CALIBER - The Measure of Man
"We had to do it."
Rodney McKay continually reminds himself of this fact as he clutches Sheppard's limp and sweat slicked hand in his own. He repeats that phrase over and over again with each soft stroke of his fingertips over the back of Sheppard's hand. It is a silent mantra cycling over and over again in his head at a maddeningly frantic rate, yet it brings no measure of comfort.
"We had to do it."
He tries very hard not to think of what they have just done, this small group of conspirators. McKay does not allow his gaze to drift downward as Sulley protectively folds a stray flap of skin over the freshly cleaved bone and stitches it in place and tenderly packs the stump with layered gauze pads. Instead, he focuses on the slack features to Sheppard's face, to the droplets of sweat beading upon the colonel's brow even now. McKay tries to see peace and relaxation there, but he can hear only John's desperate, pleading screams as they butchered him, feel only the grip of Sheppard's fingers digging into him before slipping away. McKay's heart contracts to think of the suffering they so knowingly put Sheppard - his friend -through against his consent without any anaesthesia or painkillers.
"We had to do it. We had no other choice."
McKay's mantra shifts now and mutates as spies Amerie collecting the rotten limb out of the corner of his eye and wrapping it with a quiet reverence. McKay vaguely recalls mentions of field amputations in books and movies, but literature and cinema so rarely shows what happens to those ruined limbs after they are so quickly and efficiently severed away. Popular media also neglects to mention the blood and gore associated with such grizzly acts. Likely it is because the audience never needs to know what happens beyond that, never needs to be sickened by such grotesque details to an already overly macabre act. The act is sanitized for an audience that would likely never see such an awful affair, but no one writes books or movies anymore.
McKay already knows what they will do even without the subtle social pressuring of popular culture. They will not so callously discard the leg. Amerie will take the decaying leg up to the top of the tunnel. They will pack it in snow until the storm clears enough to dig and eventually bury it beneath an unmarked cairn to prevent animals from picking at it. Sheppard deserves more respect than to have scavengers fighting over his lost leg.
"We had no choice."
Sheppard never wanted this and would probably hate McKay forever for it, but they had no choice. It was either the leg or Sheppard's life. Even now, McKay dully recognizes by the continued raging fever that they may have waited too late. He gingerly dabs at Sheppard's forehead and neck with a damp cloth, hoping to cool him as well as clean off the sweat and the putrid stench of fear, resolving to ensure that the colonel gets a proper bathing as soon as his condition permits. Now that Sheppard is fully unconscious and guaranteed to remain so for hours, McKay assists Sulley in stripping down the colonel to his bare skin while Amerie politely excuses herself. It will make the promised bath easier, as well as when Sheppard has to attend to nature. Sheppard will most assuredly hate them for this indignity, but this entire act has been done of necessity alone.
"I had no choice."
The ghostly memory of a blade whispers across Rodney's cheek. He remembers all too well what the searing hot knife felt like as it slashed through his face, mutilating him forever as it cauterized the gashes into ugly, raw, and angry wounds, puckered and tight. He remembers the steadiness of the hand holding the blade, the precision and knowing it took. He remembers screaming just as Sheppard had.
"It had to go."
Once Sheppard's pliant body is nestled in a sea of warm, soft blankets, the bandaged stump of his left leg poking out from beneath the blankets accusingly, McKay takes his leave, stumbling down the tunnels to their makeshift bath. Upon finding the room empty, there McKay falls to his knees, retching violently into a plastic bucket and spewing the vomit he had choked back during the ghastly procedure for Sheppard's benefit.
"I had to."
xxxx
The Wraith known by the curious and rather degrading moniker of Todd awakes with a start at the sound, lifting his suddenly heavy head to find a strange sight before him. The female skrae. She kneels before him, down on one knee, the other knee slightly raised and bent. Her pale hands rest upon her shirt and hold the filthy collar open to bare pale skin adorned in blue Wraith tattoos, her emerald eyes cast downward. It is the traditional stance of her kind awaiting the feeding touch from their masters. Todd furrows his brow, curious and bothered by the turn of events that has brought her so obediently to his company.
The last skrae Todd had tasted had waited in that exact same position for the Wraith's longing, hungry touch....
"Another dream. The hunger," the Wraith muses wordlessly, shaking his head weakly.
He has been drifting now for some hours between a lucid and a hallucinatory states, his awareness altered by the crushing starvation that gnaws so viciously at him. He has dreamt of himself at the helm of his ship, crushing Atlantis beneath him and seeing the fragile little Lanteans scurry in timid flight. He has stood again in Koyla's dark,dank cell, pacing slowly and speaking in hushed, dire tones to a Sheppard beyond the bars that he knows was never really there this time. The memories drift to him and fade as waves on the beach.
His hand moves of its own accord, the feeding slit drawn to the warm flesh presented to him. Todd blinks at the instinctive motion, surprised to find his hand free, the chains gone.
"Just a dream." The Wraith reminds himself.
But her blood is so very tempting. His hand rears back outside his control, the feeding slit wide with delight at the thought of being fully sated after all this time. The skrae lifts her emerald eyes but does not flinch. She does not even scream as the hand slams down onto her sternum with a crushing force.
A roughly hewn poppet topped with a wild tuft of black yawn sits upon an old, wooden chair. It tilts to the side. Button eyes stare up sightlessly. Ebony stitches mark a quirked mouth and other basic features. Someone has lovingly dressed the doll in black pants and shirt, along with a matching vest. It sits there, unmoving, as low and venomous string chords thrum in the background.
This is no dream. The skrae's blood is sweet and peppery upon his feeding slit, warm and rich. She is warm and rich, he realizes, full of defiance and spark concealed by her composed mask. Fires burn bright within her, the heart of a warrior. The flame of her life swirls through her veins and into him with an electric spark and a sort of sizzle. It courses into the Wraith along with these strange, fractured images of this doll that the skrae conjures for him.
Pale feet pile high to the sky, each severed at the ankle to a bloody, uneven stump.
She is not too unlike the Wraith who kept her, Todd realizes with a small hint of distaste as he savors her taste. It is little wonder why her Queen chose her to walk at the side of gods, to become one of the skrae. As he dwells on it, with each beat of her fragile, human heart, the Wraith knows that, having tasted the blood and the life of John Sheppard, he too would have made a fitting skrae if the human could only bow to Wraith masters.
He shifts his attention. The Queens are truly most skilled at sorting through the minds of their prey, yet it is not a skill limited to them. The Wraith pushes against her mentally, probing her out.
A hive. A Queen. Her Queen, wreathed in scarlet locks. A clammy hand drags across her cheek with a repulsive, loving caress, sending waves of nausea rolling through her as the lips of that damned slit quiver in anticipation against her warm flesh.
"My precious little pets."
The skrae bites down on her lower lip, forcing him out of her mind and locking down mental screens all about. Her illusions flood the Wraith's mind, tearing through his senses. Her defiance impresses him as she forces back against him, digging her heels in stubbornly.
A door in the dark. John Sheppard screams into the night. John Sheppard is dying.
Even the mere thought of Sheppard jerks the Wraith back to reality. These are her visions, her craft. These sick fantasies are the delusions she has chosen to share with him. Why? He cannot say. He can only stare into those emerald eyes of hers as they grow dull and listless, clouded over with milky white, premature cataracts as her skin sags into folded wrinkles. The color drains from her hair, as ink running from a brush, leaving the shortly cropped locks a pale and silverly platinum, as light as his own. Yet her composed dreams persist.
The doll. The Wraith recognizes the haphazard strands of black yarn now. The poppet is John Sheppard. The fabric to the left leg frays and rips at the knee before coming apart. Pale white threads unravel and stain scarlet, as though wicking the color from deep within the poppet. Cottony stuffing spews out from an ever widening hole in the sewn leg.
The Wraith hisses through his teeth in the sheer joy of the feeding after so long going hungry.
The feet pile high once more, pale and dirty, every one alike, and every one a left foot as disconsonant chords rise to a hideous and awful crescendo.
The Wraith snarls in distaste at these woven illusions crafted for his mind alone, understanding now as her plan filters through the imagery. He bites back his rage, staring into those unyielding eyes of the skrae. The Wraith need not ponder what she wishes. He can see it written plainly before him, even without sifting through her shattered memories as she teeters on the edge, her heart drumming loudly in his ears. The Wraith forces the life back into her, reverting the process until he is just beyond the fine line of starvation once more, until his senses clear and she is left relatively unscathed by the feeding.
But, still, the door in the mountain remains and Sheppard continues to shriek behind it.
He draws back his hand from the skrae, allowing her to slump forward as she draws a gasping breath, pressing upon the feeding mark. The Wraith hisses to the sky; he is not sated. His hunger remains, even now, howling through him and ripping apart his mind. But he cannot sate it. Not now. Not upon the skrae. The Wraith and the skrae need one another.
It is time to brave the storm once more.
xxxx
"You should not have run, my pet, my curio."
The Queen circles the prey kneeling before her and bathed in pale light. The pathetic, fallen human trembles and quivers with unabashed terror like a sacrifice staked out for her, but he does not shrink away and recoil as he so desperately wants to. He knows his place better than to do that. Even if he does not, the drones have already bloodied him enough to teach him better.
"F-forgive me, m-my Queen," the words stumble from his mouth with fright as a bubble of blood and mucus lodges thickly in his throat, forcing him to violently hock the offending obstruction to the bruised organic floor in a splattered mess with a sickly slopping sound.
The Queen smiles widely from ear to ear, bearing her pointed, hideous teeth. She looms over him, snaking a hand down towards him. He swallows, his eyes instantly drawn to the vicious, hungry slit upon her palm, knowing this is likely the end. He steels himself, suddenly, in these awful final moments thankful that it has come to this. If he cannot be free in body, at least he can free of this body.
However, sadly, it is not to be, and he cringes visibly under her delicate touch as her hand graces his hair, stroking almost insidiously. Her fingertips trace patterns down his neck with a feather-light touch that almost tickles. She occasionally darts glances to her skrae and her most loyal worshippers, each of them kneeling in obedient silence to watch her judgment. The Queen's every move is a symphony of calculated maneuver and manipulation, meant to push her skrae and her devoted worshippers like arranging chess pieces before a devastating offensive. So it has been these long months under her thumb.
"I should end you." The Queen is casually brutal, reaching down and wrenching the whelp's ankle back, tearing a shriek from him as the bone snapped under her powerful grip and crooning in a sadistic purr, "But I am merciful."
xxxx
Klutch wakes with a start in the morning to the driving blizzards gales battering her aging Bronco, to the chilled headphones dangling about her neck, and to the incessant beeping of her wrist watch alerting her that it is almost time for her shift. She rises slowly, stretching her tenses muscles and popping her joints, blinking the sleep from her eyes too glance at her watch. The face flashes with a neon blue color, glaring in the dim shadows of the truck with the time. 0815 EST. Klutch had forgotten to reset her watch the night before; with the weather so bad, there is no need for guard shifts.
She presses a button on the side of watch and slumps back, drawing the flannel blanket backup to her chin and drinking in the warmth it offers. Klutch rather appreciates these mornings, despite the bitter cold and the maelstrom ripping through their campsite. It is so very rare that they have the time to sleep in and not have to worry abut the Wraith, Foothold, or any other matter in the world. Klutch savors every second of it.
However, as it always does, responsibility nigs at the back of her mind, and Klutch eventually relents. She has work to do today, even in this blessed down time brought by the storm. There are rifles to check, bullets to press, maps to reference and a course to be plotted. Much work for a short day, but it is nothing for she, the leader of this ragtag band of refugees. As evidence to this, a ragged ghillie suit sits in the floorboard beside her, in dire need of patching and reweaving.
Before Klutch faces the day, she sighs and pulls an olive green, canvas knapsack from beneath the front seat. This is her private stash. Klutch takes a clean cloth and a bottle of make-up remover to scrub away the last remnants of Theresa Jennifer. She dares not look in the mirror without her make-up to see the tired, hardened features before at least a base coat. She thinks for a moment white delicately applying a fine layer of creamy foundation and a thicker layer of concealer on the more awkward features to her face. Then, Klutch takes up the compact mirror, checking her work and pondering what to highlight or enhance. She opts for a darker, smokey-eye effect pared with a rich, plum lip color. The others do not care for her appearance, but it makes Klutch feel more.... herself.
She stares at the mirror for a moment and whispers, "Thalia Jade."
The others will not see Thalia Jade. They will only ever see Klutch. In truth, even as the words grace her lips and as she stares at the painted stranger looking back through the silver sliver, the name 'Thalia Jade' feels a misnomer. 'Tiffany Jane' fit far better. Tomorrow, she will pick something new, but, for today, she will remain Thalia Jade.
xxxx
The horses scream in piercing whinnies but go unheard in the wild of the storm. For once in their long journey back up the snowy slope, both Kylie and the Wraith are quite thankful for the howling winds. The Wraith slams his palm into the broad chests of the creatures, savoring the warm taste of their blood, no matter how vile and unpalatable it may be compared to the sweet succulence of human blood and life. He is too hungry to care for comparative analysis of foods, drinking in the nourishing life of each animal after so starving for so long. Another heavy body falls to the snowy ground with a thud before the Wraith moves down the strong tethers to his next meal as the following horse stomps and circles, jerking on its fetters and trying to break free.
Kylie watches with a cold dispassion as the Wraith dispatches each of the great, hulking animals excluding a fresh mount for them that she has tied tightly by the reins a bit away from the rest of this buffet. This is a necessary evil. The Wraith needs to feed to be strong, and it will keep McKay and the others of Foothold from following closely without their steady string of mounts. Foothold cannot follow.
Kylie has watched several Wraith feed before. The first time, nestled beside Willem, she had cowered as the Queen slipped among her human prey like nothing but cattle, sampling their wares here and there. She had been terrified then, to watch something so god-like and so repulsively macabre move among them with such a callous disregard for the suffering the Wraith imparted. The first time one of those awful hands had slammed down on her chest and drank deep of her body, mind, and life, had been terrible but not awful. It had only been when Kylie voluntarily knelt for her Queen that the feedings went from just tortuous to absolutely soul crushing. Hundreds upon hundreds of feedings beyond that bequeathed to her a jaded disconnect. She now feels nothing but an emptiness at the sight of this particular Wraith killing and feeding.
When the Wraith has sated himself, he looks to the skrae once more, shifting his gaze to the mine entrance. The Wraith as a species bear sharper senses than other creatures, including a notoriously keen sense of smell, befitting of a super predator. He can smell the humans lurking below, cowering in the dark of the mountain. The stench of their blood, sweat, and filth permeates the clearing, even above the crisp clarity of the snowy air. The aroma of fear and prey tantalizes the Wraith, sending shivers down his spine and through his every nerve that are not entirely born of the cold. It teases him to smell so much food so effectively cornered in the mines.
To his great distaste the scent of a familiar blood mingles with that. Sheppard. Having tasted the human colonel once before, the Wraith could not mistake that smell, no matter how disguised. The Wraith sneers, hissing through his teeth. Sheppard should belong to him and to no one else.
The skrae dips her head and turns away, slinking into the woods with the horse ambling closely in tow. The Wraith cocks a curious brow slightly before following. They scale the mountain now, moving further and further from the encampment's entrance. The Wraith does not question. This skrae knows this mountain and Foothold far better than he; this is her mountain. She leads him up through the snow, stumbling occasionally as the drifts deepen on the slope, until they come to a small fenced in area. Kylie scrambles over the chainlink fence, followed closely by the Wraith who takes the fence in one, nimble leap, landing easily in the snow on the other side.
Curious now, the Wraith steps side for the skrae as she slinks about the tiny enclosure, sweeping her long arms through the powdery snow. She searches for something. The Wraith lifts his feeding hand, surveying the warm, satiated slit as it yawns upon his palm. It will not abide a plunge in the bitter, icy cold. Yet the skrae seems to find what she searches for, kicking away the snow in a flurry of motion now, scrambling down into the hole she has dug in the drifts.
He finds a sign posted on a metal pole nearby and slips towards it. Snow cakes the sheet metal. The Wraith gingerly brushes aside the white accumulation with his forearm, revealing the boldfaced print underneath it in crisp red and black. The Wraith furrows his brow, studying the English words and translating them in his mind.
NO TRESPASSING
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED
DANGER
The Wraith returns his attention to the skrae as she continues to dig down into the powder. The skrae's excavation yields something nearly miraculous in the frozen drifts. She crouches over a rusted, metal door sunken in a concrete base of some form. The hefty padlock has already been snapped off, likely severed by a bolt cutter. It hangs impotently upon half of the eyebolts that served as locks. She pushes it aside and out of her way to pull her kukri and slip the blade beneath the edge of the door. The Wraith moves aside slightly to allow her to press down on her level, prying the door up and breaking the ice's hold on it.
The Wraith draws near as she slowly eases the door open and gently sets it upon the ground; he peers over her shoulder. A shaft pierces the mountain, leading down into the dark. Even with his acute vision, the Wraith cannot see anything, but, when he inhales deeply and tastes the air laden heavily with human pheromones and the intoxicating scent of familiar prey through his facial slits, he knows precisely where this ventilation shaft leads. The skrae climbs easily down upon the ordered, neat metallic rungs that line one side of the shaft; the Wraith does not need to be told to follow.
As they descend, the air warms considerably from the frozen chill of the surface to a relative comfort. The Wraith basks in the warmth, savoring it after the ride up the mountain pressed up against the narrow, bony back of this strange, new ally. The cold is ever unforgiving to his kind, constantly threatening to drag him down to the crushing mental depths of hibernation, and this almost temperate air is a unearthly welcome change to the bitter, arctic cold of the surface.
The skrae says nothing, not even to announce the bottom of the shaft. She merely steps off the last rung with a silent motion, slipping easily into the darkness of the mines. The Wraith wordlessly follows; he has seen her plan and needs no further instruction. They move in an easy, even pace, slinking together up the tunnels and into the pervasive, jarring light of the incandescent bulbs strung along the mine walls and powered by the generators that the Wraith feels vibrating through the stone down another length of tunnel.
The skrae pauses before a wide opening, pressing a cautionary finger to her lips and indicating and rather dire need for silence by the set to her face. The Wraith would never dream of breaching the silence of their approach anyway. He has always favored the surgical precision of stealthy, calculated engagements over messy, drawn out and violent brawls.
She leads him forward, and, upon stepping into the node, the Wraith realizes just how silent he must be. The node is littered with blankets and bedrolls spread out upon the stone. Here and there, several of these weak and pathetic prey animals lie in slumber. The Wraith steps lightly among them, moving on the balls of his feet now with a practiced grace that the skrae echoes. One of the humans stirs at his feet, snorting. The Wraith stiffens, but the man merely rolls over and burrows his head deeper into the makeshift pillow of his own arms, returning to the lulling embrace of sleep.
The two slip through the node without incident, but the Wraith understands now why the skrae left her beast of burden hitched at the top of the tunnels and not by the escape vent. Once the alarm is sounded, they will not be able to leave this way. There is only one way for them now. Up.
He follows her to a long tunnel where she presses back into the wall, gesturing for him to do the same from her actions. The Wraith complies, but it is difficult at best. The scent of blood is rich upon the air here, heavy and utterly intoxicating. Human blood and a familiar scent at that. It sings through his nerves and sends his feeding slit crawling in delight. It is Sheppard, so very close now. The Wraith glances to where the skrae hides in the shadows beside him, but she simply points with the edge of her kukri to a plain door covered in flaking, blue paint. He is there.
The Wraith takes an impulsive step, driven by the overwhelmingly delicious aroma upon the air, but the skrae dares to touch him by the wrist with a feathery grace of her delicate fingertips. He freezes and snatches her roughly by the hand, glancing to her with an unspoken and unanswered question darting between them. The skrae hardly flinches when he squeezes sharply. She merely stares intently up at him with those blue eyes of hers, imploring him somehow without expressing a thing.
He opens his ears studying the world about him, drinking in the sounds of the mine. The Wraith listens to the gentle breaths of the slumbering people down the tunnel. To the top of the mine, the wind howls violently as it whips through the camp. Above them, people move, but slowly and without care. And, in the room across the way, the Wraith can hear the soothing whispers of a tender voice, accompanied by labored breaths and the fluttering, timid beat of a heart that has grown weak and weary from much suffering.
xxxx
McKay sits watch over his patient for hours, but Sheppard does not stir, not even under the gentle ministrations of his caretakers bathing the sweat from his brow and chest. He frowns at how pliant Sheppard is in his ginger touch, how limp and unresponsive. It feels appallingly wrong. Sheppard is supposed to be the strong one, not him.
He sighs, slopping the rag into the bowl beside him. McKay decides to fetch a clean batch. The water is clear and still sweetly fresh smelling, but McKay needs to move, to get away from the stark and unyielding evidence of this grave sin he has committed against his friend.
McKay slips from the infirmary and strides to the top of the mines with a heavy heart.
xxxx
The Wraith recoils to the shadows once more when the door creaks open and McKay steps out, turning to the top of the tunnel. He sneers, peeling back his lips to reveal his jagged, hideous teeth in distaste. The sniveling brat that is Rodney McKay has never held any favor with the Wraith, let alone this particular specimen, even before anything happened to Sheppard. The Wraith stares daggers into the physicist's back as he strides up the mine and away, but the beast does not move from his place at the skrae's side. They can ill afford any distractions or any loud outbursts that would betray their stealth.
He waits for some time, lingering in the dark of their niche in the mine wall. The Wraith are a predatory species, driven by eons of evolution to become the perfectly honed killing machines with the additionally deadly edge of advanced technology at their side. They came from the forests and the caves, adapted to dark places such and trying times such as this. Though his muscles tense with anticipation, the Wraith remains calm and frozen, instinctively stilling himself. The skrae at his side is a strangely dark mirror of this, her expressions and actions schooled to carefully eradicate any of the weakness and humanity from her, making her the perfect pet for a Queen.
Once the Wraith is quite certain the tunnels are empty once more and they are safely alone, he moves, creeping silently from their hiding spot and towards the door. This time, the skrae allows him to slip from her touch, much as he looses his crushing grip upon her wrist. He drifts soundless across the stone corridor and slips into the room, the skrae following closely behind him and pulling the door shut to a crack.
What the Wraith finds turns his stomach. Sheppard lies supine, looksing weak and sickly, his shivering flesh pale and slickly shining with fevered perspiration, but that is the least of it. The skrae did not exaggerate in her finely orchestrated symphony of visions. When the Wraith lifts the blankets at Sheppard's legs slowly, he finds the heavily bandaged stump of the colonel's left leg. They have butchered Sheppard, hacking off his leg just above the knee. They have crippled him. The Wraith balls his fists in a barely checked rage at the brazen audacity of such an act.
The skrae makes a small, hurrying motion from her place at the door. The Wraith nods; they have no time for such sentiments of anger and annoyance. He lifts the blankets from Sheppard and scowls to find that they have stripped the colonel to his bare skin. The Wraith recalls that humans are as susceptible to the cold as his kind; Sheppard will not survive long in the winter storm unless he is appropriately dressed for the weather. The Wraith surveys the room, spying a set of heavy clothes. He works quickly, carefully manipulating Sheppard's limbs, feeling somewhat awkward at the strangely human intimacy of the situation as he dresses the colonel. When he comes to the hanging and empty leg of pants, the Wraith frowns before tying it off in a quick knot. He pulls a heavy coat about Sheppard's shoulders, bundling him up tightly against the bitter cold that they will face out in the storm. Then, slowly, he snakes his long arms beneath the man, hoisting him up and feeling uncertain about how light and downright fragile the man feels in his grip.
The Wraith turns to the skrae and gives a quick nod; they are ready now, as ready as they will ever be. The skrae peers through the crack in the door, pressing her ear to the side and listening intently. After a painfully long moment, the girl shifts away from the door and eases it open, stealing out and into the hall. The Wraith follows, cradling Sheppard close to his chest, so close that he can feel the pathetic quivering of the colonel's heart.
He slinks closely in the skrae's wake, following her up the mines quietly, occasionally darting behind crates and support beams whenever a stranger came walking through, mindful of the injured man in his arms to avoid unnecessarily jostling the injured leg. Now, especially, they cannot afford to be caught, not now that they have Sheppard. They move without notice until the skrae gestures with a splayed hand for the Wraith to stop.
The Wraith hunkers back, curling protectively over the unconscious colonel and opening his ears to the sound of the mines. There is motion ahead, not far, echoing off the rock. He drinks in the scents of the mine, tasting the scent of cooked meats and smokiness of a fire. The humans laugh and joke over petty, meaningless things in these trying times, their voices filled with an obvious discomfort and tension that the Wraith cannot accurately pinpoint. McKay is among them, his own voice softly unsure and slightly regretful.
The skrae's hand slips to her kukri. Kylie knows this will not be easy, nor enjoyable if this does not go well. She does not relish this necessity, but it is perhaps the only way possible.
She gives a quick look to the Wraith at her side, steeling herself and feeling only mildly conflicted by the memories of other Wraith she has known in her time. There is no time for memory. It is time for action. She springs from their nook, the Wraith hot on her heels. She bolts, the dwellers of Foothold jumping back in surprise and fright at the sight of the skrae as well as the Wraith following behind her. They slip through the screaming, shrieking crowds with ease, charging up the tunnel before McKay and the people can rally, their footsteps thundering in the mine behind the fleeing pair with their pathetic cargo.
Up to the top of the mines they run. At the very top, the skrae whips about, slamming the mine doors shut behind her. The Wraith stops to bark at her, to call her back to his side, yet she is intelligent about this. She shoves a metal pipe through the door handles, effectively barring it against the people of Foothold. It will not hold for long, especially not if they find the emergency vent at the very base of the mine, yet it will slow them down immeasurably. The Wraith dips his head in silent acknowledgment of the quick wit as the Wraith snatches a bunch of heavy winter wear from the lockers for herself and another for the Wraith and Sheppard.
Behind them, at the doors to the mine, the people of Foothold have reached the top, slamming into the doors and jarring them. They jerk and buck against the pipe, nearly dislodging it, but the skrae pays them no heed. McKay can be heard bellowing angrily after them.
"KYLIE! YOU BRING HIM BACK RIGHT NOW!"
The skrae and the Wraith ignore him and brace themselves for the icy embrace of the storm. The Wraith swings up onto the bare back of the last horse, allowing the skrae to pass Sheppard up to him before climbing up before him. She takes up the reins and squeezes her legs about the wide girth of the horse, turning it into the arctic winds. They have miles to go now, into the white. Where? The Wraith cannot guess, yet he knows it must be better than this for Sheppard.
xxxx
McKay seethes as he clambers through the thick snow. It took hours to break loose from the mine, too long to even hope to catch up with kidnappers in the storm. Sheppard is gone, and the horses, perhaps the most important asset to life in Foothold, lie dead and stiff in a growing blanket of white. He has let these people down once more. He should have seen this coming, should have known better than to allow Todd to live. McKay should have killed the Wraith while he had the chance, while Todd was shackled and at his mercy.
Amerie stands at the tunnel, clutching her blanket close about her bony shoulders. "It's not your fault."
The physicist stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Like hell it isn't."
"You know where they're going, don't you?" the woman asks, the words almost an accusation of sorts.
"Yup," McKay replies curtly. "The one place she thinks I won't go."
The woman's lips thin oddly. "What should we do?"
"Get Sulley up here as soon as the storm dies down." When Amerie's eyes flood with confusion, McKay shakes his head. "Don't want to let all that meat go to waste." He looks out to the swirling snow once more. "As soon as Ronon gets back, I'll put him on their trail."
xxxx
The stocky horse trudges through the drifting snow and driving winds, its weary riders barely keeping upright in the saddle. Sheppard has not awoken, which, in its self, is a great mercy; the ride would be too painful for him to bear. His head rests on the skrae's left shoulder while he lists in the saddle. The skrae and the Wraith have the battered colonel wedged between them for both warmth and security upon the horse's back. Sheppard's limp body is pressed close to the girl, his fevered body drinking in the heat from her. The Wraith sits behind Sheppard, supporting him, savoring the warmth held by the skrae's long cloak wrapped about the three of them.
The storm howls and whistles with an almost animalistic ferocity. Only the skrae keeps her pale face out from under the cloak, shrouded under warm scarfs and shawls, her glasses drawn over his eyes. The young one endures the bitter, biting cold, for she must for the three of them. She is the only one, now, with any working knowledge of the terrain or how to control the lumbering beast of burden between their legs. She remains the only one with any idea where they are going in the white out.
After a time, an odd warmth spreads between them. The Wraith sniffs, finding the odd tang of ammonia upon the crisp, winter air. He shifts and curiously presses a hand to his leg and to the warm horse hide, finding liquid there between them seeping down their legs. It smells salty and acrid. Urine. Sheppard. In the gripping cold of winter's embrace, Wraith bodily functions slow until hibernation and- eventually- death settles in, and simpler functions, excretion included, become rare. Humans, however, are not designed such, and Sheppard is not in control of himself or such functions. It does not disgust the Wraith, as it is merely an unavoidable event granted the unusual circumstances, but it unsettles him to see a once formidable enemy so weakened and sickly. He is accustomed to an overwhelming sense of self and smug attitude from Sheppard, even during those harrowing days in Koyla's captivity.
With slow, sluggish, and utterly draining motions, the Wraith reaches forward and gently touches the skrae's shoulder, giving it a tiny shake to get her attention. She holds tight to the reins in a simple motion, applying the tiniest bit of steadying pressure to the bit. The beast of a horse stops, stamping its foot in annoyance. Its head bobs and jerks at the reins. The skrae does not look to the Wraith, nor does she shift in the slightest to help Sheppard. Instead, those green eyes stare up the length of the trail and towards the trees above them, unmoving, unflinching, even in the driving, desperately howling wind. The skrae shivers and, then, squeezes her legs about the animal, letting it walk on into the wind.
After a few moments, the scent of humans fills the air about them as footsteps thunder in the Wraith's ears. The Wraith tenses, holding tighter to the unconscious Sheppard. He sees nothing in the white, but he knows they are there, stalking them through the blizzard. The Wraith curls about Sheppard to leave less of the injured colonel exposed in the event of an attack. His sudden protective streak over the human bothers the Wraith immensely, warring with his natural instincts to feed upon easy prey. Yet the skrae seems unmoved by both this and the presence of human hunters trailing their motions.
Figures and blocky shapes appear in the white out ahead of them, causing the skrae to pull up on the bit once more. She waits, allowing the dark silhouettes against the stark ivory come to them. The Wraith furrows his brow and narrows his eyes to slits against the crusting, frozen flakes of snow.
The shadows stop, allowing one, slender figure to move forward and come into focus from the white-out. She is tall yet toned, pale against the dark of her camouflage colored attire. Her straw colored pony tail whips in the howling winds of the blizzard. The Wraith flares his nostrils, taking in her scent, as well as that of the others who approach.
The newcomer plants a hand on her hip and greets saucily. "Look what the cat drug in."
The skrae dips her head but shifts her weight, letting the heavy, protective clothing slip from her shoulders and off of both the Wraith and Sheppard. The Wraith hisses against the snap of the icy cold upon his face. He holds Sheppard tighter against him, clutching protectively to the unconscious man against the chill.
The stranger's eyes go wide at the sight of the Wraith and the amputee. "Jesus, Kylie. Come on, come on. Lets get you out of the cold."
The Wraith feels the tension slide from his muscles as he relaxes once more. The odd newcomer leads them along through the ever thickening snow. The Wraith stares out curiously as these strangers in the woods bring them to an encampment of half-buried tents and trucks covered in white blankets. The blonde calls out orders left and right, summoning up people from their warm tents to help. The skrae draws up on the horse in the center of camp, slipping off the side and reaching up for Sheppard. The Wraith flinches, pulling Sheppard against him once more as the humans move into a flurry about them.
The skrae extends her reach once more, gesturing for the Wraith to pass Sheppard down to her, but the Wraith stiffens. "What will they do with him?"
The blonde is at Kylie's side in a moment, staring up as the wind draws her scent to the Wraith's facial slits. He tastes her, drinking in her scent. She looks female. She sounds female. Yet she smells distinctly male. The Wraith holds close to Sheppard, unnerved by the clear deception and unrelenting in his defiance to the skrae's unspoken request for him to lower the colonel to her.
The blonde scowls back at the Wraith, her pink lips scrunched together as she snaps, "What's with the vamp?" The skrae does not respond save to reach once more for Sheppard; when the Wraith recoils once more away from her, the blonde rolls her eyes and sighs, "We're not going to hurt him."
The Wraith lifts a lip to bare his teeth in a feral display; Wraith bow to no human.
The blonde frowns. "You can trust us."
The Wraith says nothing save to hiss through his pointed fangs. Sheppard had trusted McKay and lost a leg to that trust. These humans driven so close to the brink are unpredictable and dangerous, much more so than even the most ravenous of Queens. He will not chance Sheppard's life again by being so blinded by trust.
The blonde female shakes her head and points accusingly, barking brusquely, "Fine. You want to stay out in the cold and let him freeze to death, that's your deal. But you turn that horse away and do it somewhere the hell else."
The Wraith bristles, but the blonde does not yield, folding her arms across her chest. Finally, the Wraith lets out a breath and gently slides Sheppard to the side, easing the colonel into the skrae's waiting arms. The blonde swoops to the colonel's other side, throwing his arm over her shoulders. She gives the skrae a nod and helps take up his weight.
They take a few, ambling steps away before the blonde calls over her shoulder, "Well, you coming?"
The Wraith blinks but jumps from the horse and follows; he has no other choice.
The blonde snorts. "Thought so."
The Wraith follows through the hazy snow storm to a large human vehicle. The blonde swings open the back hatch and climbs up into the back. She swiftly moves to gather up armloads of blankets from the back seat before setting it down flat, making a wide, long space for Sheppard. The skrae moves to help lift Sheppard, but the Wraith swoops up to his side before they can manhandle him any further. He tenderly scoops up Sheppard's legs, mindful of the mangled stump, helping them place the colonel upon the downy blankets. The colonel moans from all the motion, flinching slightly and wrinkling his features before stilling once more. The skrae reaches back and shuts the truck behind them, sealing out the cold winds and sealing in the damp body heat.
The blonde frowns, placing her fingers to Sheppard's carotid artery before shaking her head. "We need to get him out of these clothes and into something warm and dry." She raises her gaze to both the skrae and the Wraith. "Same could be said about you two." She unties the pants leg and jerks away from the blood soaked bandages, gasping, "Who did this to him?"
The Wraith sniffs hotly. "Human friends."
The blonde stranger blinks at the response before giving another toss of her head. "Sucks." She glances to the Wraith, peering into him intently and curiously before reaching for Sheppard's shirt, opening it just wide enough to allow a cursory scan his pale, sweat coated chest. "He's not a worshipper, is he?"
"No," the Wraith admits solemnly; he has intensely respected Sheppard's resilience and stubborn defiance against the addicting qualities of the enzyme, regardless the numerous times the colonel has been fed on.
The stranger sighs once more, shooting a quick glance to the skrae before turning his focus back to the Wraith. "Your kind don't like the cold, do you?"
"No."
The blonde's stern expression softens. "It's lethal to you guys, isn't it?" The Wraith shrugs his shoulders, but the answer is obvious. "Why did you risk your life to save him? Why didn't you just feed?"
The Wraith draws a quick breath; he thinks for a moment before answering. "No individual, no Wraith, and no human, deserves this..." His expression twists to a tight grimace. "This butchery." He sighs. "Not this man."
The blonde seems satisfied by the answer, returning her undivided attention to the ailing man before her; the Wraith crouches over Sheppard, looming beside her and asking, "Can you help him?"
The blonde sighs, rubs her forehead, and replies honestly, "Too soon to tell."
The Wraith gives a grim nod and allows the blonde to work.
xxxx
It is late in the night when the blonde announces that she has done all she can for Sheppard, that only time will tell whether or not Sheppard will survive. The Wraith nods numbly as the cold damp of his clothes seeps down to the bone. The skrae brings him fresh clothes - human clothes - to change into as she and the blonde leave him in the silent truck to fetch something to eat and offer the Wraith some measure of privacy. The Wraith changes quickly, shucking off the damp leathers and setting them aside to try in favor of this unusual and mildly uncomfortable human clothing.
Midway through pulling some sort of knit shirt over his head, a low groan comes from the man beside him. The Wraith jerks the shirt down and twists to face Sheppard, his brow drawn in concern. He touches Sheppard's shoulder, but the colonel stills for a brief moment.
"No...." Sheppard murmurs meekly. "Ro....ney.... please."
The Wraith frowns, gently touching Sheppard's shoulder. The colonel feels warm, too warm for a human. He body flushes with fevered heat and trembles against it. Sheppard's breathing seems somehow more labored, as though each breath is a struggle. The Wraith leans close, listening to the shallow rasps.
"Hey, you'd better not be doing what I think you're doing," the blonde's curt voice snaps as she opens the front door to the truck and scrambles inside and out of the cold, setting a steaming mug on the seat beside her.
The Wraith draws back, insulted. "I would not feed upon him."
"You'd better not," the stranger barks. "I went through a lot of trouble this afternoon trying to patch him up."
The Wraith dips his head. "Of course."
The stranger nods, sated by the Wraith's response as she climbs over the seat and into the back with Sheppard and the Wraith. "Has he eaten anything?" The Wraith shrugs, and the stranger sighs. "Help me. We need to get him upright."
The Wraith assists her, drawing Sheppard up and holding him close. He eases the colonel into an upright position, leaning the human against his chest. The blonde sits beside the two men, tipping the cup to Sheppard's lips. Her long fingers stroke the colonel's throat, massaging the muscles and stimulating swallowing. The blonde works slowly, careful not to force too much on the man in her care. The Wraith sniffs, studying the scent of what seems to be a broth of some kind. Eventually, she sets the cup down and aids the Wraith ease Shepard back onto the blankets. The Wraith gently helps wrap the blankets about the colonel tightly as he gives a tiny moan of protest.
The blonde does not look the Wraith in the face as she speaks. "You two must be real special for Kylie to have brought you up here." The Wraith does not answer, and, so, the stranger goes on, "He must be special if you haven't eaten him yet."
"As must I if you have not attempted to chain or kill me," the Wraith counters in his irritation as he tends to the injured man.
The girl smirks. "Point." She looks up, curiously now. "So, what's he to you? A pet?"
The Wraith shakes his head, tousling his pale locks. "No." He pauses for a moment, seeking out the appropriate human term for his allegiance to Sheppard. "An ally."
"If you say so."
The Wraith sits for a moment and, then, inquires flatly, "And you?"
"Klutch."
The Wraith quirks his lip. "Why did you spare us?"
The blonde shrugs and lets out a heavy breath. "Because you could have killed him at any time, and you didn't." She shakes her head. "And because Kylie trusts you. Why, I have no clue. She seems to think you're okay, and, for right now, that's good enough for me."
The Wraith dabs a dry cloth to Sheppard's forehead, soaking up the sweat, looking away as he asks, "Why do you not hide in the mines with Rodney McKay?"
Klutch hoots and shakes her head, spitting, "We're not.... welcome."
"And why is that?" the Wraith presses curiously, but Klutch does not answer as opens one of the doors to leave. Unbidden, the question that has been bothering the Wraith for so long slips from his lips. "What are you?"
The blonde bristles and whispers darkly, "A curio." She looks down. "Just like you."
With that, she climbs out of the truck and into the wild winds of the storm. The Wraith sighs and slumps back beside Sheppard; He will keep watch over the colonel through the night had hope that the man does not perish. The Wraith ponders idly at this sudden and abrupt change in his life that he should be the one caring so intently for a human, let alone one that was by and large considered to be the prime enemy to his entire species.
Sheppard murmurs in his sleep once more, something that sounds vaguely like Rodney McKay's name. The Wraith frowns. It seems wrong that he should care more for Sheppard than those of his own species. Yet, then again, humans are an entirely different species, petty and uncaring. Were this Wraith faced with a comrade who had been as badly injured as Sheppard, he would have either tended to the injuries and nursed his kin back to good health, or simply put the unfortunate creature out of its misery. This suffering is a sadistic mockery. A distant part of the Wraith's mind wonders which species is the true monsters.
xxxx
The storm breaks in the night, giving way to a cloudless sky dappled with thousands of glittering stars. A bright, swollen moon hangs in the velveteen blue, casting down pale shards of crystalline moonbeams cutting through the barren trees. The dazzling light twinkles over the snowy drifts, sparkling beautifully. Occasionally, a gentle breeze kicks up a tiny, curling tendril of stray flakes before settling back down. Eventually, the darkness gives way to whispers of orange, predawn light, staining the snow a peachy pink.
Ronon knows he should be impressed by the rugged beauty of this wintery wonderland, but he cares not. His heart is heavy with worry and anger. Worry for Sheppard back at Foothold, and a burning rage directed to the skrae that follows him still. The Satedan will deal with Willem as soon as he is certain Sheppard is well. At the moment, Ronon consoles himself only with a bitter solace in the knowledge that he has taken Willem's steed, forcing the skrae to trundle through the thick, powdery snow.
When Ronon's mount finally drags into the encampment of Foothold at dawn, it is to the surprising and gut-wrenching sight of a field of snow stained scarlet with fresh blood. A few of the people of Foothold stand solemnly over the blood, their heads bowed. Sulley is crouched in the snow, shaking his head. McKay stands at his side, staring down intently. The people share angry whispers, hissed through clenched teeth and laced with profanities.
Ronon approaches cautiously, drawing up his mount just off to McKay's left and wincing at the sight left in the predawn light. The horses - every last one of them - all lie dead in the snow, frozen and stiffened in their rigor into grotesque visages of their final moments. Their glazed eyes are wide with their last horrors. Each of their chests bear the mark of a Wraith's feeding touch This is nothing less than a slaughter, brutal, precise, and viciously deliberate.
"Your friend, Todd, did this," McKay spits without meeting Ronon's gaze.
The Satedan furrows his brow. "Why?"
The physicist heaves a tired shrug. "Hungry, probably." He lets out a deeply held breath, as though drawing something out. "He took Sheppard."
Ronon tightens his grip on the reins. "What?!?"
"He took Sheppard," McKay repeats evenly, turning now to face Ronon with a steady gaze and offering another, half-hearted shrug. "Kylie helped."
The Satedan says nothing, clenching his jaw shut tight. The man moves without thought, without reason, shutting down inside somehow and blocking everything out except for the need for action, for work and distraction. It is the same distance that kept Ronon alive for so many years on the run from the Wraith before. He swings from off the horse and untacks it wordlessly, slipping the saddle from the wide back and the bridle from its massive head.
The physicist shadows his motions, calling out plaintively after his once friend and team mate, "Ronon, wait."
The Satedan ignores him in favor of grooming the horse. He runs the brushes over the sleek muscles and sweeping curves, finding an emptiness to the repetitive motions of his actions. The comforting sameness to the work drowns out the whining drone of Rodney's voice as the physicist pleads his case for forgiveness. Ronon's own muscles tense and strain as the words blur together in a singular, annoying pitch. He needs these moments to diffuse and collect his raw emotions before he does anything brash, something the Wraith's persistent hunting taught him very well. Once Ronon calms, he can channel his rage at McKay's foolish negligence for allowing them to just waltz out of the seeming impenetrable keep of Foothold with a sick and injured man, directing it more appropriately to those who took Sheppard.
Yet, McKay will not just let him be, continuing to speak and to argue without response from the Satedan.
The runner ensures that this, the last of Foothold's steed is well fed and cared for. He sets a bucket of feed at the horse's feet and a pale of water within easy reach. He will need the mount when the time comes to hunt down the Then, the burly man stows the horse's tack in the caves, shoving it roughly into its place at the top of the mine in the shack, protected from the harsh winter climate outside.
As he places the bridle on a hook beside the now useless bridles for the slain horses, McKay finally snaps through Ronon's silent reverie by gripping his arm sharply. "Ronon, talk to me."
"What do you want?" he growls simply, forcing his hand to still before he shakes McKay senseless.
And, then, McKay utters the magic words. "I know where they went."
"What do you say?" the Satedan demands.
McKay smiles almost diabolically, slowly repeating the words with a keen emphasis. "I know where they went. And I promise, as soon as the trails are passable, we're getting Sheppard back, one way or another."
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Author's Notes : It's Two-Fer Tuesday between Feast of the Samhain and Caliber a day early courtesy of a snow day from college! I'm supposed to be taking a major exam on Kingdom Protista and doing a long, boring, dull lab. But, instead, here we are with a little slice of fried fanfic fun!
As before, hope you enjoyed it and stay safe/warm out there for everyone driving, working, or just plain playing in the snow.