so-threatening position on the ground. Michael reacted as such, anyway, glaring and losing that comforted smile.
The ex-Wraith stood and nodded to two of his hybrids, who walked forward and each grabbed a hold of Sheppard's shirt. They hauled him to unsteady feet, holding him up when it became apparent that he was still too tired to stand by himself.
Leaning heavily on them, Sheppard took a deep breath, finally revelling in some more of that defiance. He glared up at Michael and it felt good to match the stare of the thing that had destroyed Earth.
"You will help me," Michael told him, asserting the fact and coming once again to stand a few feet from him. "One way or another, you will do as I ask."
"Or what?" Sheppard demanded, managing to sound cocky even though he was barely conscious, and unable to stand on his own.
"Or your people -."
John cut him off with a harsh laugh. "My people? You mean those three men down in that cell that just beat the crap out of me?" He stopped the laughter suddenly, glaring at the mass-murderer. "They are not my people. You destroyed my people, remember. Or has your mind grown weak with age?"
Michael smiled slowly, softly. "Oh no, Sheppard, I remember. When did you disappear? I think it was a few weeks before dear Teyla had her baby. A few weeks before I tore that baby from her and left her to die."
Sheppard lunged at him, roaring again, but the hybrids were strong, and they kept him still. Michael just laughed at his attempts, assured in his safety.
"Of course, it has been 50,000 years," Michael admitted, never dropping John's gaze. "But I assume it was before Ronon went and blew himself up." The smile darkened slightly. "Himself and one of my labs. But it didn't matter. I had plenty of other labs."
The half-Wraith cocked his head, and grinned. "Now I know it was definitely before I finally found my way to your home galaxy. The Milky Way, right?" At the chilling words, Sheppard went still, heart beating erratically. "The name never did seem important. Just another pit stop on my way to universal destruction. Just like Earth was. Have you seen it, Sheppard? The floating pile of rocks that used to make up your home? Now there, I made sure I found those who dared stand before me, those who had corrupted me and made me what I am."
Michael leaned in closer, sneering now, enjoying the moment with a sickening amount of pleasure, enjoying the pain and horror flitting over his captive's face. "I found Dr McKay, Sheppard. Of course, he was old by then, hardly worth it. But I found him, and I made him suffer until he broke. Until he was a blabbering fool who lost everything he ever held dear – his intelligence, and knowledge, his pride, his wish to save the day... And he gave up Beckett's clone, and I ripped that apart as easily as I made it, just for the fun of it. And who else was there? Who else was left after you abandoned them, who else did I kill while you were unable to help them."
He whispered those last words slowly, making sure each syllable struck home, and for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, Sheppard broke again, lunging forward, insane with hatred, pulling even the hybrids in his frenzy. Michael leaned back, laughing, while signalling to the third hybrid, who walked forward, stunner recognisable even to Sheppard's currently unstable mind.
The pilot barely even felt the stun beam hit him, just felt the darkness consume him even as he continued to battle the hatred and loathing tearing him apart.
When he woke, he felt more drained than he could ever remember feeling. His throat was dry, and hoarse, and for a moment he struggled to remember why. And then it all came back to him, with a startling and unwanted clarity.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing away the grief he felt at the death Michael had claimed for his friends. He couldn't deal with that now, not while he was still in Michael's hands. He shoved it away, to a corner deep in his mind, from where only a few tears strayed.
He finally managed to open his eyes, blinking slightly to remove the blurriness. He was lying down still, but he wasn't back in the cell. If he had to guess, he would have said he was still in Michael's office, on his side, facing the closed door. And two of the hybrids he was really beginning to hate.
Eyeing them uneasily, he went to sit up, but pain lanced through his head, and he decided that probably wasn't a very good idea yet. But he still managed a groan, closing his eyes to avoid more discomfort than was necessary.
"Are you finally awake, Sheppard?"
The close proximity of Michael's voice made his eyes snap open again, and he rolled over to look up. And up, into Michael's pale face, that ghost of a grin making his hatred spike.
He rolled back to his side and groaned again. "No, I'm still asleep," he denied, even as he tried to get to his hands and knees. His ribs argued against that, but he never had been in the habit of listening to good sense when he heard it, and despite the sharp pain that was a sure sign of at least fractured ribs, he managed to get to where he wanted. And all without Michael kicking him down once more.
It was even more of an effort to get to his feet, but he finally managed even that, before coming to a stop barely a foot before Michael's smiling face. That hatred beat away, steady with his heart, but he could feel himself swaying and guessed that wasn't a good starting point for a killer attack. Remembering his last one, he figured he could wait. Patience was a virtue, after all. Maybe not one he possessed, but who said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks.
As if reading his mind, Michael smirked. "What, no all out attack?" he demanded, before moving off the desk and walking for the door. Sheppard stiffly watched his movements, and when Michael realized he wasn't being followed, he turned to face his prisoner.
"Follow me, Sheppard," he ordered. "I want you to see what you're going to help me with."
Figuring that couldn't hurt, he glanced quickly at the two hybrids and began to follow, staggering the first few steps before regaining balance and strength. It felt like he hadn't moved in ages.
He followed Michael in silence, struggling to breath with his chest aching like it was. Thankfully they didn't have far to go, just passing a few doors before going through the set at the end of the corridor.
They came into a large room, empty but for two objects, and Sheppard's eyebrow rose as he glanced at Michael.
"Sorry. I'm totally the wrong person to be asking about Stargates," he told the half-Wraith. Michael scowled at him.
"As if I needed your help with it," he snapped. "I've been using Stargates longer than you've been alive."
"I don't know," John answered as they passed through the great, still ring, moving towards the doors on the other side. "I've been alive a hell of a long time."
Michael's scowl deepened, but he didn't answer, just shoved the doors open. Sheppard gave him what he hoped was an annoying grin and walked through.
And then any trace of amusement or grin left him, as he walked forward into the cavernous warehouse. The room was huge, dropping two or three stories below the balcony they had appeared on, and rising high into the air. It was made of some kind of metal, the walls and roof strong and supported, examples of a race's pinnacle of defensive architecture. But that wasn't what took his breath away, what made his knees so shaky he had to walk forward and grab onto the balcony's railing for support, before he would have fallen.
Because this warehouse contained a single Aurora-class Lantean warship.
