A/N: That's right folks – John's a dragon! Kind of. Not really the fire breathing, flying kind. And he doesn't have a tail. I couldn't do that to him.
Ch. 20
Devil Take the Hindmost
The Slithery-Dee, he came out of the sea. He ate all the others, But he didn't eat me.
The Slithery-Dee, he came out of the sea. He ate all the other, but he didn't eat... S-L-U-R-P!
Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark
John's claws pricked the rain-slicked roof tiles creating a traction like tire chains on rough pavement. He kept his slender body low, sliding with a sinewy flexibility as though he were more cartilage than bone. The mismatched obstacle that was the mansion roof was about as hindering to him as a flat, grass-less open plain. His body curved and twisted to the sudden and sharp contour changes that liked to come out of nowhere. His trail – the unseen river of scent that combined the sweat of human, and something the automatic parts of his brain registered as inhuman.
Much for John had become automatic, with humanity observing from the sidelines of consciousness. John was still John, his body – different, granted – still his body. But it was as though a little voice – without speaking actual words – instructed John on how to be and what to do, and all instinct told him to listen, so he did without question.
Scurry here, scurry there, pause and sniff. The enemy is close, closer, keep to the edge of the roof, a sound, pause, don't move, look down.
Movement through the rain, blacker than the black rushing across a lawn now more like a lake with an inch covering of water. This is the inner court. Sheds, old smithee...
Thought process moved fast and calculating. John had always been adept at taking in his surroundings at a glance, but the speed at which everything registered now made his former experience more green. It was more than just sight and sound that defined his space – there was smell, and feel. He observed all that he saw with an eye single to the goal of seek and destroy - places to hide, places to wait, places he could slip in and out of easily. Plans were formed, and back up plans from A to Z. The mind worked quickly, because it was focused to a needle point.
The form limped to the smithee with the upper windows of the loft illuminated by a weak, amber light. Shadows slipped in and out of the lit squares, and through the pelting rain John caught the low murmur of conversation.
John moved over the edge of the roof and down the wall half way in order to leap onto the nearest storage shed, then on to the next shed. Once near enough to the smithee, he scurried down the wall, across the flooded court, and up the stone edifice to just below the glowing square. He pulled himself up, inch at a time, until he was able to peer in.
Savine, standing before a wooden table, cleaning her bloodied hands in a metal basin. The scent of blood was pungent, like metal and rot. Vice, pacing, limping, wiping his hands on a cloth. The other man, Nor? No where.
" Diavante should have done away with him," Savine was saying. " The man was ambitious. He came to meet his own ends, take what Diavante has. Why did I have to be the one to finish him? It is a hassle!"
" Gives one something to do," Vice said without expression.
" Not if they don't put up a fight. He didn't even try. Just ran to a corner and cried like an infant." Savine pulled her hands from the water, flicked drops from her fingers, then sent the basin flying with a flick of her arm. Water-thinned blood splattered onto the wall and ran down in staining rivulets.
A howl tore through the rain muffled air. Savine and Vice paused, sniffing like hounds catching the scent.
" Nor's found something," Vice said. The howl was long and drawn out. When it died, it immediately resumed.
Savine's lips curled. " That damned little brat!" The two wasted no time tearing from the room and down the ladder. They emerged from the smithee no longer human, Vice stalking even with a gimping leg, and Savine hulking.
It was time.
John waited until the two beasts split up around the nearest shed. He then leaped from the wall to go bounding across the flood, straight at Savine's broad, clothes-tattered back. With a hiss, he leaped and latched onto the thick, pasty, leathery skin. Claws that could slice stone buried deep into the flesh, and serrated teeth followed.
Savine reared, arched, and howled. Gorilla arms swung around to grab John, but John leaped away backwards, splashing when he landed. Savine turned, jutting lower jaw spilling rivers of rain and saliva. On sighting John, that jaw fell open, and the narrow red eyes went as round as moons.
John had his body low to the ground. Yes, it made him appear smaller, but it allowed his limbs a stance that was at the ready, but still easily mobile. He hissed, spines standing up like prickling fur, and began to move sideways one paw at a time. His feet and hands sank into the soft earth, sucking when lifted out, and gurgling when put back down. There was an advantage to this. Savine's bulk would have her sinking deeper, hindering movements. John, being lighter, didn't go down so deep. Even now, the water came up past Savine's bare ankles.
Size did matter, but then so did the situation. The ball was in John's court.
Savine shook with rage. She opened her maw wide enough to take John's head off and let rip a bone rattling roar. She charged, her steps lumbering and hindered by mud and water. John charged as well, flying over the ground. Savine ducked with arms outstretched to grab the lighter beast, only John leaped, landing on Savine's back to clamor over her and tear away.
One at a time. He wanted to save Savine for last. Vice would be the easier target.
Speak of the devil... Vice came charging around the corner only to skid to a stop when John came at him. But John didn't even slow, he veered, snapping his jaws inches from Vice's throat. He needed to get Vice where Savine couldn't intervene. So John raced to the mansion and scurried up the walls, chancing a glance to see Vice following as planned, snarling and ripping into the stone with mad, animal fury.
Feral, blood lust. John assessed his enemy in that glance. Vice – all animal. Savine too. What is it Bart had said? Power, it was about power. Savine basked in the power of her serum, so she was all muscle, all strength. Vice, Nor, the late Rint – all about the hunt, about fear, like eraks. They instilled it, sniffed it out, and killed without conscience. They had to in order to do what they did. It was all about the hunt, the kill.
No strategy.
John led the chase onto the roof, bounding over the treacherous slants and gables with Vice clattering behind, snarling, hissing, and bellowing out a massive roar.
Higher up, increase distance to the ground, height always an advantage. The air was John's, always had been. His domain, his ally, his rules. Bring the enemy into his territory, simple enough. Let him drop, fall, shatter with bullets to the brain. Here kitty, kitty, kitty... Johnny wants to play hide and go seek.
John increased his speed, creating distance, then whipping over to the other side of the roof. He doubled back to do another whip-around and crouch behind a wide chimney. He heard the scrape of claws signifying Vice's sudden stop, followed by the rushing whuffs of the leather-scaled creature sniffing the wet air. Claws clacked, growing louder as they came nearer.
John climbed the chimney halfway, clinging to it, his dark coloring and clothes melding him with the dark gray shades of the brickwork.
Vice's sniffing sounded just on the other side. Then the saurian head poked around the corner. He'd track the scent. John moved his arm slow, as though moving through water, reaching out behind himself, wrapping claws around his P-90.
Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait...
Lightning flickered, seven seconds away when the cracking thunder followed. Vice was right beneath John, nose to the chimney, sniffing at John's altered scent. Vice snorted his frustration, knowing John was here, because the scent was no where else to be found.
Then Vice looked up.
John squeezed the trigger, and light flashed successively as bullets shredded Vice's face, puncturing his eyes, ripping into his throat when he opened his mouth to roar out his pain. Vice reared to claw at his mutilated face, and his already precarious balance threatened to give as he stumbled drunkenly back.
John leaped from the chimney, charged across the roof, leaped up, and kicked out with both legs into Vice's exposed chest. Vice went flying backwards to land and go sliding and tumbling down the slick tiles. Then Vice was airborne, letting loose a terrified howl. It ended abruptly with a thump and a crack. John scurried over to the roof's edge to peer down. Vice lay bent and broken on cobblestone pavement, his face leaking blood mixing with the rain, dripping down to form black swirls in the puddles.
Black. Black? It wasn't the darkness playing tricks. John had seen the red blood staining Vice's teeth. Vice's blood was black. John recalled. The late Rint's blood? Probably, but it had been too dark to tell.
John regarded this new discovery with mild interest that lasted all but two seconds. The half and half scent of man and animal was thicker.
Two to go.
John turned, and leaped straight up just as the beak-faced Nor lunged at him. John came down on Nor's back. Nor leaped, bucked, twisted and turned his head to snap at John. John, clinging with all four clawed limbs, snapped back with a hiss. Suddenly, Nor rose up on his hind legs, reached back, grabbing John by the collar of his shirt, and pulled, ripping John from the scaled back to flip him over onto his own back. John started to slide down the roof, so twisted around and dug into the tiles with his claws. He pulled, his strength propelling him forward, to go racing straight at Nor. Now it was Nor who leaped. John twisted around again for another run just when Nor landed. Nor sidestepped the next attack, but the long, whip-like whisker beneath John's eye snapped out when John jerked his head, slicing Nor across the jaw.
Sheppard grinned.
John thundered over the roof, but Nor kept close behind. No gimpy leg to slow him, and Nor wasn't hindered by bulk as well. Then John attempted to turn, and Nor took advantage. He leaped, colliding into John, and the two went tumbling, sliding, slashing, and gnashing teeth down the side of the roof. Following that, the stomach lurching, heart-stopping lack of gravity as the two plummeted.
Both landed on soft, wet ground that absorbed most of the impact. The two scrambled to their feet in a spray of water and mud. Spines were raised, both crouched and began circling with teeth bared.
Nor reacted first by snapping around in a lunge with jaws gaping. John met him the rest of the way, and the two grappled in the mad, tooth and claw frenzy of dogs fighting over the last scrap of meat. Spines, claws, and teeth raked scaly hide, and black blood coalesced with red outside the body. Both went for the throat, both always missing. They leaped, kicked, twisted, ducked, and jumped straight up. John, in a twist, lost his balance enough for Nor to throw him down, pinning John by the shoulders with both claws while at the same time opening wide to make a grab for the throat.
John's own clawed hand yanked his nine mil from his holster. He jammed it into Nor's mouth and fired one around after another until the weapon clicked signaling the clip as empty.
Nor, his mouth still gaping, fell dead to the side, blood oozing from the massive hole in the back of the head.
John shoved the gun back into the holster and rolled onto his feet.
One more.
John shook, both to rid himself of water, blood, and the fatigue trying to steal into his body. To track Savine, he would have to return to the courtyard and pick up her trail. John turned and went back up the wall, over the roof and into the quiet courtyard. He sniffed the air where Savine's scent still lingered enough for John to follow. That scent took him out of the courtyard, through the shattered door leading to it, and around the paddock.
John halted on the other side.
Savine's smell was pointing him to the woods. The path. Krissa and Bren.
With a sound both a hiss and a snarl, John pushed himself into a furious run that kicked up water and mud behind him. Around him, the rain diminished from sheets to heavy drops, and thunder was soft the next time it sounded. John's heart beat at the speed of his pounding feet - inhumanly fast had he been in his human frame. But he felt no exhaustion, no exertion on his heart's part. It was more as though the pulsating organ were pounding out of pure excitement, fueling him with something more potent than adrenaline. His lungs took in air with an ease not normally felt in a run, as though someone else were working the organs for John. The world was a blur of darkness and brown, the rain slapping his face and stinging his eyes.
Savine's scent increased in strength. John shifted course toward the path. He heard the trumpeting roar. And a scream?
Noooooo! It was a word in his head, but a shrieking roar from his throat. Then he saw, standing out against the darkness, Savine's bone-white hide bounding heavily over the path. Big as she was, she was still fast, but the viscous earth was making her falter and lurch. Ahead, John smelled animal and human, but as two separate entities. He could hear Krissa screaming, urging her vrat on.
John shifted again to go directly at Savine. The bigger creature was closing in on the two riders, and with each stretch of her solid arms she was nearing enough to take the tip off the tail of the two panicked vrats.
John leaped high as he could go and landed on Savine's back. The bull-ride resumed, with Savine sliding to a stop to rear up and reach back in order to tear John off. John was in constant motion over the broad back, biting, clawing, and trying to tear away as much flesh as he could. Then Savine grabbed hold of his leg. She yanked him off and threw him back first into the nearest tree. John landed in a heap, only to leap back onto his feet and at Savine.
If there was damage to his body – and he knew there was – he didn't feel it. Pain had no place in his mind. No time for it. It didn't exist.
Savine swiped at John. John jumped back, and the claws raked trench-deep gouges into the supple ground. John pulled his knife from his belt and jumped back onto Savine. He lifted his arm and plunged the knife into the spine. The knife sank deep, but the skin must have been thicker than he thought, because Savine's reaction was to grab him by the wrist and throw him again onto the path. She stalked toward him without taking the knife from herself.
John, growling, hunched his back and pushed off the ground in another jump high over Savine's head, grabbing the knife along the way. The second his feet met ground he spun on his heels and did another leap, this one low, sending him sliding across the ground between Savine's legs just as her hammer-like fist came flying down. John swiped out with the knife as he slid and it caught Savine's ankle, sinking deep with the force of the thrust, all the way to and into the bone. Still gripping the hilt, he jerked to a stop, and ripped the knife out.
Savine swung around, and her fist crashed into John's head, knocking him to his side. He scrabbled to his feet, and was up for less than a heartbeat when Savine's claws ripped into his shoulder. John was whipped around. He shrieked, briefly, then snarled and jerked around to claw her face. She jolted back to clutch the assaulted flesh. Her eyes ignited with fury, and her tongue snaked out to taste the obsidian black blood. She took a step forward, and John slunk back.
" Kiiiiiiiiillllllll yyyyooooooouuuuu!" she rumbled, and lifted both arms to smash John into a pancake.
John grabbed his P-90 still hanging from his shoulder thanks to the spine on his shoulder blade. He brought it up to Savine's face and fired. Savine roared and stumbled back, grabbing her bloody face.
John waited for her to fall.
She didn't. She lowered her hands from her mangled visage, one eye leaking blood like it was oil.
John hissed. Ah crap. Wounded animals tended to be highly pissed off animals. And John knew Savine's level of anger had no limit. She was insane after all.
But when she moved forward, she stumbled. John backed away, panting, blood soaking into his clothes, running down his arm, and mingling with the puddles on the path.
John made a decision. Getting himself killed would be counterproductive to his goal. Savine would be slowed by her wounds. John could get ahead, guard Krissa and Bren, escort them through the shield and gate. Savine dead did not matter. His friends' safety mattered.
John's decision finalized, he turned and took off down the path. Savine roared behind him, and looking back he saw her ambling after him. The distance between them lengthened, so John looked ahead, increasing his speed.
He ran without breaking stride or even slowing, the rain dieing around him from heavy drops to drizzle, to mist, then to nothing. He ran into the gray of dawn with heavy fog wrapped around the trees and veiling the path. Scent guided him, then sound in the form of pounding vrat feet. To keep from frightening the riders, John moved into the trees, and ran through the misty forest. The running and riding went on into the day until the mad dash of the riders decreased into a trot.
John decided now was the time to emerge. He moved on ahead of the riders, to slow and step from the forest. He sat down on his haunches in the path. Both riders reined in their vrats with Bren bringing up his rifle. Krissa, however, reached out her hand and placed it on Bren's arm.
" No, wait! It's John! Look at the clothes."
Bren lowered the rifle. Krissa, round-eyed and breathless, stood in the stirrups to dismount. John rose to all fours with a hiss, bristling his spines. He shook his head, and pointed over his shoulder. They needed to keep going. Savine was slowed, not stopped. He turned and started moving at a walk to further enforce this point. He heard the jingle of reins, and the grunt of the vrats being urged forward.
" Mr. Sheppard?"
John looked back. Krissa's mouth moved without sound, hesitant to say anything or unsure of what to say.
She said what seemed to always come naturally to her. " Are you all right?"
John gave her a response in the form of a smile. Probably not the best way to be expressive with a jaw full of sharp teeth, but Krissa seemed to get the idea, because her body visibly relaxed.
Deeper on in the day, they stopped to let the vrats eat the leaves and lick moss from the trees. John sat further up the path to watch.
" As long as we feed them at least four times throughout the day," Krissa explained, " we can keep them going at a run. That should cut the time it takes to reach the town."
Far away, there came a howl. Krissa and Bren remounted and urged their mounts into a run – not tearing madly over the path, but fast as the situation warranted. John let them pass to take up guarding the rear. The day saw them in constant speeding motion, stopping for only five minutes to let the vrats feed. The howl, when it came, was always, blessedly, far away.
Day waned into night, and the night found them still running. Stops became ten minutes, because the party – say for John – was exhausted. Running became a dragging walk fueled by terror brought on by Savine's echoing howl. John could see the riders in the dark, both wet, both shivering, Krissa the worst. At one point, she nearly slid from the saddle, but John caught on the moment he saw her waver, and was there to catch her and place her back on the vrat. He kept by her then, much to the vrat's discomfort. Every time she nearly fell, John stood to steady her.
Slow progress. John didn't like it, but pushing would only make it worse, wear the vrats out, or send riders toppling from the saddles.
Then came the howl, closer, breaking the silence like a hammer through glass. The vrats didn't need to be urged. They bolted into a run, and Krissa's exhaustion fled her with a sharp gasp.
Morning, gray, wet, and still thick with fog that closed in around them like insubstantial walls moving as they moved. The howl had not sounded for hours, and Savine's scent was no where on the wind. The party slowed into a walk, stopping to let the vrats feed. Bren and Krissa fueled themselves with bits of dried meat and fruit. Krissa gave some to John, and he ate ravenously. Hunger, like pain, was a shadow at the back of his mind. There, but without affecting him in anyway except during the eating process.
John, after finishing, looked up into Krissa' pale face. Her frightened eyes were sunken, shadowed underneath – raccoon eyes.
He wanted to say something, to reassure her, to help her smile. But words wouldn't form coherently in his alien throat, and they had no time.
He did offer a smile, keeping his mouth sealed to hide the teeth. It seemed enough, because Krissa tried to smile back, and awkwardly patted him on the head with a shaking hand.
Her reassurance for him.
When the meal was done, the riders mounted, and heeled the mounts into a run with John padding behind. As the day aged, the fog stuck with them.
They had to be close to the end. Weren't they close? They should be.
John assumed as much when Krissa unstrapped the silver sil case from the saddle and opened it. She removed the device then proceeded – while in a trot – to program it. The device made no sound, but the panels on both sides lit up. She continued to hold the sil in her lap with one hand while the other was busy with the reins.
They were almost there, almost home.
The day was drifting away again, the darkness coming fast with the world already gray. Twilight came early to the woods.
The worn and wavering party dropped from a run to a walk akin to a crawl. A cool breeze picked up that thinned the fog into gauzy mist.
John halted, and pointed his snout into the air. The scent he caught – foul and combined - made him dash forward, hissing.
He shrieked." Ruuuuuunnnnnnnn!"
His cry did the trick, spooking the vrats and forcing them to run.
They didn't go far, maybe ten feet, when a massive white claw shot out of the lingering mist to catch Bren in the chest. The old man flew back and landed on the ground with a crack, chest ripped open from collar bone to floating rib.
Krissa screamed, but it was overcome by John's own shriek of rage. Honed thought became a pinprick of single intent – kill Savine. He tore over the path straight at the albino mutation and lunged straight for her throat with claws spread and mouth wide. He hit Savine in the chest to send her lurching back. He latched onto her throat, shaking his head like a dog trying to tear meat from the bone until it tore and hot blood squirted directly down his throat. Savine wrapped her massive hand around John's arm and ripped him from her torso. Teeth and claws split the flesh of her thick neck and shoulders – mosquito bites to her, nothing more, even with all the blood running in rivers down the grotesque body.
" John!"
He heard Krissa's voice just as Savine flung John away. He hit the ground rolling. He slid to a stop in time to see Savine lumbering toward Krissa, the vrat slipping in its addled haste to get away.
" Witch!" John snarled. He ran at Savine, jumped to get over her head where he could stand between her and Krissa. But Savine was aware, and turned in time to bring her hand up and rake John down the chest right over the sternum. John landed, panting, only to be swiped aside with claws slicing through the scales and flesh over his ribs. He rolled to go sprawling on his stomach, and before he could rise felt the claws tear through his back.
Pain was starting to grab his attention. He was wearing out.
He tried to turn, to get back to his feet, when Savine's jaws clamped down on his ankle hard until John felt and heard the bone snap.
Uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't handle. He snapped around like a striking snake and swiped Savine across the eye. She released John's leg to jerk back, then swiped him in return, again across the back.
Krissa kept sobbing out his name. He looked up to see Krissa dismounted, kneeling by the dead-still Bren. She was crying with tears running like rain down her pale face. John tried to crawl to her when Savine slammed her clawed foot into his shredded back and pinned him down.
No, no, no, not again, not again, nooooo!
Not again. John wasn't helpless. He reached for the P-90 that had stuck with him through it all. He yanked it until the strap snapped, and he was able to move it to his other side and fire rounds into Savine's other ankle.
Savine let up on John to leap away from the bullets. John didn't waste time and scrambled over to Krissa, stopping between her and the blood-caked Savine. Savine snarled, looming on hind legs with claws spread, and John hissed.
" Deeeaaaad!"
" Witch!"
Then, a tentacle black as Savine's blood detached from the darkness to slide around Savine's pale waist. Savine stopped in mid-hiss to look down in absolute confusion at the darkness entwining around her.
The fire of anger vanished when she blinked, and complete, undeniable terror took its place. Her form shivered, and shrank, muscle diminishing, bones popping and snapping, face collapsing back to the flat and wrinkled visage of a frightened old woman. She grabbed her tattered clothes tight around a body the antithesis of what she had been seconds ago.
" M-master Diavante..." she gasped, trembling. " I – I was going to bring her back I promise I was I had no intentions of killing her against your will..."
John's sharpened sight saw Diavante through the growing darkness.
He was darkness, black as a starless space, shapeless like a massive clump of smoke, perpetually moving as though uncertain as to what to become.
Just like Bart had said.
" I wasn't going to kill her I swear, I was going to kill the man, he's taken the serum...!" Her words died as a gasp in her throat when the tentacle tightened.
" Please," she rasped, sobbing. " I won't kill her I swear."
" Lie." The voice was a rumble so low even John's sharp hearing barely heard it. The mass that was Diavante grew. The tentacle wrapped tighter. John saw the mass shift and solidify in no particular form – but there was a mouth. It looked like a mouth, wide and growing wider, with curved teeth. The mass stretched until the mouth was above Savine's head. The old woman sobbed, begged, louder and louder.
The mouth came down.
John turned and grabbed Krissa to him to hide the scene from her. Savine's scream could have rivaled her animal howl. Then it ended abruptly.
John felt Krissa shaking, heard her muffled sobs. Her hands clutched the remains of his shirt so tight he could smell the blood drawn out by her nails digging into her palm.
" Don't let him take me back," she whispered in a terror-strangled voice. " Please don't let him take me back."
It cut through the sharpened focus, and for a breath John's mind opened up enough for his heart to ache. He lifted an unsteady clawed hand to stroke her hair.
He felt Diavante behind him like a cold wind growing in strength. The cold brushed his head, down his back, and John shuddered, hissing.
" John."
Krissa gasped when the cold slid around John's flank to touch her. John saw the flickering wisp of darkness wrap around the silver case with the sil.
Hell no.
John lowered his head to rest his jaw on Krissa's shoulder.
" Ruuuunnnnn."
He didn't give her time to respond. He grabbed the case and pushed her away, then backed away from Diavante's form with the case raised in one claw.
" Run!" He shrieked. " Run!"
Krissa was just standing there until John cried out at her. She turned and bolted up the path to where the loyal vrat danced around nervously. Grabbing the reins, she brought the animal around and climbed into the saddle.
John didn't move until Krissa was riding off. Diavante made to go after her. John dropped the case, ripped it open, and removed the sil. Diavante paused, then immediately changed course toward John.
John took the Sil between his teeth, turned and bolted into the forest. He heard a sound, a moan, so deep it hurt John's ears. Diavante had no scent, only the aura of cold that was drifting away behind him. A glance told John the shadow mass was following, which was all that mattered now.
Lucky for John, Diavante wasn't that fast as a specter.
Then Diavante's form shrank into a silhouette of John's present body, like John's shadow taking a life of its own and not happy with John. John looked back ahead to weave through the trees, taking sharp and sudden turns that threw Diavante off.
Run, that was all he thought and all he knew. No destination, just run and get away. Keep Diavante away from Krissa. He didn't think it possible to go faster, but he did until the wind roared around him and his heart pounded fast enough to explode. His claws ripped soil and moss in sprays like a speed boat dispersing water. John couldn't say how deep Diavante's mimic of John's form went, if the cunning was the same or if Diavante went all animal like the others. John turned his focus to tactics that might loose the entity. He leaped and bounded off of trees trunks without breaking stride, scaled a few of the bigger to the branches in order to back track, changing direction without picking direction, spreading his scent all over the place.
He wasn't positive as to whether or not it was working, except that each glance showed him no sign of Diavante. So he kept it up.
The next tree he scaled, he saw him, and what John saw made him tilt his head to the side with a detached curiosity.
Diavante was slowing, his form wavering. It was like he was dissolving, melting into himself. Too many forms to take, too much genetic material in a single being, and not a stable enough mind to control it all.
That was John's assumption, and as far as he was concerned, it sounded about right. He took the advantage, leaping from the tree at another cheetah fast marathon through the heavy woods. He smiled around the sil in his mouth. Whatever destination cropped up before him, he would see it. He would make it.
John broke from the woods into a hilly meadow of short grass. His brain registered familiarity, processing it, conjuring images of the gate just over a few hills.
John staggered and fell, the sil popping out of his jaws. He pushed himself back up, grabbing the sil with his mouth, but fell again. He was flopping like a fish, rising, staggering, falling.
Why freakin' now! Freakin' irony!
True enough. He felt himself diminish in body; scales and spines shrinking into him, sil dropping from his mouth when he lost the snout, horns and whiskers dissolving away.
Not now!
But the energy, the strength, and the numbing chemical remained. John had little time. He grabbed the sil in human hands and raced over the hill as though just starting a run. Steam hadn't left him yet. Enough remained to fuel regular muscles and propel him forward. Cresting a hill, he saw the gate, not that far. Still running, John did one more glance for safety sake. He didn't have his P-90, his nine mil was empty, and the means to return to the creature form was depleted. He was screwed if Diavante showed up.
John practically collided with the DHD on finally reaching the gate. The first thing he did – get his memory into gear and enter the ID and activation codes for the sil. No time, and no way, to get the shield lowered. After that, he dialed with hands shaking so bad that even on the massive device he almost hit the wrong symbols.
The gate rushed to life. Clutching the sil to his chest, John broke into one last run and leaped into the gate. The ride made his brain scream. The worm hole deposited him into darkness and noise, so much noise, screaming klaxons in his head, his ears, shouts, panic, the stench of fear. It terrified him, and kept him running with bare feet slapping on cold metal. Up the stairs, stumbling, tripping, sliding on slick feet. He collided into walls only to push off from them. Where was he going? He was going somewhere, following the unseen path of hazy memory, and smell – his own scent growing stronger.
He collided with his door, slapped the panel, and lurched inside, falling to his knees so that he crawled the rest of the way on three limbs. He met resistance, a wall, so huddled into it, to wait, to think, to discover if Diavante had followed.
And what if he had? There was nothing John could do about it. Trembling, panting abnormally fast, he clutched the sil to his chest and waited, the walls and floor growing slick around him as he tried to stay upright but kept slipping.
The chemical was leaving him, and taking everything with it. His mind whirled and wavered until everything around him turned into a dream. Footsteps resounded in his skull. The sirens were long since over. He smelled scents, too many scents, vague in their familiarity. Crap how he wanted to sleep, but Diavante...
" John?"
His name, a singular word, and that voice - they cut through to him, louder than the blood rushing through his ears and the crashing of his heart, driven home by the gentle touch that followed. It all came together to still his mind, and his heart descended from its psychotic rapidity.
" Elizabeth."
John let himself crumple to the floor and curl up as the last drop of chemical slunk away. He had nothing left. He couldn't even hold onto the sil, so let it roll away. His eyes rolled up to faces he knew. A question was asked. He pointed to the gaping McKay. Then his stomach rebelled. So one hidden drop enough after all to raise him to his arms and puke Savine's blood. Now he was through, so fell, and let the good old void have its way and take him back.
TBC...
SGASGASGASGA
A/N: So now you know! But not over yet. That was a fun chapter to write. Sorry about Bren.
