A/N: The reviews have motivated me, and since the story is moving along so nicely, I've decided to post early. Enjoy!

Ch. 4

Fight and Flight

Don't react, that's what the voice had told him. If he reacted, then the drug would be administered in regular doses, and John wouldn't have the mental capacity to distinguish up from down. But he wanted to react, just to make it all stop. Hands patting his face, then slapping him, with idiotic laughter following. It became worse when he so much as moaned or tried to twitch away. A fist to the face would be the result, or to the gut, shoving the air from his lungs. It made him briefly appreciate the cold pit of hunger at the bottom of his stomach. The combination of blows and side effects of this drug would have had him vomiting his stomach inside out. Without food, he could only dry-heave until his stomach muscles and ribs cramped.

The man behind the voice whispering in his ear when John felt the pinch in his neck indicating drug delivery assured John that he was doing him a favor. John supposed it to be true. Reality wavered, and everything around him felt like a desert mirage, where water ripples on the sand with no real water to show for it. Sensation was at its strongest when the blows came, but everything else left him wondering and nervous. When a breeze passed or a hand brushed his arm or shoulder, he wanted to focus on it for a grasp at the tangible. Problem was, it never lasted.

As for his own body, his hands felt somewhat detached, and it took a moment of wriggling his fingers to remind his brain that they still existed. He was most aware of his heart beating heavy and sluggish, running like an old car that had been repaired one too many times, and it scared him. The voice had assured that the drug did nothing more than incapacitate. But one had to consider the consequences of long term use, even thinned down as the voice had said it was.

Adrenaline was the counter. When multiple voices filled the room, murmuring and laughing, the natural chemical would rush into John's blood and incite his heart into a hammering riot. Well, maybe not hammering, but it certainly started pumping harder. Sensation became a little more defined, and he had to fight against the urge to flinch at the touch of breezes from passing bodies. The proximity of these people made him tense with good reason, because the blows came soon after the voices arrived.

He could utilize the adrenaline. He only needed awareness enough to stumble out of whatever rat hole he was in and reach a place of safety where he could wait the drug out, letting it clear from his system.

That was part two of the plan. Part one was the small, sharpened strip of glass bound securely to the bottom of his wrist with pieces of thin, transparent string that were easy to miss against his skin. A little Ronon-taught trick John had taken to practicing whenever he wore his long-sleeved shirt. This was the first time his captors hadn't thought of thoroughly checking his arms. Hell, they'd even removed his black wrist band which had been hiding the glass, and he still felt the glass pressed against his wrist.

Getting it out was made tricky to the point of dangerous with his hands bound. He was forced to work slow, maneuvering his fingers around and up into the sleeve where he pushed the glass upward little by little, loosening it toward the point where it would hopefully fall out into his hands. Sometimes it would make headway, and other times it would slip back into place. The course, narrow ropes binding him chafed and rubbed his skin like sandpaper. At first it was annoying, then it escalated to painful, and he had to press his chin into his chest to keep his jaw clamped, or else give himself away with a hiss of pain.

The glass was just as vicious. His his fingers slipping over the sharpened edges sliced into his skin, and he had to cup his hand to catch the blood. Then the ropes joined in on the bloodletting. Every pat of blood hitting the floor, loud in the silent room, made his heart jolt. The rope and his sleeve soaked in most, but a few drops were slick about finding paths down his fingers to fall off. And every time the myriad of voices returned, his heart would beat harder. More than prayed, he begged that his captors didn't notice the blood on his hands or on the floor.

And they didn't.

Time existed only in the form of the voices arrivals, but the time between visits could have varied. John couldn't keep his thoughts straight enough to determine it, and he didn't care. All that mattered was the glass ripping his arm into shredded meat and getting it to shred the ropes.

Success came without warning. The combination of blood and struggles had the glass slipping from the string. John nearly dropped it in his surge of shock and excitement. Once in his hand, he worked the glass around to start sawing through the ropes. But when the voices came, he clutched the glass in a loose fist. He forced his body to go limp, though his hands shook from the pain of the cuts and tension.

"... I'm supposed to meet her tonight, but if her damn husband shows up again I'm not taking his garbage. If the man wanted to keep her so bad he shouldn't be seeking other beds to sleep in."

The air of a passing body touched the side of John's neck, then cold, rough hands patted him on either side of his cheeks. " You with us? Hey!"

John remained languid as a rag. He even let a little saliva leak from the corner of his mouth in a small stream of drool just for show.

Go away go away go away go away go away...

" Just do him in," said a deeper voice more indifferent than Ronon's.

" Not this far in the game. It'll attract attention." More pats, then came the slap stinging John's cheek and whipping his head to the side. " Hey! Wake up!" The two men chuckled. They were nothing more than noise and pain to John. Not people, but ghosts with no faces, no forms, no names, yet existing against John's will.

Fingers curled into John's hair and forced his head up. " He's not looking too good." John's head was pulled almost bent in half, then twisted left and right. It hurt, but John was good at keeping himself from crying out, which usually involved him biting his own tongue.

" We won't be able to keep him much longer."

" Eh, we can try. Most folk are content just to get a corpse back." The fingers lifted away and John let his head fall back to his chest. He felt a hand pat him on the shoulder, then remain there, fingers squeezing and digging. " He's shaking. We'd better get Caul to give him more stuff."

The hand departed and footsteps tromped out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

John gasped and lifted his head on his unsteady neck. He didn't want any more drug, even in the small doses. Not now, not when he was so close. He brought the glass around, fumbling it in his trembling fingers, fingers oozing more blood the tighter he gripped the glass to maintain his hold of it. Blood patted faster as he picked and sawed, fraying the threads of the rope one by one, then twisting and squirming his wrists to loosen the bindings.

" Come on," he whispered. " Come on!"

Voices mumbled without words outside the door. Thumps and footsteps made John's heart jolt and his head spin. He ripped through the ropes using both the glass and his fingers, and twisted his wrist feeling the bindings start to give. Then, so suddenly it made John jump, the wrist that had been concealing the bit of glass popped free. John gasped out in relief and triumph. He didn't waste time savoring the moment, and brought his shaking hand straight to the blindfold, lifting it enough from one eye to assess his surroundings.

Even in the dim light he squinted and blinked until his light-starved left eye adjusted. He was in a small, windowless room, empty except for himself, his jacket and vest piled in the corner. No P-90, 9-mil or even his knife were with them as far as he could tell. The world blurred in and out around him with his attention span doing the same. He rolled his eye to the door where light spilled through the crack at the bottom.

No movement. John worked fast, at least as fast as his sluggish body would let him. He bent with a grimace of pain lancing out from his stiff back and chest, and began sawing through the ropes at his feet, just enough to kick free of them when the time was right.

A shadow flitted across the light. John snapped back straight and yanked the blindfold over his eye. He whipped his arm back around the chair, holding the rope to his wrist to appear as though it were still in place. He sucked in a deep, readying breath, then made himself go limp. The door creaked open. Two sets of footsteps again. John felt the breeze of someone passing, then the puff of hot air against his ear.

" I really am sorry about having to keep doing this to you." Friendly voice, but he wasn't alone. This was a setback, but nothing John couldn't compensate for. When he felt the pinch at his neck, he reacted.

John whipped his hands out from behind him, one ripping off the blindfold and the other grabbing his drugger by the neck. He jerked one foot free of the chair just as the second man charged, and bashed his boot into the man's chest sending him staggering back to slump against the wall. John lurched onto his feet while at the same time bringing the smaller, mouse-haired man around against his chest to use as a shield. John kicked the chair away and moved toward the door.

" I'm really sorry I have to do this," John hissed in the small man's ear, and pressed the glass shard into the man's neck against the pulse point. John had no intentions of killing this man, not after the man had gone through the trouble of ensuring the drug didn't kill him. He just hoped the rest of the man's cronies didn't realize this.

An arm slid around John's throat just before he was able to step out into what looked to be a storage room. John reacted out of both instinct and alarm, snapping his head back to bash it into the face of the second man. There was a grunt, and John glanced over his shoulder to see the blond-haired man stumble back, shake his head with a nose dripping blood, and stumble forward toward John, gritting blood-stained teeth. John elbowed the man, and the man staggered back again. Grabbing the small man by the collar to hold him in place, John turned enough to deck the guy when he made a third attempt to charge. It wasn't a strong blow, but the combination of all three finally sent the man dropping to the floor.

The man rolled onto his stomach with a groan. John's body buzzed with a shock of delight on seeing his 9-mil tucked into the back of the man's pants. He shoved his bit of glass into his BDU pocket and crouched to snatch the weapon. He turned and pressed it to the side of the little man's head.

" Where are we?" he hissed again.

Little man swallowed and stuttered when he spoke. " Uh... um... east end business district..."

" What planet!" John snarled. He neither had the time nor was in the mood to play nice and coaxing.

" Uh, Ioth."

John's heart dropped to his stomach. " What?" And then he instantly recalled. " Crap!"

His surprise was short lived when voices drifted to them. Three men, the lead one tall and sandy haired, walked toward the storage room but stopped at the threshold when they looked up in time to see their buddy being held at gunpoint by their former captive.

The sand-haired man's brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed with dark, cold anger. " Caul you idiot! You didn't give him enough!"

John moved the gun to point it at the tall man. " Hey, don't blame him for being the nice guy. You were the ones not giving me much incentive to stay. Now move back or one of you'll be decorating the walls with your brain matter."

The men began backing away, slowly, and John was struck by a sudden case of deja vu. He'd seen these men before, but his brain wasn't playing nice enough to let him figure out where. As the men moved, so did John, inching slower than snails until he couldn't take it anymore, and he rolled his eyes.

" Move faster!"

The men took wider steps back, and John rushed through the door, turning to keep the men in front of him within sight of his gun.

" Don't even think about following me," John growled, " because if I see any of you assholes again, I will definitely be decorating something with your brains." He shoved the short man into the other three, turned, and bolted from the door. Something inside him yelled at the folly of losing his hostage, but John wasn't attached enough to reality to give it any consideration. All he cared about was finding a place to hide and letting the drug burn itself out of him.

Rushing outside onto the stair landing, the world tilted around him. He had to lean against the rail and take each step cautiously as he descended. He was almost to the bottom when something heavy collided into his back. Both he and the weight pitched forward to go tumbling the rest of the way down the stairs to land in a heap with the weight on top of John. The world spun, and his stomach flipped, but with nothing to spew up it was a futile reaction. The weight on him shifted and planted a hand on his chest for support as the body began to rise. A sharp, burning spike of pain sent more adrenaline ripping through John. He cried out, then grabbed the hand to yank it away. The body fell to the side with a grunt, and John quickly lashed out with his fist, striking the flesh and bone of a face.

With the weight off him, John was able to flip onto his chest and push himself up with his hands. He saw his gun only five feet away, and started to scramble to it. Something latched onto his leg and jerked him back. John shot a frantic glance over his shoulder to see the sandy haired guy with both hands around his ankle. John gritted his teeth and pooled every last scrap of energy he had into twisting his body around from his chest to his back and simultaneously snapping his free leg right into the man's jaw with a crack. The man fell to the side, snarling in pain, and his hands released John to cup his bleeding face. John rolled onto his hands and knees and pushed himself to his feet while scrambling toward the gun. Another weight plowed into his back, and John screamed when he landed directly on his burning chest. Stars pulsed in his eyes in time to the thrumming of his racing heart. Hands grabbed his hair to pull his head back, and thick fingers wrapped around his exposed throat.

The gun was right next to John's hand. As the fingers tightened, John grabbed it, brought it up and around behind him, and fired. His attacker screamed and the weight was off him. John chanced a second-long glance over his shoulder to see the crop-haired guy clutching his bleeding arm. John coughed out a laugh, then scrabbled to his feet, taking off at a staggering, unsteady run, veering like a drunk.

Shouts gave him more of a wake up call and another surge of adrenaline. He pushed his uncooperative legs to pump and carry him at a dash rather than a haphazard jog. He turned sharply down alleys, making sudden changes in direction when he had the space to do so. The world fuzzed and tilted all around him, and the air burned in and out of his lungs. No matter his fear, his body just didn't have enough chemical to keep him going. Amidst the shouts, he caught another sound, a rushing gurgling sound, like water. A strange, hazy curiosity demanded to know what it was, but it was a fleeting question. John was busy looking over his shoulder at his pursuers. On seeing them emerge from another alley, John's breath caught and he stumbled.

He reached out with his hand to stop himself, and encountered nothing. Fortunately his other hand was far enough back to collide with the edge of the drop off he was now crouched before. Seven feet below him was a river boxed in by bricks rubbed smooth from erosion. The water ran fast, really fast by the way the debris flew by. John pushed himself to his unsteady legs, looking from the water to the men running toward him and getting closer. Glancing around, John saw the area to be a dead end, with buildings stopping right at the drop off.

John didn't have much choice in the matter. It was time for a swim he knew he would later regret. Cesspools looked cleaner than this river.

John tucked his 9-mil into the back waist band of his pants, took a deep breath, then stepped out into nothing. He felt the heart-stopping thrill of falling, followed by the painful lurch of a sudden halt that nearly ripped his arm from the socket. John struggled and twisted against the iron tight grip around his arm. Looking up, he couldn't see who had him in the darkness, but they were attempting to haul him out.

" No freakin' way!" John snarled. He grabbed the man's arm, pulling himself up enough to bite the man's hand. The man cried out, tried to maintain his hold, but finally yanked his hand away when John bit harder. John plummeted then smacked into the river. The cold knocked the breath from him, and his spinning mind forgot which way was up. He floundered beneath the currents as they pulled him along. His body rammed into something hard as concrete – the wall. He reached out for it, feeling along it in all directions until his right hand encountered the sharp cold of open air. He pressed his feet against the wall and pushed himself up, going and going for what felt like an eternity until his head broke the surface.

John gasped in a ragged lungful of air against the sharp pain in his chest. Then, rather than struggling against the river, he let it carry him. As long as the water didn't lead to some Aqueduct or sewage, he would be all right, and hopefully come to some shallower part. He did fight to keep near the wall, just in case some exposed piping or some kind of handhold came along he could snag. The river was happy to oblige in keeping him to the wall by driving him into it, pummeling his already bruised body to add a few more bruises to the collection. Other times, the water attempted to pull him back under, and a few gallons managed to force its way down John's throat.

Beckett was going to kill him when he got home... if he got home.

Think positively, Johnny-boy, come on now... No easy task while being pummeled, choked, and constantly shocked by cold.

But all things eventually come to an end, good or bad. The river didn't slow, but the surrounding walls became shorter. The cold kept John lucid enough to notice this, and he rolled from his back to his stomach in order to reach out and make a grab for the wall-edge. His stinging hands were too stiff to cling. When the water next shoved him against the wall, John threw his arms out over the edge and his weight with it, forcing energy into himself and hauling himself up and out of the water, clawing at the cracked and paved road, then rolling the rest of his body from the cold river onto his back to stare up at the ink-black sky.

It only now registered to him that it was nighttime. John remained on his back, panting, gasping, choking, and coughing. His stomach did another flip, and bile came shooting up burning into his throat. He rolled painfully back to his stomach and vomited streams of brown water onto the ground. When he finished, dry heaving for all he was worth, he returned to his position on his back. Far less painful than lying on his chest.

John stared up at the sky. He saw no stars, and concluded the sky to be overcast. He felt rather at peace just staring, surrounded by the silence, with the cold momentarily forgotten. He was too happy to be out and away to care that he was shivering violently. He was also too tried, tired enough to sleep where he lay. He felt his eyes began to slip close, knowing he couldn't let them, but having nothing left to fight with to keep them open.

Until he heard the voices. John snapped his head to the side, but saw only a small group of three men teetering like drunks, and laughing raucously in the same manner. Suddenly, a molecule of energy reserve pushed its way into John's body. He rolled again through aches, pains, and the arctic cold onto his hands and knees, and began crawling toward a building not situated on the very edge of the river. On the side of the building were stairs leading up to a rickety landing. John pulled himself toward these stairs, then behind them. He dropped back against the wall, and pulled his knees up to tighten into a shivering huddle. Through the gap in the steps he saw the three men encounter four men. Laughter turned to talking, talking to shouts, and the men began pushing each other. The shouts grew until the night echoed with the slap of fist striking flesh. Immediately after echoed gunfire that shattered the silence like a rock through fine china.

John forced his stiff arm behind him to pull out his 9mil and bring it around. He pressed the gun against his chest, and his legs against his arms in an attempt to preserve any modicum of warmth that could be scrounged from his possibly hypothermic body.

Another shot was fired, and someone screamed in agony.

SGA

Caul stood back as the rest spread along the edge of the Ni'ok River watching the tall man get swept away by the unrelenting currents. They didn't remain at the river's edge long, and Mical was the first to break away, followed by Felz and the bloodied Gyr.

Caul tensed. Mical's dark eyes were unreadable. But Caul caught the twitch in the muscle of Mical's cheek. That small, nearly indiscreet movement was all Caul needed. Mical was mad, but it was a controlled anger, walled back enough to allow Mical to do what he needed to and not give in to panic or rage. Caul was safe for now. Although once they obtained their next batch of weapons from the 'Lanteans, that safety was out the window. Mical never gave into emotion until after all business was settled.

" A set back," he said without looking at Caul, and brushed passed the smaller man. Caul turned and reluctantly followed. Mical wiped more dried blood from his face then sniffed. " Tomorrow, we take whatever the 'Lanteans bring. Caul, you give them some tripe about more demands. That should buy us time. Tonight, we need to get Araz to a healer, then move the weapons."

Felz and Gyr nodded like the obedient lackeys they were. Caul sighed and nodded as well. The pattern was repeating. It was time to flee again. Although, in a twist, this was the first time they'd ever had to run because a captive escaped. Nervous as Caul was, he harbored a small inkling of satisfaction in that, and honestly hoped the man survived the city and made it home.

It wasn't a strong hope, not in this city.

SGA

Another third day, another trade. Lorne felt like he'd been dumped into a time warp. The three days had dragged by in a haze of planning and preparing, but it felt to Lorne as though all this had only just taken place yesterday.

They were better prepared this time around, because chances were – this was their last chance. If the kidnappers hadn't discovered being double crossed with the P-90s, they were going to realize real quick when they tried out their new acquirement of flash-bangs. It was all the Atlanteans had by way of harmless explosives. Giving the trade a little extra kick, however, was the tracking device stuck to one of the grenades, and another being held by Ronon to be transplanted onto one of the kidnappers. They were long-range devices, able to be picked up even outside the atmosphere of the planet by a properly modified jumper. If Dr. Weir couldn't get the passes needed to enter the city and search, then it was on to plan B and plowing their way in by cloaked jumper, hopefully avoiding knocking anyone down in the process.

The wait wasn't as long as before. The small man and the two cronies lugging the wooden crate arrived three minutes after the appointed time.

" Good, you're here," the little man said. Lorne tensed, as did everyone else around them. But rather than launching into a tirade about the defunct weapons, the two cronies popped the lid off their crate and proceeded to load the flash bangs from the Atlantean crate.

" Where's our guy?" Lorne asked. " Or is this another change in plans?"

The little man cleared his throat. " One more delivery. The smaller, hand held projectiles. Then you get your guy back."

Lorne narrowed his eyes, looking all three men over at a glance. " Gee, funny how I don't believe you." Something was wrong, something concerning what he was seeing that his conscious mind wasn't picking up but his subconscious was sniffing out like a blood-hound. There'd been a change since they last met. Not so much in the mousy man – he was still nervous as hell. It was the other two. Where they'd come across as being stoic as Ronon, they now moved more stiffly, more quickly, even dropping a few of the harmless grenades as they made the transfer.

" You don't have any other choice," the mouse-man said. " You want your soldier back, then bring us what we ask."

It was time to test Lorne's growing suspicion. " We need proof that he's all right. Last time you brought us something. How about now?"

That got 'em. The two lackeys' eyes flickered toward the Atlanteans, and mouse-man didn't speak for all of two seconds, swallowing twice in that small amount of time.

" He's fine," he said. " You're just going to have to take our word on it."

Ronon lunged forward, grabbing mouse-man by the throat and whipping him around to pin him to the wall. The two lackeys stood to flee until Lorne, Lt. Stewart, and Teyla brought their weapons up.

" Bad idea, fellas," Lorne said. He let Teyla and Stewart handle being the watch dogs, and moved over to stand beside Ronon. He placed his hand on the big guy's arm. " Easy Ronon. Let the man breathe. We still need some answers."

Ronon's fingers loosened their death grip, and the mouse-man gasped in a hoarse breath of air.

" Okay then," Lorne said with a tight smile. " I said it before and I'll say it again. Funny how I don't believe you, because I don't. You see, I got this funny little sixth sense that helps me know when people are lying, but Ronon's is a hell of a lot better than mine. You know how there's some animals that are said to smell fear? Well Ronon can scent out lying, and he only needs one hand to break your neck. He's pretty quick about it too, killing you before I'd have a chance to stop him. So you'd better play it straight with us... What's your name?"

The mouse-man's pale face started slicking over with sweat. " C-Caul. P-please, don't kill me. I'll tell you what you want to know. B-but if I do, you have to swear you'll take me with you back to your world... Or-or any world, it doesn't matter..."

" Caul!" the blond growled, but shut up when Teyla moved her gun directly on him.

" Silence!" she snapped.

Caul audibly gulped. " I don't want to do this anymore," he said, though Lorne got the feeling it wasn't really an explanation, but more like a confession, and he found himself believing the little man and his look of finality beneath the fear. Caul's eyes moved from the blond to Lorne. " We don't have your man anymore. He managed to escape. If he's still alive – which he might be since he got away last night – then he's somewhere in the city. B-but that's all I can tell you, I'm sorry."

Alarm tightened in Lorne's chest. He pointed to the closed door of the inspection room. " So he's out there somewhere? Was he hurt when he escaped?"

Caul's faced softened apologetically. " He was... roughed up some the last couple of days. We gave him water, b-but not food. And he fell into the Ni'ok river, which isn't a sanitary water source even when the filters are working. And – and if he did manage to get out, which isn't impossible further down river, he would most likely end up in the outskirts. People, they're rougher there, harder. Most of the enforcers choose to avoid that territory. I – I know you don't want to hear this, but your friend's chances of survival aren't going to be good. Not in this city."

Lorne curled his fingers into a clenched fist until his nails bit into his palm. He turned away trying to think, but couldn't push his mind past the red haze of frustration that kept building and building. So close and then a thousand miles too far. Finally, he turned again, and gave a vicious kick to the now empty crate. " Son of a bitch!"

Caul flinched, the two lackeys exchanged nervous looks, but Teyla, Ronon, and Stewart didn't even blink.

" I can help you find him," Caul said.

" Caul!" the blond man snapped. " You spineless little dirt crawler! Mical's going to kill you!"

" Please," Caul said. " I'm willing to help if you'd let me."

Lorne turned back to Caul, looking from him to the lackeys. " Will these guys be a problem?" he asked.

" N-no. Once a hostage is lost, however he's lost, then we're through. Mical and the rest will just move on."

Lorne stepped up to the two, giving them a warning look – the coldest, harshest look he could manage, though he knew Ronon would have done better. " Get out of here. If I see either of you two again, I'll kill you. If I discover your boss is following us when we return, I'll kill him and you. You can say as much to him. Now take your crap and get out."

The two men didn't mess around. They grabbed the now full crate and headed out, shooting Caul a parting, dangerous look.

Caul gaped. " But... They took your weapons..."

Lorne shrugged. " Harmless. Just a bunch of exaggerated noise-makers. Same with the guns we brought last time." Lorne returned his full attention to Caul. Ronon had released the little man's neck, but remained invading his personal space.

" You can really help us find Sheppard?"

Caul nodded. " Is that his name? Yeah, I can try. But I make no promises whether or not he's alive or dead. You'll need passes, which you might be able to get under retrieval jurisdiction. You get a longer allotted time with that. More if you were hunting a fugitive. It's not easy, though. Officials will want to speak with your leader or nearest to before issuing one."

Lorne jerked his head in a rigid nod. " Right, that'll be Dr. Weir then. Let's get you a pass out of here. I'd prefer being back here before your world's sunset." They left the empty crate having made their 'trade', and headed out with their new acquisition.

SGA

A/N: I may be posting daily to move you along through the first couple of chapters so that I can get you to the real meat of the story. After that, I may slow down again, especially if I start catching up with myself.