The mysterious foe struck without a word. Sheppard dodged a blade aimed at his throat, narrowly missing a slice that would have given him a crimson necktie. The knife arched downwards towards his subclavian and he quickly sidestepped the motion. When the steel went for across his waistline, he sucked in his stomach and jumped backwards. The attacker was nimble; every swipe of the knife only missed him by inches.

Carving him up didn't work so the assailant switched tactics and tried to stab him instead. He pivoted away from the thrust towards his heart and weaved the jabs that followed. All the lessons with Ronon were paying off. He never took his focus away from the steel, staying aware of every motion. When the attacker lunged again, he swerved and pulled out his Gerber knife.

Sheppard reverted to a standard defensive stance, one foot in front of the other and his arms up in a loose fashion, ready to react to anything. His opponent looked like he'd walked off a Star Wars film. He wore a black suit that was more of a flexible exoskeleton, armored plates covering his chest and limbs. The outfit included a set of long gloves, a helmet equipped with some type of visor and a pair of typical bad guy boots.

"You trying out for the next Predator vs. Alien movie?"

His foe went on the offensive in silence. The knife sliced towards his neck, but he blocked and parried it with his own. The Predator recoiled when Sheppard lashed back, coming up with empty air. The two traded jabs and lunges, neither soldier making a mark on the other. Deep down inside, Sheppard knew he wouldn't last long in this type of knife fight.

The assailant moved with grace, his armor flexing seamlessly. Sheppard was backed into corner; forced further out of reach of his gun and unable to get to the door. The bad guy not only had a couple of inches on him, but also easily outweighed him in muscle mass. He wasn't The Hulk by any means, but he could give Ronon a run for his money.

Sheppard breathed hard and searched for a way past this enemy. "How about I just call you Ugly? That's what Arnold did in the film and lived to save the day."

He hated the inability to read a man's eyes. When Ugly feinted towards his knee Sheppard let his guard down to block and exposed himself. Boiling heat ripped a path from the top of his elbow across his forearm, blood welling up from the wound. The cut went bone deep and set all of his nerves on fire. Despite the white-hot pain, he managed to veer away and avoid a violent swipe to his carotid.

Sheppard knew he had to stay on the attack and went for the belly area not covered by thicker armor. Ugly averted the stabbing motion and slammed the knife handle into his shoulder. The jarring vibration caused his Gerber to drop to the ground with a clank. Ignoring the throbbing in his arm and shoulder, Sheppard dove to the ground. He grabbed the bad guy's ankle with both boots and swung them hard to the left, sending his attacker to the floor.

The heavier weight of the suit caused Ugly to crash hard. Sheppard scrambled to his feet, even while his foe recovered from his tumble. He spotted his floor lamp out of the corner of his eye and grabbed the metal pole, ignoring the numbing sensation in his right hand.

Blood coated his arm in an alarming rate and flexing his muscles caused him agony. He struck the upper body of his stalking foe and caused Ugly to stumble. Like a baseball player Sheppard swung again, striking with all his adrenaline infused strength. He held onto the pole like an overgrown bat and tried to pummel the science fiction reject into submission.

"Stay down you son of a bitch!" he growled.

His right arm felt dead; the loss of sensation hadn't caught up to his flight or fight response. Sheppard barely noticed the constant stream of warm redness drip to the floor as he wielded the lamp pole like a sledge hammer onto his enemy's head. The helmet protected the bad guy and sent ricocheting shock waves through both of Sheppard's arms. He grunted in pain as the makeshift weapon fell from his weakened hold.

Sheppard dove towards the end table, his near useless right hand still grasping the Berretta. He felt two hands dig into his shoulders and he was thrown like a rag doll across the room and into the wall. Stunned and feeling dizzy, he barely had time to register a flurry of motion. With his left arm he blocked the six inch blade that sought his chest, the tip of the stained steel a fraction from digging into his flesh.

His head throbbed and the combination of blood loss and his earlier concussion had the room spinning dizzyingly. All he had was instinct to fall back on. He stuck the gun's muzzle under the arm that held off the knife and jabbed the weapon under the masked assailant's chin.

With Ugly still trying to plunge the knife into him, Sheppard squeezed the trigger. The report of the weapon at such close range was deafening. He couldn't feel his right fingers; only ingrained muscle memory pulled the trigger a second time.

Ugly cried out, the noise sounding like it was coming through a distortion filter. Grunting in alien gibberish, the attacker clawed at his helmet and the knife clattered to the ground. The path to escape was open and with every ounce of energy he had left, Sheppard raced towards the door. Ugly lashed out with an arm and struck him in the back of the head.

The karate chop left him with stars blurring his vision, but Sheppard managed to swipe his headset from the table before he collapsed. He crawled on his hands and knees, completely disoriented, trying to seek the fallen com piece, or his gun lost in the fall. The room filled with the sound of his enemy's heavy breathing through the damaged mask and he noticed this was the first time Ugly had made a sound. A hand grabbed his left ankle and tugged hard, dragging him backwards. With all his waning strength, he flipped onto his back, freeing his foot in the struggle.

His opponent moved towards him and he tried kicking the bad guy's knee to knock him to the ground. Ugly anticipated his ploy, catching his foot and twisting his ankle painfully. Sheppard cried out as his attacker grabbed the material around the knee of his BDUs and pulled him forward. His left hand blindly searched the floor, his hope surging briefly as his fingers brushed over his headset, activating it.

"I need a security team in my quarters!"

The com piece was jarred loose from his hand and Ugly jerked him closer. Sheppard stared at his unarmed assailant. "I think we can call this a draw. What do you think?"

The guy loomed over him, the damaged helmet still intact, blood dripping from one of many ragged holes. Sheppard's arm throbbed from the deep laceration and he was still stunned from the blow to his head. He opened his mouth to utter another smart remark in a stall for time, but stopped when he heard a swishing noise.

His eyes grew large as another sharp blade appeared from out of nowhere into Ugly's hand. Sheppard's muscles coiled to kick it away, but his assailant drove the knife deeply into his left thigh. The steel made a sickening noise as it tore into flesh, tendon, and muscle. It was shoved in to the hilt, spraying blood over his clothes and sending cast off across the body armor of the figure above him.

His breath was stolen away, a cry dying on his lips as immeasurable pain ripped through his leg and sent lancing daggers throughout the rest of his body. He panted and his vision grayed around the edges. He gasped when the knife was methodically pulled out. More blood spurted out, soaking his BDUs and beginning to pool on the once clean floor.

His chest hitched with rapid heaving gasps and, with a shaky hand, he attempted to cover the gaping hole in a useless effort. He shivered as his life poured out between his fingers, the freakish Predator guy observing him as he lay bleeding to death. He coughed, unable to suck in enough oxygen and his eyes grew heavy. The pain enveloped his entire body as he pressed down on the wound, attempting to dig his thumb into the gaping hole.

The assailant kneeled down next to him, still watching. The blade hovered above his throat and he felt the tip of it burn his skin. The metal flicked and cut the chain that held his dog tags. Ugly wrapped his gloved fingers around one of them and tore it away from his neck.

"You...can't...have...those," Sheppard wheezed.

The black clad figure didn't say a word.

He knew one day he would be killed in a battle, helping his friends, or trying to save the city. Sheppard felt a terrible weight bear down on his chest as he battled for precious air.

This wasn't what he expected at all. It was horrible knowing he was going to die alone, but the thing that made it worse was that he didn't even know why.

"You're not trying hard enough," Ronon reprimanded.

Rodney took a clumsy swing at him with his left crutch, Ronon moving easily out of its way. The momentum made the physicist lose his balance, cursing under his breath. "This isn't stick fighting you overgrown--"

Ronon grabbed Rodney's shirt collar and roughly hoisted him up before he did another face plant. "That's where you're wrong. It's the same principle."

"Easy there, that's my favorite comfy shirt," Rodney complained, slapping away Ronon's fingers. "For your information, I'm not even supposed to be doing any physical activity."

Ronon's hands clenched by his sides as he resisted the urge to use some of the colorful human epithets he'd learned the past year. Channeling calm was not his forte. "I don't think the enemy will ask for a doctor's note before shooting you dead."

McKay glowered. "While nice to know you're learning a sense of humor, that's still a huge jump on the conclusions scale. What makes you suddenly think we're all in danger?"

Ronon didn't know how to answer that question. It was a blip on his radar, a sense of ill ease he felt at different places around the city. He couldn't describe why all his internal alarms were buzzing. The sensation would sneak up on him but when he tried to track the cause, it vanished. Whatever it was, it posed an immediate danger.

Ronon considered McKay for a second, sighing internally. Teaching by demonstration was a superior tool for educating the slow. He pulled out his blaster and aimed it at Rodney's temple, counting to three in his head as his student gawked at him, sputtering like a fool.

"Boom. You're dead."

"What?" Rodney grumbled. "First off, you just aimed that damn cannon at me and I know there's no safety on that thing. Secondly, what the hell did you expect me to do?"

"Anything," Ronon grunted. "Use your crutch as a weapon, knock it out of my hand. Learn to adapt when outnumbered or facing a superior force."

"The world isn't as simple as you make it, just because your mind works at a more barbaric level than the rest of us."

Ronon's teeth gnashed together. "It's not as complicated either."

Fed up with verbal sparring, he gave up on trying to persuade the other man of the value of his lessons. The sounds of rubber ends clomping over the gym floor followed him as he left. He was certain that McKay was gearing up for another one of his insufferable tirades which only pissed him off more. There was a reason why he was taking his time to teach McKay these things instead of a unit of Marines.

Very few people were worth one on one lessons.

"Hold on a minute you --"

Ronon whirled around, his face inches from McKay's. "If you call me a wookie again, I'll punch you."

"There you go again, acting like some---"

"I need a security team immediately in my quarters!"

He didn't wait for the last syllable of Sheppard's cry for help. He took off down the hall like a shot, not looking back to see if Rodney was behind him. A switch flipped inside him; nothing mattered but getting to Sheppard. The length of the corridor stretched forever, even though in reality, he wasn't that far from the colonel's room. He heard the clatter of one crutch, than another, but he was at the door long before Rodney.

He almost collided with the closed entrance. "Sheppard, let me in!"

Nothing.

He jammed his fingers into the crack between the doors and pulled until his arms shook from the strain.

"Sheppard!" he shouted again, sweat beading over his forehead.

He heard Rodney suck in gulps of air and turned to see the man with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath behind him. "Why aren't they open yet?"

Ronon felt his fingers give way as they lost their grip, in his desperate effort to pry the darn things apart. "I don't know," he growled.

"Why would he call for help if he won't let us in?" Rodney questioned as he begun began to pace.

"Maybe he can't," Ronon replied, unsheathing his blaster.

Rodney instantly pulled apart a section in the wall, fingers dancing over circuits. "Maybe... maybe he won't let us in for fear of whatever is going inside. Either way, I'm overriding security."

Both possibilities were unacceptable. The moment Ronon had heard Sheppard's voice on the com, his adrenal glands had released a flood of fire through his veins.

"Got it!" Rodney signaled.

Ronon charged inside, firing a red energy blast at the strange figure while Rodney rushed past him to crouch at Sheppard's prone form.

"Oh, God... Med team to Sheppard's quarters immediately!"

Ronon watched the exoskeleton of the enemy absorb his gun's discharge. Undeterred, he unsheathed an eight-inch blade and slashed the figure's throat. The bad guy parried with a knife of his own, each length of steel clashing together. A black leather elbow slammed into the bridge of Ronon's nose, stunning him. He shook it off and noticed for the first time that fresh blood dripped down the expanse of the enemy's knife. His gut twisted, knowing it was Sheppard's and he growled a primeval snarl, baring his teeth like a wild animal.

The enemy advanced, switching the knife to an opposite hand. Ronon noticed the ploy and shifted his body away from a left-handed swipe. The armor-covered figure was agile on his feet, stepping back to adjust his thrust, but as he rushed forward his black leather boot slipped in the puddle of crimson spreading along the floor. The figure lost his balance, opening the door for an attack. Ronon charged, the sharp end of his knife perforating the lighter armor that covered the ribcage. The tip bore deep enough to cut a moderate wound across the abdomen and up towards his opponent's armpit.

Ronon allowed a grunt of triumph, and had spun around to strike again, when Rodney's words froze him in mid-attack.

"Get over here and help me!"

He turned his attention to McKay's frantic plea, eyes widening in horror at the large blood pool coating the tile. His heart felt like it might explode and his lungs burned with his furious inhalations. The room glowed red, the pounding jackhammer inside his chest filling his eardrums as his body trembled in uncontrolled rage.

"Damn it! Sheppard's bleeding out!" Rodney pressed on the jagged wound in the colonel's leg, blood flowing like a fountain onto the floor.

Ronon hesitated, internal forces grappling over two conflicting sets of instincts. During his struggle the bastard responsible rushed towards the exit. He followed only inches behind, the black blur trying to escape within reach of his fingertips.

"Ronon, let him go!"

It was the imperative tone, the hysterical and helpless appeal. Ronon knew how dire the colonel's wound really was. He let the enemy go—allowing any revenge to slip away.

Any other time in his life, vengeance would have won out. This time Ronon squatted down in a puddle of warm stickiness. Upon seeing the sheer amount of blood loss and Sheppard's waxen face he whipped out his belt.

"Wait. What are you doing?" Rodney stuttered.

Ronon pulled the leather out of its loops and began tying it a few inches above the colonel's thigh. "There's no time to wait for help."

"I thought during Carson's classes he said never to use a tourniquet!" Rodney yelled, still unsuccessfully staunching the leaking sieve with his bare hands.

"He can afford to lose a leg," Ronon growled, then looked up at McKay's stricken face. "He's got less than a couple of minutes to live."

Rodney shut up, noting the expert tone Ronon used. "What do I do?"

"Get some towels."

He heard the man scramble to the bathroom as he adjusted the belt around his CO's leg. Sheppard's shaky hands tried to cover the hole as the rest of his body trembled. The colonel's drawn face was etched in pain and he wheezed weakly.

Ronon gripped the colonel's shoulder, lending him strength. "Hold on, Sheppard."

Rodney returned with an armful of white linen and folded one up and pressed it over the injury, red quickly soaking through. He then dropped to the floor and grabbed Sheppard's leg propping the colonel's thigh over his raised knee to increase the elevation of the injured limb and help slow the blood flow.

Ronon knew this was a mortal injury, could see the same recognition in Sheppard's eyes as they met. The colonel's lips moved to speak and Ronon squeezed his shoulder. "Don't talk."

Before he could offer any more encouragement, the room filled with Major Lorne and a contingent of MPs.

"Fan out and seek the intruder. He was wearing all black body armor and is armed. He headed west." Ronon glared at the Major whose gaze revealed his anger at seeing Sheppard this way.

The major was a professional and he held his emotions back for another time.

"Move out!" Lorne ordered, his Marines obeying, each giving their commanding officer a final glance.

Rodney shifted his knee causing Sheppard to groan in between his pitiful, raspy attempts at breathing. The physicist curled his fingers into Sheppard's lax hand as the colonel's head began to loll to the left.

"Shhhhhh. It's going to be alright. Just hang on."

It had only been two or three minutes since each of them had burst through the doors, but it wouldn't matter much longer. Sheppard was semi-conscious, eyes fluttering closed before snapping open franticly. Ronon looked at McKay, each sharing the worry, battling the helplessness of the situation.

Sheppard tried to speak, his chest hitching, sounds lost in a shuddering rasp.

"Lay still," Ronon ordered, seeking the man's other hand.

Ronon stared at McKay, the two men silently communicating their final thoughts. Ronon felt a surge, a violent collision of determination and anger. If there was one thing he had learned from his team, it was that you never gave in to the odds. Even as the seconds ticked away and Sheppard's lips turned gray as the color left them.

"We need to do something more! We can't wait on the med team to get here." Ronon thrust his hand into the pressure point of the femoral artery bundle, pressing down in the crease of Sheppard's leg.

Rodney was thinking, thousands of calculations running a gamut across his face until his voice burst out with its running thoughts. "We'll beam him out," he said, tapping his headset.

"Colonel Caldwell."

After a beat the headset buzzed. "McKay, what the hell is going on there?"

"No time to explain. I need the Daedalus to beam us to the infirmary."

"Us?"

Frustrated, Rodney seethed into the com. "Beam me, Ronon and Sheppard to the infirmary before the colonel bleeds to death!"

"Done."

Ronon allowed himself to feel the slightest inkling of hope. He had never believed in such a concept, had never allowed his mind to roam to such weak and unreliable thoughts. It was a word he had slowly taken stock in ever since he'd become a part of Sheppard's team.

He and Rodney never let go of Sheppard's hand, willing him to fight.

And as the air glistened with white light Ronon vowed that no matter the outcome, he would ensure that the person responsible for this would pay.