WORST CASE SCENARIO - by NotTasha
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CHAPTER 7: HOW TO CARRY SOMEONE WHO IS PASSED OUT

Teyla was out of her depth. She knew how to fight the Wraith. She could put up a tent up in moments. She understood how to plow a field and how to cultivate crops. She was a skilled negotiator and could easily find the mood of a room and exploit it. She could uncover half-hidden emotions, ferret out passions, and discover truths. She could draw conversation out of the most reticent tribal leader, and knew how to quell the endless blathering of the most animated scientists. She was a good leader. She could even kill a kiwanda with a wrench.

Ethanol producing facilities, on the other hand, were something entirely different.

She studied the situation, examining levers and knobs, trying to find a way to stop the steady flow of fuel. Timidly, she touched one device, unsure. She had to do something – and quick. Biting her lip, she tried one handle and then another.

But the levers affected nothing. Big, wheel-like stopcocks turned reluctantly without result – the dripping continued. Frantically, she looked about, determined to find some means of shutting down the flow, but it was all terribly unfamiliar to her – the web of pipes and valves did not speak her language, and Teyla, who was so skilled in negotiation, was left feeling deaf and dumb.

Her heart beat frantically as she realized just how dangerous her situation had become. And still, neither Colonel Sheppard nor Dr. McKay answered the radio.

She glanced to the furnace, wondering if she could snuff it out, quickly, without causing any further trouble, but the controls were foreign to her. She couldn't tell if the gadgets surrounding it would increase or decrease the flow, open the flue wide, or dump its load onto the floor of the distillery.

Quickly, she returned to the puddle and studied it a moment. If she could stop the dripping, maybe there was something she could do to keep it from reaching the furnace. A grate in the floor caught her eye – a drain! If she could only reroute the flow…

She reached for the cloth that had enwrapped the kiwanda. Giving it a mighty tug, she flipped the creature out of it and twisted the long cloths into a sort of rope. Once she'd rapidly completed that task, she positioned the rope to hem in the spill. But there wasn't enough. She grabbed whatever loose pieces of metal she could find, and used them to further dam in the growing puddle.

The fuel dripping from the pipe continued relentlessly, increasing in volume. Teyla held her breath, watching. The drain was too far away – the floor improperly sloped. Her attempt to keep the puddle contained wouldn't work, she realized. Already her dam was letting liquid through.

The puddle increased in all directions, deepening as it went. Quite likely, it would reach the drain at the same time it found the furnace.

It wasn't going to work.

She glanced to Ronon's formidable form and let out a sigh.

Returning to him, Teyla called his name, slapping his face without receiving a response. There was only one thing she could do. It was not going to be easy.

Carefully yet quickly, she rolled Ronon onto his back, and arranged his legs so that they bent at the knee. Then, she sat him upright and paused a moment, studying his face.

"Ronon?" she tried again. "Please, Ronon. Ronon!"

But the man didn't wake. Bracing his back with one arm, leaning his head against her shoulder, she looped her other arm beneath his knees.

She prepared herself, getting into a squat, and breathing deeply. She was proud of her strength, of her fitness, and now, more than ever, she was glad she had this resource to back her. One last deep breath, and she pressed herself upright, pulling the big Satedan up with her.

Muscles screamed, but she did not stop, she willed herself to succeed. She strained, straightening her legs as she pulled the man to her chest.

The upward momentum allowed her to shift him. With a grunt, she settled the unconscious man over her shoulder in what the Atlantean's would call a "fireman's carry". She quickly reached one hand to steady herself against the wall.

He was heavy – and tall. Doubled over her shoulder, he draped, his fingers nearly touching the ground behind her.

She took a moment to ensure she'd found her balance, and then, wrapping her arms around his legs, she staggered forward, neatly avoiding the dead kiwanda and heading toward the door. Ronon's sword still glinted in one corner, but she couldn't afford stopping or stooping for it – and she rather doubted she could handle any extra weight.

Ronon would have to visit a market in the near future and find another one.

His mass was over her center of gravity – carrying him in this fashion would require little more than forward movement – but that didn't stop her from feeling every ounce of his weight. She had once found the Satedan's heavily muscled frame rather appealing – right now, she wished he was a little less impressive.

She clomped, making her way through the forest of pipes and tanks as quickly as her failing legs would allow. The route turned one way, and then another. She sucked in breath, forcing herself onward as the sweat ran down her back. With the heat of the room, the exercise, and the added warmth of the Satedan, she felt stifled, almost as if she were suffocating.

"Ronon," she groaned softly. "Perhaps it would be best if you did not consume quite so many waffles and hash-browns at breakfast time."

He offered no response.

Her feet didn't stop moving. Her spine felt compressed, as if it would snap at any moment, as if it would be squashed into dust. But she would not drop him. No, she'd die first.

She resisted the urge to rest a hand here and there, to brace herself, to allow a breather – because any delay would bring her to her knees. She had to get out all in one rush – or they'd both be forfeit.

She came around the end of another large tank, and the door was in sight. She let out a grateful exclamation as she continued her stilted pace. "Ronon, we will make it!" she encouraged.

The Satedan said nothing.

Closer, closer, she was almost there. She was so determined to reach that spot, she couldn't slow and collided noisily with the door. She winced in sympathy as Ronon got the worst of it. For a moment, she pressed their weight against it, leaning and allowing herself the chance to catch her breath. Then, she fumbled free a hand and grasped the latch, turning it.

The door swung open and she staggered out into the fog.

She gave out a sigh as the refreshing mist surrounded her. All she wanted to do was set down her burden and rest, but they weren't free of danger yet – the fuel tanks would go up like a bomb if the fuel failed to meet the drain, if it met the furnace instead.

Resolutely, she fixed her eyes on a brick building and made her way toward it. If she could just get behind it, put it between the approaching explosion and themselves, they might have a chance. From there, she might be able to contact the others – to warn them. But oh, it was so far.

Her strength was failing. Her legs were trembling with the effort of carrying her companion. Sweat began to drip into her eyes again, in spite of the cool air. "Keep going," she told herself. "Continue moving."

So intent was she on the building, she almost tripped over a shape that blocked her path. She staggered to get around it; the change in direction was nearly enough to topple them both. But, as she focused on the thing, she smiled.

She halted, laughing slightly at the sight, allowing a small thank you to clumsy, pissy physicists as she came alongside the orange child's wagon that had rammed into a post. It took a kick to get it properly situated and then she did her best to settle Ronon into its bed.

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TBC - Teyla is wicked strong