A/N: Must thank everyone who's reviewed this so far. Imagine my surprise and delight when I woke up this morning to find several lovely reviews sitting in my inbox just waiting to be read.
John could remember all their names all the guards. He knew their names, knew what they looked like, and knew that every single one of them would die at his hands before he left this godforsaken place.
John had never actually explored the building, there were only three places he was ever allowed to be: his cell, the Pit, and the luxury room, and it was a direct route each time. John quickly confirmed that the building was a maze of corridors. He passed a couple of elevators that would presumably lead up, but ignored them; he had a mission.
The first guard John came across was named Brayden, one of the more 'normal' of the guards, fairly young, but with a very good right-hook. Not expecting to see John, Brayden ran down the corridor with a mildly panicked expression, John raised the baton he'd taken, bringing it around to smash into the guard's face. Brayden slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor, unconscious with a broken jaw. John shot him in the head, the shot echoing in the empty corridor, and grabbed the guards gun, shoving it behind his back, not a perfect place but it would have to do.
John moved on, straining all his senses and pausing to listen cautiously before turning a corner. It was empty, and he moved along it cautiously, eyes darting around, searching out any traps. His feet made no sound as he walked, his training making him move like a ghost. He had six targets, not including Forza. John knew that the chances of killing all of them without getting hurt, or worse, was slim, but didn't care.
John passed a door, but paused when he heard a scuffling noise from inside. He listened closely and ascertained that there was only one person in there, trying very hard to be quiet and actually doing quite a good job more or less.
John took a step back and studied the door. It was fairly poor quality, thin wood and easily breakable. He stared at it, focusing all his attention on a spot just next to the handle, until it was all he could see. Then he kicked it sharply, his booted foot connecting with a low thump. The lock splintered and the door swung back on its hinges, revealing the room inside.
He was already scanning the room with his eyes and gun, seeking out a target. It turned out to be one of guards who had branded him. John's shot was perfect, the bullet hitting the guard just above his Adam's apple, and he fell to the floor, blood pooling around his neck. John walked swiftly into the room, looking down at the body. He could still feel the pain across his back and thighs, and could remember with sick clarity the words decorating his skin.
He'd killed him too quickly, John thought. The man should have suffered, should have been tormented like he had. John was remorsful that he'd granted the guard such a quick, merciful death. But there wasn't any other option, he rationalised. Making them suffer was a luxury he wanted to indulge in, but couldn't. The necessity was that they all died, and if he wasted time hurting them, the risk of getting caught and killed increased dramatically.
John's body was thrumming with nerves, his muscles were tense and aching already from the stress he was exerting on his wounded body, but his mind was clear, for the first time in days John was thinking in a clear and concise manner, very detached from his emotions. He knew that later when he was safe and warm, he would get emotional, that he'd allow himself to feel what he'd been through, but he couldn't afford that now. He was close to the end, too close to give in to any weakness in any form and sometimes emotions were a weakness.
John killed two more guards together as they rushed past him, looking at their limp bodies to ascertain whether they were on his list of targets. They weren't but in as far as he was concerned, the more people involved in this macabre situation he killed, the better. He knelt down to steal the clip from one of the guard's gun and shoved it into his pocket, just in case he needed the extra ammo.
He couldn't hear the fighting anymore, but didn't know whether it was because the fighting had ceased or cause he'd simply moved too far away. It wasn't really important, John thought, either way, he still had a mission to do. The only other thing he cared about was the other prisoners, he wanted them safe and far away from this horrible place, which was odd because he'd never really given a damn about them before. Still, he knew that Ford and Markham were taking care of it, so he pushed the thought out of his mind.
The soft sound of someone's voice reached John's ears causing him to pause and listen carefully. It was male, not surprising, and only took John seconds to identify the voice, a grim smile curled John's lips. Gripping the gun tightly in his hand, John rested against the wall for a minute to think up a plan. He could just charge into the room and shoot, but that would be too merciful and this bastard didn't deserve mercy.
Taking a deep breath, John inched forward and kicked the door open, gun up and aiming even as he walked forward. He had jumped up when John entered, hands coming up to show that he was unarmed. John spared a moment to think about what a fucking worthless piece of shit the man was before pulling the trigger. The bullet created a gleaming red hole in the palm of the man's hand and he collapsed to his knees with a pitiful wail.
John shook his head and shot him again, this time in the thigh, being careful to avoid the major arteries and muscles. He didn't want him to die too soon. The guard wailed again, tears leaking from his eyes and he stared up at John with a mixture of horror, desperation and fear.
"You're a fucking pathetic Keeshaw!" John hissed, glaring down at him. "I spent all this time at your mercy and never once could you break me. But I put two fucking bullets in you and you're cryin' and moanin' like a fucking baby!"
John backhanded Keeshaw, hard, and he sprawled onto the ground, whimpering and shaking. He looked up at John and opened his mouth to speak, but a quick kick to the stomach prevented that.
"You think it was fun Keeshaw?" John brought his booted foot down hard on Keeshaw's side. He heard the sick sound of a rib cracking and felt a spark of triumph within. "Did you think it was a right ol' laugh to humiliate and degrade me and the others like that? Well guess what? I'm not fuckin' laughing!"
John gave another kick to Keeshaw's stomach, hard enough that he coughed up a little bit of blood and bile. John looked down at Keeshaw for a moment, trying to calm the raging storm of hatred and violence that was brewing in him. His hands itched with the need to punch and pull and strangle and hurt him. He'd spent all this time of suffering his violence, forcing himself to not react, to not let it affect him, and now he was the one in control. John could do anything to Keeshaw and he really wanted to.
John took another deep breath and pushed his hair out of his eyes. Keeshaw had struggled to his knees and John gave him another casual yet powerful kick before kneeling down in front of him, the gun held loosely in his hand but also in front of Keeshaw's face. John quirked an eyebrow when he saw how Keeshaw's eyes fixed on it, wide with fear. What a fucking coward.
"You wanna know what you're biggest mistakes was?" John asked quietly. "It was dragging my friend it to this shit hole and then hurting him. Because no one hurts my friends, my family without answering to me."
John pressed the barrel of the gun against Keeshaw's forehead and looked into his terrified, pale blue eyes. The sound of the gun firing didn't even make John flinch, nor did the blood that splattered onto his cheek. He watched with grim satisfaction as the light disappeared from Keeshaw's eyes and his body went limp, the limpness that only comes with death. Then he stood up and left, mentally scratching one name off his list of victims.
Thirty minutes later and John only had one target left. His left shoulder was aching, but that probably had to do with the bullet buried somewhere in his flesh. He'd tied a temporary tourniquet around it but knew that he needed to get some proper medical attention soon. It was a distant thought, though, just an automatic note sent to his consciousness by his ever-practical brain.
After five minutes of aimless wandering, John walked into an empty room and let himself relax for a minute, taking note of his sweat-soaked skin, his panting breath and pounding heart. John slumped to the floor, resting his head against the wall, and just let himself breath for a little while, feeling the adrenaline that still rushed through his veins. He was so close, just one more death and he would finally be free of this place. So close…
But, as usually happened in his life, things weren't that easy. John had one target left, but no idea how to find him. He didn't even know if the man was still in the building, it would just be like that slimy rat to tuck tail and run when things got bad. John started to think that he should've kept one of the guards alive, made him tell her when Forza was. But he'd been so caught up in the killing, the bloodlust, that he hadn't stopped to think about that.
Sighing John closed his eyes, relaxing his grip on the gun. His fingers were hurting, hell his whole hand was starting to cramp up from holding the gun for so long, and after a moment's hesitation John put it gently on the floor in front of him, wiggling his fingers and clenching and un-clenching his fist.
John needed a plan. For once, his usual strategy of just charging in head-first wouldn't work, mainly because he didn't know which direction to charge in. If he knew where Forza was, then he'd just grab his gun, check his ammo, and run after him, but he could be anywhere. John shouldn't have spent so much time killing the guards. Yes, they'd been important people to kill, he'd fulfilled his silent promise to Rodney, to kill everyone who touched him and Rodney, but Forza was a lot more important. He was the big fish, his personal, private personification of evil and wickedness. When Forza was dead, when his warm blood coated John's hands, he would finally be able to rest. If he escaped, if he fled before John could kill him, Forza would always haunt him, John could feel it. It was like he was locking away this horrid experience, burying it deep in his mind, pushing it out of his heart, and Forza's death was the final brick, the last shovel of dirt, the snap of the lock.
John shook his head to clear it, berating himself for letting his mind wander, he had to remain focused. Just a little while longer, then he could rest. John kept repeating that in his head like a mantra as he forced herself to stand up. He had to think calmly, logically. There was always a way, always a solution, he just had to find it.
He looked around and noticed a desk sitting in the room, for the first time. Cautiously John walked over and sat down, flipping through all the papers that were spread across the desk top. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for and spent a few minutes searching through folders. He found a list of names that he assumed were people who paid to see the fights, he also found another list of names that had a date listed next to it. John recognised a couple and knew that it was a list of dead fighters.
After a few minutes of searching, John found more than he could have hoped for - a map of the building, including a secret corridor that appeared to lead away from the building. Bingo. John studied the map, noting the various entrances to the corridor, and figured out that the nearest one was just a few doors down from where he was. Picking up his gun, John checked the ammo and then set off again, walking swiftly down the hall until he found the right office. John strode to the back wall, and felt around near the bottom until he found the small little depression. Pushing it as hard as he could, he heard a small click and a section of the wall swung inward to reveal a secret passageway.
It was dim, lit only by a few lights set into the walls, so John moved slowly, clinging to the wall and straining to hear any movement that wasn't his own. By the time he stopped for a quick breather John knew that he'd traveled well beyond help if he should need it, not that he actually cared about that.
He knew from the map which direction to go in and began walking at a brisk pace. John had no idea how far ahead Forza was or if he'd even actually reached the end of the corridor yet, Forza could be anywhere on the planet and John would never find him. That thought spurred John on, made him ignore the needles of pain that shot through his body, until he was nearly running.
Logical thought fled John's brain descending into the most primitive of states that was often ignored by the average person. It was the state of the hunter, the killer, where nothing mattered but catching his prey and killing it. Even the Pit hadn't forced John to this level of primal thought, not quite, though it was similar. It was strange and he knew that later, when he could afford to, he would think about it, study the way he had thought and acted when this primal mood had settled over him. But for now, John merely used it, twisted it to his advantage, let it rule his body and trusted that it would help him survive.
John had known that Forza was evil and deserved to be thrown to the Wraith. He'd known that Forza was manipulative, sadistic and greedy. John had known that the man was easily angered and controlling of every aspect in his life. What John hadn't known was that Forza was a weak, pathetic little man that was easily scared. He found that out after just a few minutes of entering the corridor, when he'd managed to locate a soft, whimpering sound. It was distinctly male and accompanied by the heavy, uneven tread of someone trying to run and failing.
Shaking his head in disgust, John quickened his pace, tightening his grip on the gun in his hand until his knuckles were white and the sharp edges dug into his palm hard enough to break the skin. John focused on that pain, studying the feeling as it mingled with the various other pains until it was just a wash of feeling through his body. It was Forza's fault, all of the pains, aches, bruises and cuts were, in one way or another, Forza's fault. Forza had hurt him, and now John was going to hurt him. Simple as that.
There was a slight curve in the corridor ahead of him and John paused before rounding it, preparing himself for what he knew was about to happen. Then he slipped around the bend and looked at the man who was solely responsible for every ounce of pain he'd suffered in the past months. John was surprisingly calm about seeing him, staring at his back as he stumbled and staggered along the tunnel, whimpering and snivelling like the pathetic weasel he was. John was angry, yes, and he really wanted to see Forza's blood splattered against the ground, but it was a distant feeling, held back by the practical logic of the hunter. He couldn't afford for his emotions to have any sway over him and this situation, couldn't afford to let his anger overwhelm him. John had a mission, a job, and he wouldn't, couldn't, fail.
John's first kick was perfectly aimed, his foot connecting with the back of Forza's knee with enough force to dislocate it. Forza screamed and crumpled to the ground, rolling over onto his back so that he could see his attacker and when he did, he let out another shrill cry.
John didn't waste any time, landing three more kicks in quick succession, one to Forza's already injured knee, crushing the bones under his boot, and two to the stomach, knocking the air out of the man's lungs and making him gag on bile and spit. He rolled over and struggled to get to his feet. John let him, watching impassionately, the hunter urging him to kill Forz now, to finish this whole thing. But the real him, the being John thought had been driven out, temporarily by the hunter, held that desire back, wanting more satisfaction, wanting to see this pathetic excuse for a man suffer.
Forza had managed to get to his feet, supporting himself almost entirely on his left foot, one hand pressed against the wall in an effort to steady his swaying body. He had his back to John and when he managed to turn around, hopping and shuffling, John caught a glimpse of silver. His mind immediately recognised the half-glimpsed object and he dived to the side, the bullet whistling past him with a sudden explosion of sound that echoed in the corridor.
Forza was surprisingly competent with the gun, tracking John's movement and firing another shot that had John flipping out of the way, brushing aside the great wave of pain that the move caused. John landed in a crouch, aiming his own gun and squeezing the trigger in one movement, the bullet hitting Forza's bicep. Forza howled again and John used the momentary distraction to knock the gun out of his hand, seeing it spin away and not caring where it landed, just so long as it was away from Forza's hand. He followed up with a hard, bone-breaking punch to the jaw, delighting in the howl of pain that quickly turned into a whimper when Forza realised that his jaw was broken.
"You're fucking pathetic, Forza" John hissed, the first sounds he'd made since entering the tunnel, not realising that he was echoing the words he'd said to Keeshaw, using the same, venomous tone. "You're a pathetic, sad, miserable excuse for a man. I can't believe I spent all this time being afraid of you!"
John punched Forza again, but not as hard this time, and sent him sprawling to the ground, blood and spit dribbling down his chin. He looked down at Forza, evaluating the damage he had inflicted and trying to decide if it was enough. It wasn't, but then, it never really would be. No matter what John did, no matter how much pain and suffering he inflicted on Forza, it would never compare to the torture he had put him through, both physical and mental. Nothing would compare to the feeling of losing himself, his mind, his fucking soul. Nothing would erase the damage Forza had done, give John back the precious few shards of innocence he'd managed to cling to over the years. And when John realised that, he realised that this was all pointless. Raising his gun John prepared to shot Forza when he heard the sound of foot steps coming up behind him. John never took his eyes off Forza, John recognized the sound of standard military issue boots when he heard them.
"Major!" John heard Ford but didn't turn to acknowledge the Lt. "Put the gun down sir, it's over let's go home, you don't need to kill him."
"Give me one good reason why I don't need to kill this worthless mother fucker." John's tone of voice dripped with hatered.
"Because you are not a cold blooded killer." It was Teyla who spoke that time, her tone just as calm as John remembered.
For what felt like an eternity nobody moved or said a word. John kept the gun on Forza, Forza stayed completely still silently begging for his life, and Ford and Teyla watched their CO and friend. The loud explosion of the gun firing echoed through the silent corridor, catching Ford and Teyla off guard causing them to jump slightly. John had put a bullet right through Forza's throat bringing forth a small river of crimson liquid. Looking at the limp, broken, bloody body of his former capture John tried to feel something, joy, triumph, relief, anything. He couldn't. Dropping the gun John turned to his teammates.
"That's exactly what I am." John whispered acceptingly as he walked past a shocked Teyla and Ford, back down the corridor a little way before stopping and bracing himself against the wall with one arm.
Sighing, John closed his eyes and felt a deep, painful shudder run through his body, letting the hunter dissolve into nothing as his true self took control of his thought processes again. Once he'd regained control John turned and walked back down the corridor, ignoring the heavy, throbbing pain that was slowly taking over his body now that he had completed his mission. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, John was shuffling and having to steady himself with a hand to the wall. Ford and Teyla followed at a respectful distance instinctively knowing that John needed to walk out under his own power.
John wondered absently what everyone in Atlantis would say when they saw him. What would Carson think of his thin, malnourished body? What would Ford think of the mind-numbing weariness that was evident in the way he walked? What would Teyla think when she glimpsed the aching nothingness in his heart? What would Elizabeth think when he told her Rodney was dead and he was responsible?
That thought made John pause, realising that his mission wasn't quite over yet. The prisoners were free, the guards dead, Forza dead, but Rodney… Rodney was dead, too and the others in Atlantis didn't know that yet. He had to tell them.
Shaking his head, John continued walking. He was close to the exit, he knew that from the map, and he began walking there automatically, trying to figure out just what he was going to say, something that was made harder by the painful need for sleep and a lot of medication. John still hadn't thought of anything when he stepped out of the building and realised that freedom, real, true to God freedom was just a few feet away. That thought pushed all other thoughts to the side and John stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet in his desire to get outside.
Thick, grey clouds hid the sky from his view, shrouding the moon and stars, but John didn't care because the sky wasn't important. Taking a deep breath, dragging the clean, crisp air into his lungs John dropped to his knees. Free, he was free.
John didn't hear the surprised exclamations, nor the worried murmurs that followed, so when hands suddenly closed around his shoulders, old instincts kicked in and John jerked himself free, jumping up and back, aiming his gun at the assailant before he realised who it was. John stared in disbelief at Carson, who was tense with shock and fear. Absently, John lowered the gun and took a cautious step forward, not daring to believe, his mind insisting that this was some cruel trick, a wicked hallucination cooked up by his morbid imagination.
"Major?"
No one else John knew had that voice, that scottish accent. It was a completely unique sound and utterly unfakeable. Only one person had that sound. John's heart thudded painfully within his chest as he let out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.
"Doc." Dropping to his knees again, John didn't tense or jerk away when Carson tentatively put his hands on John's shoulders. John stared at his hands and slowly let the gun clatter to the ground. He was free, he was safe. John repeated it in his head like a mantra, but it was too much for his mind to handle, so he did the only thing he really could do; pass out.