A/N: Belisse you're in luck since the Sophmores at my school have to do ISAT testing this week (Ha, Ha, suckers) and pass if they want to graduate high school, us lucky Juniors and Seniors basically get four glorious days of absolutly no homework, which means I hade enough free time to write this chapter so soon after the last. So no need to send those snipers out after me, besides if your snipers get me how will I finish this story?
There is a character death in this chapter, but fear not because by the end of this story everything should work out more or less.
The Pit was exactly the same as always, but to John's eyes, it had become even more vile and sinister, even more evil. Because this time, he would either kill his best friend, or be killed himself. John had never been close to any of his opponents before, he'd always kept himself isolated and hidden away, so that when he fought, he knew nothing more about his opponent other than what their strengths and weaknesses were. No personal information meaning no personal attachments.
But this time was different. This time, John knew his opponent personally. He knew what food Rodney liked, knew what his favourite movies were, knew how he liked his coffee, knew how he hated ignorant people, knew how much he loved blondes. John knew everything, every strength, every weakness, every little detail. John sighed, watching his feet as he walked inside, listening with a small flinch of sorrow as Rodney was quite literally thrown in behind him.
Two days had passed since their torture, and they were both healing as well as could be expected. They were still injured, still in pain, but the bosses had decreed that the fight would take place tonight, no matter what. John's skin still ached from the branding irons, and his muscles throbbed whenever he tried to move. John was weak, and he knew it. He had never fought in such a weakened condition, and though his training helped him to overcome many forms of pain, this pain was a completely new level of agony and John couldn't quite handle it. Nothing allowed him to escape it, not exercises, or even complex math problems, and he knew that because of it, Rodney stood a better chance of winning.
Rodney's injuries weren't as bad as John's, because he'd suffered for a smaller amount of time because his torture had been after John's. Cuts, bruises, a broken rib, a sprained ankle, and a shoulder that had been dislocated. Rodney had spent a few hours unconscious, something that John had been grateful for, as it gave him time to think.
John had thought a lot during that time, had thought about his past, about his present, about his rather shaky future. He'd thought about his friendship with Rodney, thought about his other friends, thought about his enemies, thought about the people who didn't quite fall into either the 'friend' or 'foe' category. He thought about his skills and talents, about his weaknesses and faults. John also thought about something he rarely did, he thought about his faith.
He'd never really believed in God, the thought that there was some mystical higher power guiding and dictating his actions and that he had a destiny and stuff like that was a bit too fantastical for him to really believe in - which was kind of ironic considering he currently lived in an another galaxy in a city built by a highly advanced race of aliens - but sometimes, he did find himself thinking about what happened after death. The thought that everything just stopped was too depressing, but if that wasn't true, then what exactly did happen? Was it Heaven or Hell, was it reincarnation, what exactly happened?
John had never actually decided what he believed, and what he wanted to happen, but he did know that he wanted things to keep going, in one way or another. He always wanted a piece of himself, some part of his spirit, his essence, his soul, to continue on. Whether it was in another body or an animal or hell, even a tree, John didn't really care. The details weren't important to him, just the basic need for some piece of himself to live on forever. And that, to him was good enough.
The sound of the weapons being tossed into The Pit dragged John out of his dreamlike thoughts and brought him crashing back into the brutal reality. Rodney was kneeling down on the dirty floor, a rather large and very sharp knife next to his right knee. John watched as Rodney slowly reached out to grasp it.
John's heart gave one painful thud then settled down into a slow, steady rhythm. Biting his lip, John crouched down to pick up the nearest weapon, two solid and hefty fighting sticks. John knew how to handle them well thanks to his training with Teyla, they were much more powerful than the ones he and Teyla had used, but also slightly trickier to handle due to their mass and weight, but John was confident he could handle them and gave them an experimental twirl, getting used to the feel of them in his hands.
Gripping the fighting sticks tightly John shifted his footing so that he was in a more solid fighting stance, ready for the fight to begin.
John was the first to move, he knew Rodney would never make the initial attack, knew that his friend would stay still and hope for a last minute miracle, a last minute rescue. But John was more realistic, he knew that there were no miracles, no rescue coming in time, not for them anyway, and he wanted this nightmare to be over with as soon as possible. So, making sure he had a good grip on his weapon, John darted forward, pushing all thought and emotion out of his mind and heart.
Rodney dived out of the way, rolling on the ground and coming up in a defensive crouch. He discarded the knife instead picking up a long metal pipe. John lunged forward again. Rodney stayed in his crouch until the last second, before rolling onto his back, pipe coming up to block John's fighting sticks. Both of them strained against the other, pushing against the other weapon. They were nearly equal in strength, but what difference there was equalled out by John's superior position and better leverage.
John quickly realised this for the stalemate it was and jumped backwards, twirling the fighting sticks again just to impress the crowd. Rodney flipped himself onto his feet and did some impressive moves with his pipe, apparently trying to impress the crowd as well.
"You've kept up with your training." John was slightly impressed, Rodney had appearently kept up with his fighting lessons even though John hadn't been around to hound him every second about them.
"And you haven't let your skills slip," Rodney murmured, stalking around the Pit in an attempt to get behind John, an attempt foiled by John copying Rodney's movements, matching him step for step.
"If I had, we wouldn't be in this perdicament, I'd be dead already." John replied, just as quietly.
"True, but that's just like you, always having to be the best." It was a weak attempt at trying to get under John's skin, to remind him that Roney was one of the few people John would call a true friend, but John just let the comment wash over him, not letting it affect him.
Instead, John leapt forward, aiming one of his fighting sticks at Rodney's head. Rodney blocked it with no trouble just as John knew he would, and before the scientist knew what hit him, John had used the other fighting stick to sweep Rodney's feet out from under him.
Rodney landed on his back with a groan, John gave Rodney no time to recover before he was moving to hit him again, forcing Rodney to roll away and come up in a battle crouch. Rodney moved forward, trying for a classic head strike with his pipe, but John blocked it, sweeping a fighting stick down and out before bringing it up to try for a similar move.
The crowd was cheering and shouting things, ranging from encouragement to insults, but inside the Pit all was silent. Neither man said anything, there was nothing to say. They were no longer friends, they were enemies, and neither of them spoke to their enemies.
The low, hard clacking of their weapons meeting was steady and rapid, quick, sharp beats like a fast heartbeat. They moved around the Pit, not really watching where they were going, just always aware of where the weapons and walls were so that they didn't trip or get cornered. Neither of them were thinking, they couldn't afford to, they were just reacting, while everything but their bodies and primitive instincs shut down.
They'd practised against each other for months - John had insisted that if any civilains were going to be on field teams they had to know how to defend themselevs - before either of them had ended up in this hell hole and their bodies knew what to do, knew how to defend and attack, how to react to certain moves. Their bodies saw traps and strategies and reacted to them without any input from their brains. Fighting was automatic, instinct, for them now.
John realised quickly that they were almost evenly matched and that unless one of them got creative, the fight could last for hours. He didn't want it to last for hours, his muscles were already screaming at him to end the fight right then and there or they were going to be seriously pissed at him. John thought desperately, trying to think up a strategy, a plan, that would work. Rodney was smart, not just book smart but over all smart and not enough people gave him credit for that. Rodney wasn't always aware of it, but he was often able to anticipate an enemy's moves in advance and figure out traps. 'Knowing it's a trap is the first step in avading it' had been one of the very first things John had drilled into Rodney's head about fighting.
Knowing that a trap wouldn't work, John decided he just had to do something obvious and simple. He pushed Rodney away and darted to the side, putting a foot of empty space between them. Before Rodney could rush him, John made his move; he threw one fighting stick in the air while droping the other. Rodney glanced at the fighting stick in the air out of instinct, a bare flick of the eyes that didn't even last a second, but it was just enough.
John jumped forward, his body already doing the work before his mind could tell it to. John kicked Rodney in the chest, hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs as he collapsed onto the ground. John grabbed a knife that lay on the ground, already moving towards his friend. In one fluid and continuous movement, never stopping or hesitating, John went down on one knee, flipping the knife in his hand for a better strike, and brought it down into his friend's chest, automatically finding the heart.
Rodney gasped, a wet, gurgling kind of sound, back arching up off the ground, hands clawing at the knife buried in his chest. He stared straight up, his eyes shimmering with tears. Rodney's body shuddered then collapsed back onto the ground, quiet, limp, lifeless.
John jerked the knife out of Rodney's chest, staring at the crimson blade for a moment before letting it fall from his hand. John bowed his head closing his eyes against a suspicious wetness. His shaggy hair slid forward, hiding his face from the cheering crowd. He could hear them screaming and shouting and clapping and stamping their feet, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.