A/N: You people are the bomb, yo! I love that you're loving this. Good news, good news, with the written end of the story being so near complete, I'm going to submit more. Now several (though not all, not yet) questions will be answered, such as who John is supposed to kill. Well, mostly who John is supposed to kill. If anything, there will actually be more questions.
I forgot to do this sooner, so I'll do it now. Pronunciations.
Diavante -Dee – uh – von – tey
Savine – Suh – veen
And that's it. So now you know if you didn't before. Everything else sounds just like it's spelled
Ch. 11
Little Yellow Riding Hood
Now this was different. John awoke to a pounding headache rather than a throbbing spine. He opened his eyes, tensing at the ready to being blinded by the gray light of day. He was met with darkness.
Blinking rapidly, John pushed himself up onto his elbows that sunk into soft soil. Darkness was rich around him, shadow on shadow, with a midnight blue sky scarred by the black branches of trees. Creaks and clacks were the only sounds.
John's breath caught in his throat. This was bad. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the increase of weight on his shoulder, and lifted his hand to his P-90. Okay, that was good. He reached down to the holster on his thigh and felt the grip of his 9 mil. Even better. At least he didn't have to suffer the naked feeling of being unarmed.
John grabbed his P-90 and brought it up with the flashlight on. It cut through the darkness on a direct path, dancing off the gnarled tree trunks, shrubs, and loam mounds. The ground was a multi-colored carpet of moss, dead leaves, and phosphorescent mushrooms where ever the light landed.
No one was around – no wagon, no goons waiting to pressure him or whatever into firing at some intended target. John was completely alone.
He wasn't naïve as to see this as another plus. He swung his P-90 around in a slow 360 degree circle, pointing it up and down. Several feet ahead, the light landed on hard, clear compact earth – a road.
What the hell is going on? John swallowed, and slowly backed away from the road as though slinking away from a pissed rattler. Psycho chick had wanted him here, so it only stood to reason that he needed to get away from here.
John took three steps back when he stopped. Death threats against himself he could deal with. Death threats against his team gave him pause for more consideration. Whether the old bat knew Menk or not didn't matter. Her goons had Cyladran stunners – silent and painful - which meant either the old bat and her thugs were Cyladrans from a different faction, or simply had their technology. That technology made them exceedingly dangerous, and despite John's faith in his team at being able to handle themselves, he wasn't going to risk anything.
How he was going to avoid risking anything, he didn't know. Hopefully, the intended target was dangerous, and would come after John, forcing John to defend himself. No way would he kill in cold blood.
His next pondering – how were the thugs going to force him to shoot if they weren't around?
John's heart was already pounding, but found a way to step it up a notch. In turn, the light began twitching and dancing spasmodically to his quaking hands. Confusion was like a vice on his thinking, reverting his thoughts back to the Mykote village, and he doubted refusing a drink would prove the answer to his dilemma.
The wind touched him like groping fingers, brushing across his neck, leaking into his jacket and shirt to slither and ooze down his back. It made his skin want to crawl off his bones, creating waves of numb rolling from his spine, across each bar of his ribs, and over his heart. A branch groaned, clacking twigs. Leaves whispered like a thousand voices too far away for him to find, and too quiet because they didn't want him to hear, because they were laughing at him.
John grimaced. He was becoming delirious. Something clattered from a distance – a stick breaking from the mother branch to go tumbling down – and John's heart slammed so hard it snatched his breath away.
No, not delirious, just undeniably terrified. History was playing at being cruel, and repeating itself after only weeks. Only difference was, its masterpiece was perfected, since all that was needed was for the lights to be turned off.
John, welcome to every horror movie earth has ever made. Now start running.
But John couldn't. It wasn't that he was frozen in fear, he just didn't have any place to go. Stumbling around in a darkened wood had yet to do anyone any good. Then again, neither did standing around.
John had no idea what to do.
Something snapped, and John swung his weapon around, another heart-slam interrupting his panting breaths. Crap, he hated this. Hated, hated, hated...
Another snap, John whirled around again. A low rumble. Thunder? Another snap.
Get him to shoot, no matter what it takes. John put a centimeter of space between his finger and the trigger. Sweat dewing on his forehead ran like rain down his face and neck, more down his sides. Creak, crack, snap, groan – the woods weren't that quiet anymore.
There came another low rumble, not even remotely resembling thunder this time. John heard the sound all around him but felt it at his back. He tensed enough to shatter.
Don't shoot, don't shoot, don't shoot... it's what they want.
Steeling himself, John did another abrupt turn.
A mass darker than the darkness burst from the shadows and rammed into him. The impact came to his chest and shoulder, sending him hard to the ground. The air rushed from his lungs, but fright sucked that air back in. He scrambled to his feet and jerked around with the P-90 raised.
" Show yourself you son of a...!"
Another impact, and this time he fell on his chest. He didn't waste time giving in to being dazed. He was back on his feet after one second, backing away with gun pointing in all directions. Something was moving out there, he could hear its heavy breathing, he just couldn't move fast enough to get the light on it.
It struck again, sending him spinning to the soft earth and nearly losing his gun. This time he had to take a moment to wait for the spinning to stop. Something warm trailed down his jaw and neck from his stinging face, and he reached up to touch the wetness. Holding his fingers to his light, he saw blood.
" Oh no."
Eraks? Could eraks move that fast, be that stealthy? He wouldn't hold it past them, but it had to take a lot of specific training to keep from mauling as a pack.
But they were noisy. Eraks howled before and during the hunt, and John had heard no howls.
It couldn't be any natural beast. The psycho lady wanted him alive to kill another. Kind of a waste if some wild animal killed him before the job was done. Surly by now one of the goons would make an appearance to keep the beast from stopping what was supposed to happen.
It was logical to conclude that this was happening on purpose. John cringed. He had to keep from firing.
An idea popped into his head. Clipping the gun onto his vest, he pulled out his knife and positioned himself into a fighting stance with arms hanging loose at his sides. He strained his hearing deep into the silence to the lesser noises beneath the usual noises of groaning wood and wind rushing passed his ears. He heard the near silent crunch of dried moss and dead leaves.
" Here kitty, kitty, kitty," he muttered. Something whuffed as though sniffing the air, and following that was a low, gutteral purr. Something about that purr sounded just too unnervingly happy. John tightened his grip on the knife.
There came a scrape, then thud, then the pounding of feet. John twisted his body around and lashed out with the knife. He was shoved to the ground, but not before he heard the deep, bone-vibrating howl of pain. John rolled and pushed himself back to his feet, clutching a bleeding shoulder. He wasn't up for more than three heart beats when pain exploded across his back, sending him arching and screaming to his knees.
The next collision came from the side, and on falling he heard the tell-tale crack and felt the agony of breaking ribs. He hit the ground, sprawled, panting, and didn't get up.
I won't shoot, I won't shoot, I won't shoot...
" I'm not gonna shoot anyone!" His voice was harsh and cracking, but convicted. He wouldn't do it, he couldn't. He couldn't give into demands. First this, then something else, and something else, always with his team's lives being the bargaining chip to get him to do other's dirty work. He couldn't allow that to happen. So what if he died, at least his team was safe from being used against him.
To finalize his resolve, John pushed through the pain of his body to remove the P-90 and toss it from reach, then again to his 9 mil. He held on to his knife, just to have some hope and salvage a possible future alive.
Without the light, he couldn't see anything except as black shapes. He saw movement, something large lumbering toward him. His heart made a B-line for his throat, and he shrank back, tensing until he trembled, readying his knife. The shape filled his vision with no details to show for it. Something gripped his wrist hard enough for the bones to grate together. Another paw or hand or whatever ripped the knife from his own hand. It didn't release John after that but began dragging him across the moss and leaves. Several feet later his arm was released. Seconds later, the light of his P-90 flashed wildly about the forest, revealing the pact road inches from John's face.
A heavy weight pressed on John's back – a foot, a large foot by the feel, pushing down on him between the shoulder blades. Four sharp prongs poked into his neck.
Prongs? Claws? John shivered. It was final, this was no erak. He could see the light of the P-90 casting a small circle on the ground beside him. No way in hell could eraks be trained to use a gun.
With his ear pressed to the ground, John could hear his own heart pounding, and his hollow, ragged breaths.
" W-who are you?" he rasped. His answer was another guttural purr, and the increase of pressure on his back. He winced, biting back an utterance of pain. Breathing was becoming an unpleasant chore.
" What are you?" he snarled between clenched teeth.
He heard the heavy breathing, felt the hot breath on his face, smell its rotten garbage stench. He rolled his eyes to the side to see the colorless, oddly shaped mass that had to be a head. Something moved in front of that head – a hand? Fingers? All long and sharp.
" Ssshhhhhh."
Cold filled John.
Minutes passed, the long agonizing kind. John closed his eyes and swallowed against a dry throat. A plan, he needed a plan. Any plan. He begged himself for a plan. But it was hard to think when it was hard to breathe, and it was hard to breathe since his chest had less room to expand. He tried to move and buck the foot off, and couldn't even squirm an inch.
His hands were free though. Since his body couldn't dislodge the foot, he wasn't even going to try to use his hands. Instead, he dug into the reachable pockets of his vest for anything to use.
Then he heard something, something he couldn't describe at first. Yet as it grew louder, closing the distance, he found the sound reminded him of something. A creak, squeak, and thump, constant, over and over.
A wagon.
The victim was coming. The creature standing on him purred, and let out a breathy, throaty chuckle.
John gulped and increased the speed of his search by just pulling stuff out and tossing it aside. Power bar, water purifying tablets, emergency blanket pack, swiss-army knife...
Swiss army knife! John would have laughed if he knew it wouldn't hurt.
The wagon trundled and squeaked closer, and John could see a circle of light swinging back and forth, a single lamp not even strong enough to illuminate the passengers of the wagon.
John tugged the tiny blade free. He probably only had one chance. The moment he cried out a warning to the wagon, he would either be crushed or shot. Unless he could get the cut just right.
He reached out behind him as far as his shoulder would let him, turning his arm against straining muscles to be able to bend his elbow. The pressure of the foot on his back guided his aim. It would be a crooked aim, but crooked didn't matter if he hit his target.
The wagon was closer, he could hear the heavy breathing of the animal pulling it. Gritting his teeth and gripping the knife, John thrust his hand as hard as he could. The knife plunged into leathery flesh, going deeper and deeper. John then pulled the knife across the ankle – the Achilles tendon.
The scream shattering the perfect quiet was deep, like thunder from lightening only a mile away. It tore into John's ears, stabbing his brain, rattling his bones and organs. The foot was off his back in less than a heartbeat, and John heard the thud and tearing of soil and leaves from a body thrashing around in complete agony.
John sucked in a deep breath that galvanized his cracked ribs. But he was far beyond pain, fueled by fear and the natural chemicals it forced the body to produce. He pushed quickly to his feet, twisting around and grabbing the fallen P-90. He didn't waste time assessing the creature's physical attributes, just fired at the mass of scaled, leathery flesh mingled with what looked to be clothes. The thing screamed, then bounded out of sight of the light and into the darkness.
It wouldn't go far, not with a sliced Achilles tendon. Neither would it come back wounded, not if it was smart.
John lowered his gun, then dropped it all together. The chemicals of fear leaked from his body along with the blood of his face, shoulder, and back. He could feel it spread in the material of his shirt and pants, sliding down his skin slow and hot. The warmth of his blood wasn't being helpful in keeping away the cold. Shivering, he fell to his knees when they turned to jelly. He didn't stay too long in that position either, and immediately fell to his side. He heard the wagon grinding to a stop, and the animal snort in protest. The light of the lamp came into the corner of his vision like a rising sun, but before that sun was even up, the darkness shoved it back.
Once more, to John's growing annoyance, the void had dragged him back.
SGASGASGASGA
Motion, and it was pissing John's stomach off. Shaking, clattering, jostling like a plane in turbulence without the pilot's calm, falsely cheery voice telling every one that it would be okay. It was also noisier with creaks and clatters, whuffs, snorts, and crunches – plus a gentle breeze touching John's face smelling faintly wet like the wind before a storm.
John opened his eyes, a process a lot more painful than it should have been. Branch-scarred gray sky – that seemed about right, right? Except the last he recalled, it had been night, and some misshapen lump had been stepping on him. There was a wagon, making similar sounds that he was hearing now...
John tried to sit up but didn't get an inch before pain raced through him in a screaming torrent. His cry was a poorly strangled attempt that died in his throat as he dropped back down. Bright, nauseating stars marred his vision.
" I don't think you should move."
A face moved into John's line of sight. He knew that face, but not in the way that he could place a name to it. The girl hovering over him wore a kindly smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The eyes, that's what John remembered. Melancholy and beyond her years. The girl at the store, riding the wagon of doom into the forest of nightmares where a beast waited...
John, without thinking, tried to move again. Ironically enough, it was worse the second time around, and he sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. The girl's brow lifted in concern.
" I told you not to move."
John almost laughed. Now that sounded like a twelve year old.
" Yeah, my bad," John croaked, and coughed. " Where the hell am I?"
" My wagon." She fell silent for a moment, her mouth twisting in the awkward action of a shy preteen. Then she brightened as though with a sudden realization. " Thirsty?" She reached out behind her and brought a metal canteen into view.
John tweaked a small smile. " Very."
She uncapped the canteen then assisted John by supporting his head when he lifted it. He held the canteen himself in one unsteady hand. The water wasn't exactly cold, but it wasn't like his parched throat cared. When he finished with a relieved sigh, the girl gently lowered his head back onto the wooden wagon floor.
" Thanks," he breathed.
" Feel any better?" she asked.
John attempted moving his shoulder, and suffered for it. " Ah crap! Not really."
The girl winced sympathetically. " Thought as much. It should pass, though. I think you're mostly just soar. Except your ribs, those are cracked. The cuts weren't really that deep but they were long and bleeding a lot. Although the ones on your back Bren had to stitch. But Bren's really good with the stitches. He makes them small, so you'll hardly know they're there. The rest we just bandaged."
John pulled a breath through his nose to test the expansion limit on his ribcage. He felt the pressure of a bandage around his chest, and his breath caught when that bandage pushed against him. He exhaled sharply with a cough.
" You should rest some more," the girl said. " It'll help. We still have a long ways to go, and stops aren't exactly frequent, not out here."
John twitched his head in a nod, minimizing any further aches. The girl gave him an awkward smile. Everything about her was very twelve year old, except those eyes...
" My name's Krissa, by the way."
John closed his own eyes. Jostling aside, he could have slept through an earthquake right now. " John, John Sheppard."
" Glad to meet you, Mr. Sheppard. And save you. I hate seeing people hurt..."
The rest of what Krissa said became garbled. John drifted off, this time voluntarily.
John awoke to the same time of day, with the same gray sky overhead. Screwing pain, John forced himself to sit up. It might not have been excruciating this time around, but it was a struggle. He gripped the rim of the driver's seat, and with a grimace and grunt, hauled himself into a sitting position. Once finally achieved, he leaned panting against the backboard of the seat.
" Mr. Sheppard!" Krissa's child-like voice was high-pitch with alarm. She scrambled over the seat to crouch before John in the wagon bed. " Mr. Sheppard I am so sorry I didn't know you were awake or I would have helped you..."
John shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. " It's all right, it's cool, I just woke up. Got a little tired of wood digging into me." John rolled his stiff shoulder. " I think I'm even more bruised than when you found me. How long was I out?"
" Since yesterday."
John widened his eyes. " Yesterday!"
Krissa flashed an apologetic smile. " Yeah. You were really tired. I couldn't even wake you for supper. And you're coming down with a fever, which doesn't surprise me with everything you went through..." as she spoke, she pulled a small hand-held device very reminiscent of Rodney's favorite scanning toy, and held it before John. It was also very – and uncomfortably – similar to what the old silver-haired bat had used to asses his physical condition. John tensed.
" Nothing serious though. In fact it's gone down..." Krissa went on.
" What is that?" John asked, fighting the urge to shrink away.
" What, this?" She raised the device. " Just a bio-scanner. Checks for broken bones, diseases, things like that. Here, give me your hand."
John held out his left hand and Krissa moved the device to hover several inches over it. Readings scrolled on either side of a black screen depicting a perfect X-ray of John's hand – bones, veins and all. He could even see the blood pulsing.
" Sweet," John said smiling, bending his fingers, mesmerized by the movement of bone and muscle. Now here was a toy Beckett would never stop playing with. " That's freakin' cool."
Krissa switched the device off and stowed it back in the pocket of her amber cloak. She gave John a bewildered look. " You've never seen one before?"
" Well, until the last couple of days, not really. I mean we have something similar where I come from, but nothing even remotely that small."
" Well, they are kind of rare. I got mine for my twelfth birthday. It's from my cousin – he's a doctor. Didn't want me taking a journey without one. You hungry?"
Why realization of hunger never came until asked about, John would never know. Now that he was made aware, his stomach growled loud enough to attract unwanted attention – or at least to John that's how it sounded.
He winced. " Well, apparently, yes, I am."
Krissa smiled. " Well of course. You haven't had a chance to eat. Here." She pulled a satchel toward her and rummaged through it until she pulled out some dried strips of meat in a cloth and a few pieces of that colorful fruit. She set them out between her and John on a brown square of material, and set the canteen beside them.
" We'll pretend it's an outdoor lunch, minus the soft grass, of course." She handed him one of the fruit.
" Where we come from," he said, taking the fruit, " we call that a picnic."
Krissa tapped the elderly wagon driver on the shoulder and handed him a strip of the meat. " You come from Atlantis... or did before something happened to it. Right?" she asked.
John eyed her uncertainly before taking a bite. " Yeah."
Krissa picked up on the sudden change of John's tone, and pursed her lips. " My father is a town official. Most of his conversations have been about your people. He's been really excited about your visits."
John relaxed, and felt a tad guilty about tensing up in the first place. " Oh. Sorry, it's just..."
" I know. You can't trust everyone in the stars." She fell silent, but not the uneasy silence of a shy girl. This one was far more poignant, more thoughtful, sending the girl deeper within herself, adding years without altering a single feature. " I never thanked you for saving us, by the way."
John, having taken a bite of fruit, paused in chewing. " You knew?" He'd thought that thing ran off before the wagon's arrival.
Krissa looked down at her hands, twisting a strip of meat in her fingers. " Yeah."
Bren, the old man, glanced over his shoulder and gave Krissa a stern look, clearing his throat. She looked up at him, then back to her hands with a sigh.
" You've met Savine."
John squinted. " Who?"
Krissa lifted her hand and gently touched the tips of her fingers to John's throat. " Does that hurt?"
John had completely forgotten about his neck, what with nearly being mauled by something a lot worse than a crazy old lady with Superman strength and all. His own hand went to the tenderized flesh and massaged.
" Not really." He cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. " That lady, the mental chick with the gorilla grip? That Savine?"
Krissa went back to twisting the meat until it was shredded. " Yeah. Savine Halessa. S-She's always doing that, kidnapping people and getting them to kill for her. And it's not like she really needs anyone to do it, she just likes having a body to pin the blame on so it doesn't land on her. Everyone knows it, we just can't prove it. Mostly because the people she takes usually end up dead, so don't talk. My cousin – my other cousin – Dyel, she's been after him for years. He actually had to leave the planet. Still no proof it was her, though. Don't know why." She looked up at John sadly, but it was a controlled sadness that held the tears back. " I'm really sorry she took you, John. She's kind of... off, in her mind."
John scowled and snorted. " Off? You call that off? That's like calling Hannibal Lecture off."
Krissa scrunched her brow. " Who?"
" Never mind. Off. Sorry, but that one little word doesn't cut it." His hand went back to his throat where the feel of gripping fingers lingered.
Krissa smirked. " I was just being polite. My mother would be angry if I used the word I'm really thinking of."
John chuckled. " The word I'm thinking of isn't exactly appropriate, either. Not for kids your age. So why does she want you dead?"
Krissa shrugged one shoulder. " I'm competition, I guess."
" Competition for what?"
" A position on Diavante's staff."
Diavante. That name rang a bell, but a very small bell that did little except plague his mind with noisy familiarity. " Diavante?"
" Yes, a very renowned scientist on our world, the most brilliant yet."
Rodney would beg to differ. " Brilliant, huh?"
" Beyond imagination, or at least that's what most people say. He's reclusive. He doesn't like people being able to reach him whenever they want. But he is very for the expansion of science. Every five years, he invites people from all over the stars to come visit his home and participate in a contest. This contest determines who will fill available positions on his staff. Whoever invents an item of great use – one that creates a demand on the market – that's who fills the available space. Savine already has a position, held it for years but... " Krissa shook her head with her lips pressed in a thin, straight line. " She's worried about something. She was very against my coming, but Diavante sent a personal invitation. Kind of hard to be ignored when you're the youngest person to join the inventor's guild. Plus there's no turning down an invite from Diavante. Too great an honor."
Maybe it was just John, but something in Krissa's voice didn't sound too enthusiastic about that honor.
" So this Savine is trying to kill you?" he asked without hiding his disgust.
" It's her way. It's not like we weren't prepared. She's always hated me. I think that's why my parents were so insistent I go to Divante. If I can become a member of his staff, then Savine can't touch me."
John started in alarm. " But, what? Until then you're fair game?"
" I'm afraid so." Krissa sounded so casual about it, and that shocked John even more than he thought possible.
She's a little freakin' girl! Who the hell assassinates a little girl! " Aren't you scared?"
" Very. But I'm confident. If I win, then I'm safe. If I lose, then my cousin has offered to take me away where Savine cannot find me."
John shifted uncomfortably. The girl sounded so... excepting of this predicament, so finalized, as though it was something she had been thinking over for years. " I'm sorry, but that sounds like a pretty freakin' rotten deal to me. I mean who the hell is this woman to do that to you? Personally, apart from scared, I'd be pissed."
" Pissed?"
" Angry. Excessively angry."
Krissa was toying with a piece of fruit, peeling off bits of skin and sticking them in her mouth. " Oh, I am that too, but mostly afraid. Savine... she has her, um, ways, I'd rather not get into. But once we reach Divante's home, then we will have a better chance of surviving her. She'll have others in the competition to contend with, which should help. The thing is, once we arrive... um..." Krissa winced, then looked away from John.
John lowered his head to try and catch her eye. " What?"
Krissa looked over at Bren, and Bren looked back at her, still stern as though mutely berating her. John looked from one to the other. It didn't take a McKay to see that Krissa was holding back something, and that something was worse than Savine.
" What?" John pressed, heart thudding.
Krissa cleared her throat. " Well, first off, let me just say that when we arrive I'll try to find a way to get you home."
John narrowed his eyes at her. " Okay."
" Yes, okay. Second of all, there is a chance that might not be possible."
And there it was. John went rigid. " What!"
Krissa held up both hands, teetering on the edge of panic. " No, no, it's not like that! I mean not permanently. You just might not be able to get home for a while. You see, Diavante has this... shield, I suppose you would call it. It's what hides his home. You get in with this..." she pulled a small, square metal card from her cloak and handed it to John. It was smooth and not really much to look at, but he felt a slight vibration emanating from it through his fingertips.
" It's a key card that grants passage through the shield. Without it, you wouldn't be able to find the turn in the road that takes you to Divante's. It's a very sophisticated shield. If you went off the road in hopes of stumbling on the right path, you'd end up wandering the woods until the shield was shut down or someone found you. It jumbles your neurons and perception so that all direction is lost. With the card, a kind of door is open, showing you the road. The problem is, once you go in, you can't come out until the competition is over and the departing key cards are issued. Keeps the wrong people from using the cards to gain access. Even more ingenious, the cards will not work if they're together. To use the other, you must destroy the one."
John returned the card to her. His stomach felt suddenly too small to hold the acid sloshing around. " So I'm stuck in this place until this competition is over?" So much for contacting his team via radio. If this 'shield' was anything like the Cyaladran shield – and he would bet good money that it was – then electronic devices wouldn't penetrate.
Unless this Divante had a trick or two up his sleeve that bent the rules.
" Not necessarily," Krissa said. " I know Diavante has people who retrieve supplies. They might be able to take you from the shield. I'm just warning you because there have been times during competition when the supply runners are rarely seen, sometimes never seen. But I'm sure Diavante would let you pass."
" Have you ever met this Diavante?"
Krissa shook her head. " No. Not yet."
John nodded with jaw clenched. " So you're assuming."
An abashed nod with cheeks tinted pink. " He's reclusive, as I said. He may not like having an uninvited stranger around. But, even if you're unable to leave, the competition isn't for long. At most, a month, sometimes less."
John's heart plummeted. A month. It wasn't forever, but it sounded like forever. He had a city to protect, a team to alert so they wouldn't think him dead...
" But..." Krissa continued, " should you end up remaining... You'll need to be careful. The competition can be – um – fierce. I've heard of competitors going for very Savine like tactics. You know - killing, sabotage... it can be dangerous. And Savine won't be happy that you're still alive and with me. You'll need to avoid her until we get you out, or the competition ends. You're a witness."
John was pretty sure the color just drained from his face. No wonder this kid looked older than she was. He'd tack on a few years himself if he went through what she was going through, knew what she knew.
Assassination of a twelve year old!
" Seriously, who is this Savine chick? What gives her the means to play Hitler?"
Krissa sighed heavily. " She is my grandmother."
SGASGASGASGA
A/N: Shocking revelations, gotta dig 'em. Inquiry – anyone know a site where I can see what Major Lorne looks like? Seeing as how basic cable is only on season one, it's driving me nuts. Specific episode picture, some sort of pose shot, anything? Or I guess you could attempt to describe him. Picture would be better.
