A/N - don't you all be expecting too much mercy for our poor whumped Sheppard now. Hedda is pretty much the only person who doesn't do him wrong. With that annoying healing habit of hers, I suspect she just isn't a whumper. Daft bat. Boy, was I miffed or what when she patched him up in Epiphany just like that. Now that was just plain sick and wrong. Grr. Anyway, apart from that, this is an early post. I'm working on my final chapters, and they aren't the easiest, I can tell ya. I will try and post the next one 2 weeks after this, but no promises. It might be another month or so. Having said that, I will not leave this fic unfinished, and my aim is to have it complete by the end of this year, max. Says she. Reviews, feedback and PMs are encouragement. But you already know that. Anyway - enjoy this bonus chapter. I wonder who the Overlord is. Any guesses? Clues are there, poppets! XD
...
John took stock of himself as he lay there in a void; flat on his back, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, mouth wide open as he greedily gulped down rainwater, replenishing lost body fluids, practically drowning himself in the process, and making gore angels as he flailed in desperation and panic. Some water went down the wrong way, making him gag and choke. He flipped over onto his right side, and barfed most of it up. When his belly finally quit protesting, he calmly slurped in the rainwater instead through slightly parted lips. Then he realized - he really didn't hurt so much any more.
Wait. What gives?
His cuts and lacerations were gone. He could feel it - whoa! - though his body still tingled from head to toe, and his nerve endings howled in protest at the prolonged abuse they'd endured like they'd held back until now, tearing him a new one in exacting revenge. The tingling sensation settled into a dull ache. He was still hyper-aware of his body, his extremities, though now he felt marginally less reticent to move.
He fluttered his eyelids, flexed his fingers, wiggled his toes. He raised a hand. His left. It shook as he flexed it, but at least it was still there. He could feel the comforting weight of it at the end of his arm.
He ran shaky fingers very gingerly indeed over his chest, his arms, his neck, across his belly, across his forehead and down both cheeks, then around both wrists, but all he could feel were his familiar old raised scars; the ones he'd acquired on Skojo, and maybe even the ones from before. He didn't bother to check any lower since he didn't have the energy to reach, plus nothing raged at him from below the waistband of his boxers.
So, he was alive. That had to be good enough for now. Or maybe not.
Healed. He'd been healed. Only to be abandoned again. So what now? Maybe he needed to gather his strength, then seek shelter and a source of food. Water, not so much.
He lay there for - as long as it took. He had no sense of any passage of time. He could feel mud beneath him now, oozing all around him. Why had Hedda just left him here to fend for himself? It made no sense, but by now, nothing made any sense.
As the storm finally abated, and his strength returned, and any lingering pain dissipated to a tolerable level, John opened his eyelids to slits, although he dreaded seeing nothing but blackness. Or worse still - redness.
Oh, jeez, he could see! Stars. Real stars, not those blow-to-the-head ones. John could have cried in relief. He swiped a hand across his eyes, wiping away - mud. Just maybe he could move too. Okay. Okay. Time to move out.
There was a glow to his left.
Hedda? Teer? Chaya?
John lifted himself up an inch or so up off the ground on shaky elbows, and craned his neck hopefully. A large round shape entered his peripheral vision, and he jerked his head towards it. It was - a stargate. An actual stargate. It, too, was glowy, bathed as it was in the stark light of a full, purple moon. So, was this the reason she left him there? Believing he could simply haul his sorry ass outta there under his own steam? Get up and walk? Reach the gate in seconds flat? Find his own way home? Fly? He had to remember she was in many ways still a child. John managed a shaky salute skywards.
Thanks, kid. I owe ya one.
So now he had to make it some thirty yards to the gate, and somehow recall gate addresses. Pluck 'em out of his ass. Dial. On the plus side, he'd be staggering or crawling through mud and swampland, not over gravel. And he wouldn't die of dehydration. On the negative side...
Buck up, John!
Okay, on the maybe not quite so positive side, thirty yards might as well have been thirty miles. He might dial himself through to any ol' where, maybe even through a space gate. Or maybe to somewhere where those space vampires lived. The... Wraith! What other demons might he have to face? He prayed his hands would remember what to do when he reached the... DHD?
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. A turkey sandwich would come in handy right about now. He was starving, but he decided that was a good sign. He was alive. For what that was worth.
Well, no time like the present, huh. He didn't know what the days were like on this world. The rain wasn't freezing, it was actually pleasantly lukewarm, almost like the tail end of a shower.
A real shower.
With body wash.
Toothpaste.
Shampoo.
Razor blades.
Shaving foam.
Nail clippers.
Dental floss.
Cotton buds.
Fresh towels.
Face cloths.
Antiperspirant deodorant.
Aftershave
Hair product.
Combs.
Okay, the combs maybe not so much.
Apart from the combs, that all sounded so good right about now. That and a decent meal. The bare necessities. He didn't think he was into luxuries much. Dollar store items would do. Even dollar menu fast food to go would be great right about now. Then again, super-sizing everything sounded pretty great, too. He visualized himself munching a quarter-pounder with a side of curly fries and maybe onion rings, and washing it all down with a large mocha latte. Better still, a twenty-four ounce Bud. He could even snag one of those for a buck plus sales tax if he shopped right.
John's empty belly gurgled with hunger as he turned over onto his left side now, and he silently cursed it for forcing him to be a living creature with needs he couldn't ignore. He curled up in the mud, allowing it to smother him. Yeah, he could either pretty much carry on with the whole roll over and die thing he'd begun before Hedda deigned to swing by - or take this fresh chance on life.
Pity party over for now, he squirmed a bunch more times in the mud to stretch his muscles, shake out his tingling, aching limbs, pump some blood around his system - prep for his next ordeal - and decided to wend his weary way to the gate, and to whatever lay beyond.
He could do this.
John attempted to stand up only to find his equilibrium had been shot to hell. He'd barely made it onto his knees, pushed up and away from the ground with one muddy hand, when his knees buckled, and he faceplanted. In the mud. John wiped the stuff out of his eyes as best he could, and blinked the rest away. Okay, so crawling to the gate was pretty much his only option.
He... commando-crawled? Yeah, commando-crawled, slowly, stopping every three yards or so only to rest for ten minutes at a time, maybe even longer, his head resting on an outstretched arm as his chest heaved with exertion. He might even have passed out once or twice. He reckoned he had about three weeks to cover some thirty yards before he succumbed. His body just wasn't in the mood to co-operate. Maybe he hadn't vacated his corpse after all.
Feelin' pretty weak, buddy, he thought glumly.
Buddy?
Who was Buddy?
Who was his buddy?
Had he dreamed up a buddy?
He had a buddy.
Once.
Way back when.
Yeah, just like he once had a mom and a dad unless he'd spontaneously generated. He still couldn't visualize that brother of his. Davy. Davy Jones. Except he was John not Indy. And the names Dave and David crept into his mind. So, something didn't add up. So, there was no Davy then. He'd imagined a brother as he'd imagined a buddy. He couldn't visualize this non-existent brother, put a face to a name or a name to a face, but then again he couldn't even conjure up an image of either of his parents.
Gone. They were all gone. He had no-one, not even a volleyball to talk to. Heck, he'd settle for a...a... a... golf ball.
Was there even any point in heading to the gate? Would anyone out there even accept him back into some elusive fold? Forgive him for some screw-up he had yet to discern?
John lifted his weary head, and gazed around just as the soft glow of pre-dawn proffered vague, misty, distant shapes of hills. Or were they mountains? He had no way to gauge size. Whatever they were, they flanked him, one hillside or mountainside slipping into darkness as jagged, writhing shadows loomed on the opposite side in the first weak rays of a red giant.
Mist rose about him as ambient moisture burned off. Yep, this was the Valley of the Shadow of Death all right. He could pretty much quit now, allow the sun to cake him in dried mud, desiccate his remains, let the Valley claim him and drag his pathetic lost soul to the very bowels of Hades. Or he could crawl onwards, stave off Death a while longer. Prolong the agony. Which sucked. Ass.
Decisions, decisions. Live or die. Way to be an a-hole, John.
And still he crawled - elbow, knee, chin, toes, elbow, knee, chin, toes - and as a light drizzle turned into another downpour, he swam in the blood-red maelstrom. Sometimes he just floated, on his back even, digging in his heels, and kicking.
Splashing.
Swimming.
...crawling up to...
John thought warmly of his favorite surfboard -
...a dais at the top of ten or so stone steps...
- attached to his ankle via a leash, breast-stroking vigorously -
...crawling slowly...
-after that perfect wave.
He'd managed to dial... the DHD...
He could see a tube!
Active gate...
A shining ice-blue tube! It was the one he had been waiting for, watching out for all day through his binoculars...
...GDO...
...for that one sweet breaker. He pulled himself up and over onto his stick, and paddled out. This one was the best. His favorite. It'd been spray-painted with a Bud logo overlain with a Deadhead sticker.
Crawled some more...
The shore was in sight.
The alpha site...
Then at just the right moment, he leapt onto his board, gripping it with his bare feet, feeling grateful in that instant for his long toes.
John rode that tube like tomorrow could bring it.
Wormhole...
Then he lost his balance, tumbled, and washed ashore.
Wipeout.
Crashing into the DHD on the other side... stumbling... falling...
Endless scowling faces loomed over him as he lay there. They were dark and... silhouettey against a hazy, pale pink sky. Why was he surrounded by so many pissy lifeguards? They were totally harshing his buzz, man.
His forearms shot reflexively across his chest as a stunner blast hit him right over his sternum. A second one struck him in the middle of his forehead at point blank range. His head juddered on his neck as it lifted then smacked back down onto the sandy beach.
The last stone step...
As endless pinprick stars reappeared even in broad daylight, winking in and out of his vision, he suspected he hadn't dialed the alpha site after all. Not even the beta site or the gamma site. This site was the omega, though he'd settle for sigma. For some strange reason he thought of pi.
He heard the laughter of a clown, then imagined the tears of one. Like anyone would cry for him.
Lose a scarecrow, lose a... shepherd, just suck it up, and go hire or fetch yourself a new one.
..
"What did you have to stun him for? Now we have to carry him!"
Uh oh. Someone was a tad pissy.
Keep it down! Trying to curl up and die here.
John turned over onto his left side, drew up his knees, and tucked his head under his right arm.
"Remember me? Eh?"
Someone poked his presenting shoulder.
"Well?"
John reluctantly opened a single eye, then closed it in an instant, though that was getting old. He craved to open his eyes long enough to see something or someone worth drinking in. Like that would ever happen.
"No," he replied hoarsely, turning his head away. He settled onto his back, and ran his hands over his torso, hoping to grip a blanket to pull up and over himself. He came up with nothing. Where the fuck was he now?
Truth was, those pale blue eyes were familiar. Still, that didn't mean the dude was worth remembering. Remembering didn't mean joy or relief ever, it only meant hurt. Yeah, he wanted to remember, prayed to remember, but he wasn't yet sure he could deal. He turned over onto his right side, and curled up again, hell bent on ignoring him, whoever he was.
"Let him be," came a booming voice. It rumbled like... thunder.
"Since when do you make any decisions around here, eh?" The first dude snorted derisively. He sounded irascible. Like, well, lightning, if he had to keep going with his metaphors. Or was that similes? Like he cared.
"Yeah, let me be," John muttered, then rolled his eyes, the movement causing stabbing pains in his head. John rolled back onto his left side, and curled up once more, though he found himself fumbling for his Bud Deadhead board. It was gone from him. Like everyone and everything else. He found himself fumbling for his boxers. They were still there. John sighed in relief.
Yep, wallowing in his misery was the order of the day. Hedda had healed his superficial cuts, but he was still nursing chronic wounds that went far deeper than that. Some physical, most mental. She wasn't to know. She was still just a kid after all. On the cusp of womanhood, but still just a kid. He wasn't yet sure if he was grateful or resentful about being partially healed. At least she tried.
"I'm just saying give him a few moments to gather himself, and maybe he can shift himself back to camp so we don't have to," growled Thunder.
"He looks pretty messed up," declared Lightning. "I'll check him over."
Thunder straightened him out, and proceeded to scrape his entire body with a blade, thankfully using the blunt edge. So he was covered in... mud?
"Nope, it's all old. Apart from the head injury."
Despite said apparent head injury, someone was jiggling his head by his cowlicks. John let out a whimper.
"Which leads me back to stunning." John could hear the sarcastic tone in Lightning's voice. "You could have at least waited until he was off the last step. He fell backwards. Hitting his head? Concussion? Hello? Honestly, you are so trigger-happy at times, it's ridiculous. And you might well be exacerbating his injuries waggling his head around like that. Set his head back down gently. Good job."
John felt himself being palpated. Callused palms and fingers ran up and down his entire body, but they were oddly gentle. Whoever it was was being extra careful when feeling the back of his neck.
"Nothing broken. He's just a mass of scars. Not quite the pretty boy any more," declared Lightning with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Yeah, tell it like it is, why doncha. Knowing what a mess he was did nothing for his self-esteem. Or give him a will to live. He'd relied on muscle memory to dial off that damn planet since his brain was fried, and he'd screwed up big time.
"He's not walking anytime soon. Is there room on the travois? Well, hop to, and find out."
"Be right back. Brought bandages."
That was quick. Unless he'd passed out at some point. Yep. That'd be it. Someone roughly manipulated his neck. Good thing it wasn't broken. He could feel his head being rotated in one smooth clockwork movement as someone wrapped bandages around and around like they'd done it before many a time.
"Do you reckon he'll be of any use to us again?"
Pause. Great.
"He will fight the good fight." A strong, determined female voice. John decided to call her Hail.
"Travois loaded? Then we should dump him on top of our other booty, tie him to the poles. On the count of three... "
John felt himself being manhandled and manipulated. He refused to co-operate.
"One, two... three! Lift!"
Thunder, Lightning and Hail lifted him under his armpits, then the backs of his knees then his feet. He could feel himself become heavy, feel his head loll on his shoulders, then snap back. He couldn't control it. He felt discomfort as his older injuries succumbed to gravity, shifting and grating and aching and stabbing, especially his bum leg. How come Hedda hadn't fixed it for him? Then he remembered – she'd run out of time.
She'd only fixed what she could see.
She did her best.
They plunked him down on the travois. There was a pause as they all breathed heavily, regathering their spent energy. Lightning complained endlessly about his bad back, but John had neither the energy nor the will to snicker at that. Pairs of hands tied him in place by his wrists and ankles to all four corners of the damn thing. A foam mattress this wasn't. He felt he was being poked in the back by packaging and even bones. He could smell some kind of tart berry commingled with the scent of blood. This was their provisions travois. So that was what he'd been reduced to, huh. Provisions. Livestock. John went boneless, and melted into the other supplies, any residual fight knocked out of him.
He wondered who they were, this Lightning, Thunder and Hail. He felt himself drifting off with the steady rocking movement and the scraping sounds of the travois poles against gravel, which told him they were underway. He decided he didn't really care. Because caring hurt.
They had bandaged his head. Yeah, there was that. Maybe these three cared, though he doubted it. At least one of them was a little rough with him after all. He thought there might have been another threesome in his life once, and he'd thought they cared, too, like he'd cared about them. He would have given his life for any one of them, do anything for them. He'd... loved them, and they'd betrayed him. They had been his team, and they'd tortured him without remorse. Without mercy. He couldn't remember why. Was it... just because they could? Because hurting him never got old? Because he was of no use to them any more? Maybe it was all three.
When he thought about it, Hedda really should have left well enough alone. He'd been given an out, and had been denied it by her infernal meddling. John allowed tears to soak into the loose end of the bandage, which had draped itself across his eyes, the mud gluing it in place. No-one would ever know. Or care.
Who could possibly care about a moldering, ratty, useless scarecrow missing half its stuffing, and with a brain made of old clock workings?
He could hear the cawing of crows, feel the steady thwap of their wings close his body, and hear the Devil cackling at him up close and personal amidst the stench of sulfur. They were all mocking him. His could feel his cheeks flush deeply in his sorrow and shame. He knew then too that he was growing sick again.
...
They kept poking him awake, shining a bright light in his eyes, which practically had him jack-knifing off his sickbed, then letting him fall asleep again. What was with that? Couldn't they just let him be? He opened his eyes to slits from time to time. He was in a tent. Great. The circus freaks had reclaimed him.
John turned over, ignoring everyone and everything, and let his depression wash over him in waves. He didn't want to see anything, hear anything, smell anything, taste anything or feel anything ever again. Four senses lost out of five wasn't bad. It irked him that he could still hear.
"You are wasting my valuable time. Now - get up." Lightning.
The man sounded exasperated, like he'd ordered him to get up many times before. Well, they'd just have to drag him up now, he was that spent.
"We could use your help. Your expertise," came that same female voice, softer now. Hail. She was trying to coax him up.
Use him? How?
"How would you like to go on a mission?"
John's eyes flew open, and all his senses came back in a heady rush. He hauled himself upright, though it cost him a world of hurt, then he slumped sideways. As he groped for non-existent bed rails to steady himself, someone blurred and fuzzy around the edges wadded up a fur wrap, effectively turning it into a pillow, then shoved it near his left elbow, and he melted into it.
"Me?" he croaked. "Exp- " he launched into a bout of coughing. The same someone handed him a canteen. The blue-eyed man. John grabbed it with both hands, and swigged, spilling most of it all over himself. He looked for signs of anger in the man, but saw only pity, which in some ways was way, way worse.
When he realized he wasn't in for a beating for being clumsy, or for wasting water, or for speaking out of turn, he carried on where he'd left off. "Expertise? Mission? We met before?"
"You really don't remember us?"
John merely snorted. The blue-eyed man scanned his face. John scanned the other man's face in turn.
"You received a nasty blow to the head, thanks to You-Know-Who... " The man thumbed sideways. Thunder. "He likes to shoot things, and doesn't always think before he fires off a round, much to my eternal chagrin."
The trigger-happy Thunder merely grunted.
"Who?"
The blue-eyed man looked at him slyly.
"Who am I? More to the point, who are you?"
"You said you know me."
"I'm asking you if you know who you are. You've been asking. Most would want to know where they are when they come round. You've been asking who."
"John. My name is... " dammit! "J-Just John."
The blue-eyed man paused, then eyed him strangely, his head cocked to one side.
"You know, Just John, I do believe that is all you can tell me. It'll do for now. Then all I shall tell you is my name is... True Torrell. This is Brave Andon. And this is Fair Marin. We brought you back to camp. Welcome - back! - to our humble abode. You are a just man, and a fearsome warrior. It is a fitting title. Always was."
John scanned them earnestly.
"You... my team?"
"Yes, Just John. We are your team."
Those pale blue eyes didn't blink. Not even once. Something wasn't right, but -
- oh, boy. Answers. He was about to get some answers. At last. John sighed, let out a choking sound, then closed his eyes, squeezing out a final tear. He scrubbed a hand across his face, and left his arm covering his eyes. He thought he heard the three of them yelling at him in turn to pull himself together, get up, and fight the good fight alongside them. Yeah, he could do that. He just needed a moment. He visualized his team. Torrell, Andon, and Marin. But the looming shadows they cast on the blood-red tent canvas were of another threesome.
Before he could work out what that meant, he felt himself being jerked upright, then shoved down onto his knees. his arms being pulled out by ropes around his wrists, whereupon the Devil appeared before him, stroking a machete overly fondly. Oh, God, no! He was going to take his hand! Instead they tied him to a cross, and erected it, and the machete morphed into a trident. His team vanished, and their mismatched shadows disintegrated then dissipated like scattered seeds. A murder of crows pecked away at those seeds, as he hung there, useless, desperate to ward them off - hell, fight them off! - and save his team; save them all. Save everyone.
Other crows approached. They were larger, and more murderous. Carrion crows with glowing red eyes. They pecked at his straw until nothing was left of him but his skeleton of twigs and branches, whereupon the Devil hefted his trident, broke both branches in his lower right leg with one swipe, then skewered his tattered bundle of a heart, ripping it out of his woven wicker rib cage along with his burning, oil-soaked, corn husk lungs.
...
"Breathe, dammit!"
John felt endless thumps on his chest and slaps to his face.
"We're losing him!"
"We cannot afford to lose him. He is a worthy prize!"
So not the booby prize for a change. John struggled to surface above the flames, but first he'd have to duct tape his body back together, and regather his charred straw. Burning! He was burning!
...
Torrential rain came down. Steam and smoke rose from his fire-damaged body. At least the flames had been doused.
"Awaken at last, our Just John!"
"Whuh?"
John could hear the clatter of flatware, which made his stomach rumble and his mouth water. Wow. Seemed he was hungry. How very Pavlovian. Whuh? Who had said that? Thoughts of someone eating off a tray at his bedside came to mind. The infirmary. Yep, food beckoned. He opened one eye.
And there they were. His team. People who gave a damn. They squatted nearby, busily cleaning... weapons? The infirmary this wasn't. This was a tent. An all-purpose tent. He could still smell food. He could also smell unwashed bodies. He even heard snoring. It was all strangely reassuring. He vaguely remembered a voluptuous reptilian 'lady in red' with no smell at all.
"Here. I have some broth for you. Come, let me help you." Some woman leaned into him, her eyes sparkling, and she smelled right. A little ripe, but still. It grounded him, reassured him. "Do you remember me?" she added in dulcet tones yet with a plea in her voice. She scanned his face. John tried to remember her. He really did. He must have looked foolish or pitiful in his struggles to recollect, for she added, "No, apparently not," then stroked his cheek with such gentleness John could have cried. He scrunched his eyes shut, and sighed. He could give her nothing. She just had to accept his memory was pretty much shot to Hell, is all. Then maybe they could all start over. Be a team again. And he could pull his weight. Get back to normal. Whatever that was.
She waved a spoon in his face with an apologetic half-smile. He opened his mouth for her, whereupon she beamed. She drizzled in a mouthful, and he swallowed. It tasted beyond wonderful. His tongue detected a whole mess of flavors he'd never felt the need to identify until now.
"M-Marin. I... remember you. At least... I think I do."
He studied her as she spoon-fed him while he eagerly fed like a baby bird until the bowl was scraped clean. Her hair was long, wild, and matted. He remembered her with short, sleek, perfectly styled hair secured at the nape of her neck, showcasing her pretty face. He also remembered her immaculate, impractical, tight-fitting dress which left almost nothing to the imagination. Now she wore scruffy but unrestrictive leather looking every inch the fantasy warrior. So did the others, of which there were twenty or so.
They all appeared to be men apart from Marin, and were all busying themselves either cleaning or honing weapons. Marin seemed... looser somehow, more comfortable in her current skin. Like she'd found a purpose however sorry-assed. John found himself envying her if not admiring her. She totally owned that fantasy outfit.
By the time John had counted them all several times over until he decided he got it right, his head was spinning. He let his head sink back into his pillow, clenched his eyes shut, then felt a vague tugging around his neck as he fought to open his eyes even against the sirens of healing sleep. This was bliss, bed spins be damned.
...
When he woke up again, he knew he seriously needed to pee. He wondered if he'd pissed himself while he was out of it. Judging by the smell in the tent, he might well have soiled himself too.
"I think I... think I... need to... "
...
He was clean. He smelled great. Like - Old Spice great. Images of infirmary sponge baths came to mind. He pushed himself upright using his elbows. He smelled pretty good considering, though he preferred - gah! Which aftershave?! Which body wash?! Which toothpaste?! He had to ask...
"Someone... bathe me?"
"Nope, though we had several female volunteers, and one male." The man frowned at a sandy-haired dude, who flashed a cheesy grin, and waggled his equally sandy eyebrows suggestively at John. He shrugged, and shook his head in response. He didn't swing that way. Though he wondered why anyone, male or female, would rush to volunteer to wash his grubby, scarred, damaged, sweat-ridden body. That kind of thing had to be a chore.
"We hauled your miserable carcass on a travois down to the river, and let the running water do the job. Whoever's camping downriver is in for a shock. Hopefully it's the Overlord's foul minions and not other humans, and that you carry both dysentery and parasites," said Andon, his green eyes sparkling with humor. "At least I hope it was downriver and not up." He frowned again. "Anyway, the cold water cooled your post-injury fever, too. Torrell's bright idea. Your swill did double duty. Go away, Grimmell!"
Grimmell. The sandy-haired... dude. Oh, boy.
"Our Andon has a poor sense of direction. He once mis-fired a weapon of yours, and destroyed one of our shacks. He didn't realize which end was the business end. We usually only allow him knives. Or forks. Grimmell, you have been warned. Quit staring at him. Leave! Go... gather firewood or something."
John heard a chuckle in... Torrell's voice. Yeah, Torrell's.
"Weapon of mine?"
"Not of yours personally, but of – Never mind."
"I... don't remember."
"All you really need to remember for now is that we're a team."
"Team? Sounds about right, but I... I still don't remember."
...
"We will fill you in later! Fight, Just John!"
...
"Fight. The. Good. Fight!" Clap clap clap.
"We. Are. A. Team!" Clap clap clap.
"Brave Andon, Fair Marin, True Torrell and Just John!" Clap clap!
"I don't... "
"Remember? Eh?"
Believe you...
But after they told him many a tale of bravery, fairness, truth and justice, he did.
...
John's team nursed him back to health, taking it in turns to sit with him until he could finally lift himself off his sickbed. He reveled in the comfort they proffered him, though before long he started to brush them off, swiping their hands away, and knocking washcloths and bowls onto the dirt floor. They let him get away with it. Yep, he was growing ansty. John grunted as he pulled himself up into a seated position, and asked where he could take a shower. They all pointed to the river.
They filled him in on what had gone on while he was out of it. They told him how he'd been concussed during a skirmish with the Overlord's foul minions about a month ago, and had gotten sick from the open wound on the back of his head, most likely from the muddy swamp he'd collapsed in. He'd been feverish and delirious for weeks. They'd put a neck brace on him for good measure, they said. John's hand flew up to his neck, and he felt a raised welt there. He remembered something pressing on his Adam's apple, chafing it, and now it was gone.
Now he was well, they said, they intended to work towards infiltrating the castle come the fall, and rescue a handful of their fellow Olesians from the Overlord, after which they would skip to another world, and hopefully set up a permanent home, build up the remnants of their Wraith-culled people from scratch. John nodded. Made sense. They needed him, as he needed them.
...
John ached all over, but it was a good kind of ache. He was getting fit again. He was useful. He sharpened knives, gathered firewood from the surrounding forest, and water from the river. He wrangled giant, bucking bronco turkeys, slit their throats, then helped pluck them. Well, they were kinda like turkeys, only with elongated, ridable, three-seater bodies with twelve legs. No-one complained about that, since pretty much anyone who wanted got a drumstick. John found himself carving the meat, stuffing it between two slices of bread, and downing it in three bites, eliciting stares.
"It's called a sandwich," he declared with a grin. Random memories like that drove him nuts, and he often found himself taking off on a ten-mile run.
...
When Torrell carved strips of some dark snake meat one night around the cooking fire, John declared, "He himself, he, the Grinch, carved the roast beast."
They all stared at him. Like he was nuts.
"Okay, scratch that," he muttered, fumbling his fingers in the air in dismissal, then he sank his head into his arms. Something was wrong, but he didn't know what it was. He somehow knew they wouldn't get the reference. Heck, he didn't even get it himself. Had they lost so much of their culture while on the run? He asked Marin later on when it was their turn on night watch, and she just patted his arm, then went over to talk to Torrell. About him. After that, any snake meat was always called roast beast, but John knew something was amiss. He just didn't know what it was, apart from his poor memory. Roast beast sandwiches were often the order of the day, though he often found himself imagining himself a huge pile of turkipede sandwiches. Go figure.
...
John struggled to reacquaint himself with Olesian customs and habits, but nothing was sinking in or even sounding familiar. The loss was a side-effect of his injury and subsequent illness, they told him. He'd remember someday. He wondered when. Soon, they said. Every now and then, Andon slapped him on the back, and apologized.
"For what?"
"I... "
"Stuff happens," he'd reply tersely, cutting him short.
Andon needed to get over whatever part he'd played in his injury. John couldn't remember what happened, so Andon needed to drop it. John wasn't about to hold a grudge for an honest mistake, especially since all this had taken place months ago now. He rubbed the back of his head. His hair was growing out in a funny direction right where he'd hit it, but that was just one more crazy cowlick added to the collection. He briefly wondered whether he had suffered other head injuries in the past especially on the crown of his head, or had been born this way. Chances were he'd taken too many blows. That'd screw with anyone's memory. Well, anyway. There were other thing to preoccupy him and his team. Like the good fight.
...
It was time. John donned some scruffy black leather, selecting leggings, a tunic, a belt and a pair of knee-high boots someone else had worn in, all from the communal pile of pilfered clothing. Thankfully the boots had been sanitized, and only smelled leathery rather than cheesy. He also swung a baldric over his shoulder complete with sword, and strapped on two leather vambraces, in which he duly tucked several knives. That reminded him of someone. Andon? Yeah, Andon. Who else could it be? John frowned.
"M-Mad... Max," he muttered, as he put on a pair of night goggles.
"Mad Who?" Biln.
"Never mind."
Still, he felt more than a little, well, steampunk just then.
He kept hold of his boxers even though they were becoming more and more threadbare. He'd learned to sew just a little, as the tunic he'd selected needed a little patching up. It was enough to be able to darn his boxers in two patches where his ass cheeks had worn them down, and sew up a seam that'd had come apart at the crotch. He couldn't do much about the waistband where the elastic was poking through, but until the things fell apart on him, he'd wear them. He would rinse them out in the river – downriver, of course - and hang them on a branch to dry, while he perched on a log in vigil with a cloth around his waist, trying to avoid eye contact with Grimmell as they both whittled sticks into spears in preparation for the upcoming battle. The good fight. At last. They had prepped for this for nearly a year now. They were tough and fighting fit.
His boxers became an endless source of amusement. Yeah, the whole over-protective wash and wear thing was some idiosyncrasy of his, but for some reason, he wasn't prepared to give them up. They all teased him mercilessly around the camp fire, but it was all in good fun, he decided. Mixell suggested he'd had a special blankie as a baby in the same design. Pahn suggested they were a token of a particularly memorable tryst even though he couldn't remember anything of it which set everyone in fits of laughter. Torrell said it was most likely women's clothing he'd torn off a washing line offworld along with a frock, whereupon Grimmell said something lewd about the strange 'women' he must have encountered there since there was a slit in the front and not below, then eyed him up hopefully. Marin told them all to leave him alone. Yeah, his continued severe memory loss was another source of ribbing alongside his scars, his ears and his cowlicks. Times were he didn't even dare take off his boots in public in case they discovered he had a rolling pinkie toe on his right foot. John chuckled, enjoying the ribald camaraderie, then he gathered himself, and looked up shyly.
"Cut it out, guys," he ground out in mock seriousness as they donned their leather armor around twilight, though he finally threw them one of his cocky half smiles. Something was out of kilter, but he didn't have time to dwell. Something was bothering him, but it'd have to keep. For now. He could address it after the good fight, now known as The Good Fight with air quotes. It would go down in history. John only hoped he would remember, though he seemed to be getting better at recalling. He remembered almost everything after his accident, but before that was pretty much a blur. They reluctantly filled him in from time to time, but none of the stories they told jogged his memory. They didn't seem to be ones for talking about Olesia. He guessed it hurt too much. Maybe he was the lucky one after all.
...
Winter loomed, and they needed to be out of here before the snow flew. They'd already endured one harsh winter here, not that John could remember anything before the accident, which had taken place during their first abortive incursion, right at the start of spring. They had been at their lowest ebb back then, but had expected to win since they were on the side of right. They weren't about to make the same mistake again. They used the summer to lick their wounds, get fit, gather supplies, and were set to rescue their own now that it was late fall. The first vicious bite of their second winter on this planet was in the air both morning and evening. Mid-day was still pleasantly warm.
So this was it. They were about to rescue five fellow Olesians who'd been captured the moment they'd set foot on this world around a year ago. All women. Apparently the Overlord liked to abduct beautiful women from all over the galaxy. Sindon said that the Overlord was a fat, ugly, slimy bastard who couldn't get women unless he drugged them into compliance, and how he sometimes even liked having them all at once. Sindon had seen one sorry orgy on a spying mission. He'd been close enough at one point to make the kill shot, but at least seven women had been writhing all over the Overlord at the time, and his own incapacity had wrenched his heart asunder.
"He has my sister, Jerin," Sindon said to John quietly one evening, his eyes full of pain.
John couldn't remember Jerin. So what else was new? But he flashed an empathetic look all the same. It didn't matter if he knew someone personally or not. Kidnapping, enslavement, rape – it was all wrong. Wrongs that needed to be righted.
"We'll get her back. And free the others," he declared, as he steeled himself for The Good Fight.
The only female around was Marin, though she was Torrell's woman. Grimmell was still after him, but he finally managed to set him straight. Well, not exactly straight. John told Grimmell he preferred brunettes as a rule, whereupon Grimmell finally backed off, and set his sights on Pahn, another tall, lean man with dark hair and light eyes. He felt relieved when Grimmell and Pahn became an 'item'.
The only real problem now was the Overlord's foul minions. John hadn't seen one yet despite scouting for a sighting of one, but from the description, they were ugly bastards, too. They were gray-skinned hulks with glowing red eyes. And apparently they were vicious fighters. Seemed they weren't averse to biting either.
FMs. Foul minions. They were the ones with the really cool stunners. That was all they really knew. Seemed they weren't quite human, although the Overlord himself was, according to Sindon's intel. John wondered why they were in league with him, and he with them. Made no sense. What kind of man would sell out his own kind?
...
The sun rose, and began to burn off the pre-dawn mist. John yawned, snuffled and stretched, kicked off his blanket, and sprang up, already kitted out. Their band soon gathered around the doused campfire, ate and drank in companionable silence, then set off at a pace, him with barely a limp now. They ran though the day, rested briefly during a moonlit night, taking it in turns to guard their small band, and ran again, practically until twilight of the next day. When he saw the castle for the first time as they reached the edge of the forest, John gasped, and started to hyperventilate. He braced himself against the nearest tree. Those gleaming, geometrical spires took his breath away...
The next thing he knew, he was staring up at a clear blue sky. Whoa. John spread his arms out to steady himself, keeping a death grip on tufts of grass. He could feel a stark brace around his chest akin to the one that had once encompassed his neck, and he raised a shaking hand to scrub it away from his sternum to his navel, feeling the slickness of endless sweat. His free hand groped for then gripped the tufts once more in case he went on a tailspin, pulling too many Gs as he spiraled out of control. His F-302 had been hit. His Black Hawk was down. He was crash-landing behind enemy lines! He couldn't eject!
"Aaaggghhh!"
"Hush now... "
Marin was dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth, stroking his bangs away from his face. She managed to ground him, pretty much literally. But... Gs? He didn't need to be grounded! He needed to fly!
"Whuh?"
"He needs to know the truth!" she cried.
"The truth can keep until after the rescue," said Torrell flatly.
"What truth?" John whispered hoarsely in between puffing.
"He can't handle the truth," Torrell said to Marin. "Look what it just did to him."
"Try me," John growled, as he scanned the sky for a black hawk.
"After the rescue. I give you my word."
"Look." John rolled his head, and winced. " I don't know why I fai- passed out just now, but – does it have something to do with that... castle?"
"Yes. It does."
"Torrell!" yelled Marin, her face flushed with anger. "John... " She shook her head, and looked away.
John frowned.
"Well, since that's where we're headed, maybe it'll all come back to me. Was that where I was wounded?"
"It is," declared Torrell.
"So what you're saying is... the circumstances of my head injury is a little more shady than I've been led to believe. I'm thinking Andon didn't have my six. He keeps apologizing to me." John rolled his eyes.
"Six? Yeah, something like that."
"Andon and I are good. Like I said to him, stuff happens." John sat upright, shrugged, then stood up, fighting against falling over again, ending up staggering a few steps before he regained his equilibrium and his dignity. John drew himself up to full height, then drew in a long, steadying breath. "So, we stick to the plan. Get everyone out, then hightail it to the ancestral ring. Per plan," John ground out with a nod. He jabbed his right hand emphatically at each member of his team in turn, "I'll take point on the way to the castle, and watch everyone's six on the way to the ring." He could see the concern in all their faces. Seems they were worried he would pass out again. He wasn't going to let that happen.
"Guys?" Whoa. It felt good to have someone give a damn. He shrugged away their attention, at the same time basking in it. I'm good, he thought. They care, he thought. "Anyway, I'm okay now. I know my memory is shot, but I can still do my job here. So how about we get the party started?" John swayed slightly, then rallied with a sigh, and started lumbering then striding towards the castle. He was soon joined by the others, who either flanked him or fell in behind. It had felt great to be going on a mission. At long last. They were well armed even against those freaky alien stunners, and every last man – and one woman - was fighting fit. They'd all worked hard for this. Failure was not an option. He still felt a little weird, but he hid it as best he could, and he ran tall and straight.
Andon wandered off to one side in what John perceived to be a sulk. Andon was armed with endless knives and a really cool stunner, which he'd wrested off a so-called foul minion. The rest of them had ballistic weapons including makeshift mini-cannons, bows, arrows, slingshots, and spears. John caught up with him, hoping to draw him back into their little band. Something was clearly bothering Andon. Heck, something was bothering John.
The stunners fire green and not blue or red! Why?
"Hey, buddy? Just make sure you fire that thing in the right direction, huh?" John slapped him on the back. Andon looked sheepish. Times were Andon couldn't look John in the eye. "Just kidding, buddy," he added with a shrug.
John trudged on. He guessed Andon just needed to work things out for himself. John had hoped he'd have understood by now that he wasn't one to hold a grudge. He wondered if he would ever regain the closeness he once had with him. Or thought he had.
Behind him, he could hear Torrell and Marin arguing in stage whispers.
"Criminal! Murderer! When this is over, I'm – "
"That's rich, coming from the mouth of a woman arrested for treason!"
"I was a good citizen, True Torrell!"
"No, you were a good little girl who wanted to hang out with the big bad boys. I know your type of old, Fair Marin."
Marin let out an exasperated growl. Then she came up to John, and rested a hand on his forearm. He thought she might have had tears in her eyes. Yep, that had been some row. He felt real bad for her, though he held back from holding her in any awkward gesture of mutual comfort.
"I'm sorry, John, but you are living a lie, and have done so for the better part of a year," she whispered before falling back in with her man. John gasped, then shook his head.
As much as he wanted to know the truth about a mission that went south so that it wouldn't go down like that again, it really didn't matter that much. He was with his team, which was about as great as it could get, and yeah, all was well with the universe. He had a fair idea of what happened. He could read between the lines. It was pretty clear by now that Andon had typically fired the stunner in the wrong direction, John had been hit, landed in a mud puddle or bog or swamp or what-have-you, and had struck the back of his head on a rock or a pile of rubble. Some nasty bacterium or other had gotten into his system, and he'd developed a life-threatening fever along the lines of pneumonia. John couldn't blame Andon, and he wished the guy would just talk to him about the incident, finally get it off his chest. Maybe asap before the rescue so he'd know where he stood, though he kept telling himself it could keep. Andon paused, waited for John to catch up with him, and wordlessly handed the stunner over, a serious expression on his face.
"You don't have to do this, buddy."
"Yeah, I do."
John grinned.
"Cool!"
He'd... always wanted one of those? He spun it in his forefinger a few times, then tucked it into his belt. This was the best. Life couldn't be better. He beamed.
John took point as planned, still beaming, and patting his new weapon of choice. He would take six on the way to the ring, and make sure everyone got through before going through himself. He scarfed down some turkipede jerky and a roast beast sandwich, washed it down with a swig of water from his canteen, and pulled out his stunner – his stunner! - twirling it once more before hefting it into defense mode as they neared the perimeter of the castle.
John ogled his new toy. It glinted in the moonlight. He found himself wishing he had another one just like it so he could fire with both hands.
He finally remembered something. That when it came to weapons, he was ambidextrous. Wow. Which brought him right back to cool.
...
They met with little resistance, and overran the castle. Turned out a third of the FMs were coincidentally engaged in another skirmish to the north where there was a human stronghold, if the sound of gunfire and the occasional rocket flare were anything to go by, and they themselves stumbled upon another third...
John stiffened as he and the rest of his team surveyed the scene in a darkened room. It was creepy to say the least. The FMs were suspended in metallic industrial chic pods, hooked up to overhead power packs leading to a jack on their heads, looking for all the world like they'd been switched off, and were recharging, their eyes open and unseeing. Weird.
John didn't hesitate. He took them all out, his stunner set to kill. He wasn't about to take prisoners who might leap up and bite them on the ass, in this case, literally, given their dentition. They reminded him of something. Wraith.
They finally found the stolen women in one vast room in one of the turrets, many cuddling or entertaining babies and toddlers who looked like they'd never seen the sun, though they all looked clean and cared for if not pampered. The double sliding door opened upon approach. He wondered why the women hadn't just snuck out.
There was abundant food lying around, plenty of toys for the kids, some jewelry scattered here and there, and the room smelled of expensive perfume. There was ample, lush bedding, what looked to be an entertainment center, and when he checked an en suite – endless baths with towels and scented candles and oils. Still, none wanted to remain in the lap of luxury, it seemed, since they burst from the room as one after a moment's hesitation and the odd scream. Several snatched up jewelry on the way, placing it on the run around their necks and wrists, or shoving it in pockets.
John led them all down and out of the turret via transporters that revealed themselves to him. Cool! He had to shush the agitated women from time to time, and in doing so, he noticed they were all wearing bikini tops and harem pants. The pale, wispy-haired, platinum-blonde children were either dressed in light blue silky overalls for boys or light pink silky jumpers for girls. One even wore a sissy tiara. That kid, a chunky, sly-looking, brown-eyed boy of around three with a thatch of spiky ginger hair was the only one with any color, though his complexion was still somewhat sallow. John put it all down to lack of sunshine and vitamins.
He shot up a few more FM guards here and there, but one got away, which really pissed him off. Not that it mattered. John picked up another stunner, and fired using both hands. Seemed the Overlord himself had gone into hiding, maybe in some secret chamber, since there was neither hide nor hair of him. They really looked everywhere, checking behind bookshelves, even dialing clocks like they were combination locks. That suited John just fine. He didn't have time to worry. They had to get themselves to the gate. Still, the weird thing was the way just about every door to any chambers just opened for them – no, him! - at will, making this mission easy. Except of course for supposed secret chambers, which never revealed themselves.
There was no use of... C4? – he'd have to ask his good buddy Torrell about that memory - or cracking passwords, or...
Rodney!
Real Rodney!
...switching door crystals. He'd have to ask Torrell about those memories, too. Not that Torrell or any of the others were ever forthcoming. John wanted regular doors to open, and they did. It didn't seem to work that way for any of the others, and before long, they were yelling his name to bring him to yet another door. When they found the treasury, all hell broke loose, and half their number tipped up provisions from their packs in favor of plunder.
He was beginning to think there was something oddball about this castle, or maybe there was something oddball about him. No-one else, it seemed, had this ability. John could rest assured that Torrell would tell him more about those whys and wherefores once they had all gone safely through the ancestral ring, especially if he goaded him or whined at him enough, or plied him with drink. They would all unwind around a camp fire, toasting their own good fortune, reunited at last; the last remnants of their people. They could finally talk about their collective past without all the heartache associated with terrible loss. From there they could pick up the pieces, and compose even more merry songs of bravery, truth, fairness and justice. John couldn't sing to save his life, but that hadn't ever prevented him from joining in even though he'd forgotten the lyrics to Olesian folk music. To him and everyone else, it was just another John thing.
He wouldn't be the one dialing same as Andon wouldn't be the one firing. They each had their strong suits. Torrell was a great leader, and Marin did a fine job of keeping all her menfolk in check. John was great at – magically opening doors, it seemed, and shooting two stunners simultaneously. Mixell, Sindon and Pahn were good at following orders. Grimmell told a fine tale around the camp fire. Rildon was a great folk singer. Dorn wasn't a bad hunter. Andon? Well, he was just Andon. Who sometimes even threw knives in the wrong direction. Then there was Fannell, Biln, and a few others whose names eluded him, who stood their ground in a fight. One of their number was a great cook, and could toss together a decent meal with whatever came to hand, though he sometimes went out to forage for herbs, disappearing for hours on end, only to come back with a bay leaf. Now who was it? John wasn't good at remembering things yet. Soon. They said. Soon. But when? It had been pretty much a year!
They only had two casualties. Nothing serious. Just one stunning, and one knife wound. Biln had a knife lodged in a gap between his armor, which Andon pulled out without warning, and tucked it into a boot, leaving Biln staggering, his face fixed in a silent scream. Grimmell had been hit in the arm by an incendiary FM stunner blast, which rendered the limb useless for a time. John had ordered Pahn to pat out the flames. Not too much harm done, though some suspected Andon had found another stunner, and had fired wrong as usual. John found himself wondering about Biln's knife wound, too. Unless the FMs had suddenly become very adept at throwing knives, then Andon was the usual suspect.
Now they had all five Olesian women back in one piece, which was beyond great. They also rescued over a dozen more women of every very exposed skin color imaginable, and they were all pretty much runway models.
The Overlord had taken seven of these women all at once?!
John shook his head. He could daydream later. It was mostly the supermodels who had babies and small children in tow. A stunning redhead was dragging the oldest kid, the sallow-complexioned boy with the spiky ginger hair, rather than carrying him, and the kid used his other hand to keep his sissy tiara in place as he wobbled on his short, fat little legs in an effort to keep up. Yep, that kid looked heavy. Little wonder his mother didn't carry him. She couldn't lift him.
None of the Olesian women looked remotely pregnant. Okay, bar Zorin, unless she'd merely eaten well. Sindon was running with a woman who thankfully was flat in the belly, though that probably didn't mean much, since women didn't 'show' in the early stages of pregnancy, or so he believed. So that was Jerin then, Sindon's sister. Jerin whispered to her brother, who nodded slowly, then grinned broadly. He guessed what the exchange was about. John heaved a sigh of relief for his good buddy, and for Jerin herself, whom he'd have to get to know, or reacquaint himself with since he couldn't remember her at all. Or did he? She was a tall, slim, striking, with shoulder-length auburn curls and hazel eyes. She was vivacious despite her ordeal. Perhaps he did know her well once. Perhaps she'd even been a lover. He could address that later. Heck, address a lot of unresolved issues he'd shoved on the back burner.
John stayed on six as they gained the ancestral ring, scanning with his stunner at the ready for any sign of being followed. There were probably half a dozen FMs on their tail, but that wasn't bad odds. Torrell, who was on point, doubled back to him, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"So, to my mind we should keep these non-Olesian women and their children, and rebuild our own people. What say you, Just John?"
"Reckon we should try to find their homeworlds, help them rediscover their culture and heritage, reunite them with their loved ones, people who care. That kind of thing."
John turned to see Torrell's expression cloud over.
"I guess to bottom line it, we should ask them first, not decide for them," John added with a shrug.
"I see," said Torrell, who eyed him long and hard with those pinprick-irised pale blue eyes of his, then turned on his heel, and dashed up the stone steps to the dais. He dialed, and the ring billowed towards them in a shimmering blue light, then settled into a rippling pool of water that looked just like blue bubble mix on a blower. Marin, Andon and Grimmell urged everyone through. John gasped when a pale toddler with peach fuzz on its otherwise bald head gazed back at him in curiosity from the safety of his mother's hip. It had glowing red eyes. The kid snarled at him, and John saw that its tiny milk teeth were shark-like rather than even. What with the kid's grayish pallor...
Crap!
John dashed up the steps. They were all in danger! Torrell blocked him, standing four-square.
What gives?
"You had to go and spoil it all, didn't you. Go all noble on me. Well, we Olesians are keeping the women and children, and you, you dumb, stupid, trusting Atlantian, can rot here. You've served your purpose. Farewell, Just John."
"Whuh? No, wait! There's something you need to know!" he pleaded.
The ... thethethe AU Daedalus! Invasion!
Before John could react, Torrell punched him in the gut, and as he doubled over, Torrell shoved him down the stone steps. John tumbled head over heels, struggling to roll rather than fall, and screamed as his bum leg snapped in two places. As he lay there, groaning and panting, graying out from the agony of yet another broken leg, he saw Torrell's smug expression, Marin's air of regret, Grimmell's mien of lost opportunity, and Andon's look of relief. Then they disappeared from sight just as the bubble popped.
So this was it. John was no longer of any use. The lower branches of his leg had snapped again. He lay there all alone, splayed upside down on the stone steps, staring skywards, awaiting the carrion crows.
He felt then heard the rhythmic pounding of hooves, and rumbling, alien battle cries - both on the approach. Riders. He couldn't take any more, the pain from his broken leg was overwhelming, but the pain in his tattered heart and his wrecked soul was all encompassing. He willed himself to dissolve, to dissipate, to evaporate, to scatter, to melt; to die. It was not to be.
He realized as he stared, eyes stinging, open-mouthed, at the ancestral ring, which morphed back and forth between a giant monocle and a pair of eyeglasses in his blurry, double vision, that he hadn't even saved his small band of Olesian refugees from themselves. Not then, and not now. They were doomed. He'd failed them once more. He had failed himself, his team, and now he'd probably even failed humankind.
He was nothing more than a scarecrow in winter after all, adrift on his cross in the bleak, starless void between galaxies.
John cried out to the universe, but all he heard in response was mindless static.
