Awareness clawed at his eyelids, a dense, heavy fog still obscuring all thoughts. He drifted in and out on waves of blackness; no sounds, no sights, just an endless chasm of nothingness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this cold; bone-numbingly chilled to the core, unable to feel the slightest bit of warmth. He couldn't shiver because his body was too heavy and time slipped into a sludge-filled void.
He grew anxious; instinct took over and told him to fight. A deep-seated urge to push past the murky depths of his newest prison left him exhausted. The darkness pinned him down, only sharpening the panic. He battled harder, despite how much the resistance drained him. After struggling for so long, the desire to break through the invisible barrier finally rewarded him with renewed sensation.
Every inch of his body awoke with pin pricks and an overwhelming tingling that assailed his nerves. His ears filled with muted sounds... then beeping... and whispering. His eyes were sticky, but he tried to force them to crack open, just a little. Gritty lids slowly peeled open. As consciousness beckoned he was treated to the most unpleasant taste in his mouth.
He had the hellish experience of trying to wake up and salivate at the same time. He was unsuccessful on both counts, though his jaw moved, pulling apart dry lips as he let out a soft groan.
"John?"
"John, can you hear me?"
He wanted to say yes, but the raw inner lining of his throat wouldn't cooperate when he tried to swallow. As he drew on his oxygen, a tickling made him cough.
Chain reactions were not fun; his eyelids became unglued as he dealt with the vibrations from hacking. The room spun out of control. He squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught and the rest of his senses decided to join in the awakening.
The soft beeping sound near his ear increased as did the tone of the people around him.
"God, what's wrong?"
"Rodney, go get Beckett!"
What was going on and why the hell did he feel like ten miles of bad road? Sheppard pried open his eyes again to a blurry and spinning ceiling. As he tried to make it stop, all the pins and needles grew exponentially worse, causing him to move and flinch.
Big mistake.
His left leg blossomed into an exploding jolt of fiery pain. His groan morphed into a hitching cry, eyes squinching shut once again and leaving him panting. Dots danced along the inside of his eyelids and he vaguely felt someone take his hand in the middle all the agony. It was so gentle he barely registered its reassurance.
"What's going on?"
He'd recognize Carson's accent anywhere and he wanted to tell him to please pull out the skewer flambéing his leg. He gasped instead and heard the sounds of McKay in the background, chastising the physician.
"Do something!"
Sheppard felt a slight tug at his arm and wondered what it could be, just as the white hot agony dissipated. He felt his body melt into the bed and he allowed the darkness to envelop him once again.
It was the awkward sensation of a foreign object in his ear that roused him the next time, not the pinching feeling in his right wrist, or the incredible ache across most of his arm. There was a matching cramping in the crook of his other elbow and the rest of his body? That was another ballgame. The white hot poker that had twisted and gnawed at the muscle in his thigh was tempered by whatever flowed through his veins. Most of his left leg still felt on fire but it was tolerable.
When he tested out his eyes, he blinked a few times but at least the room didn't spin around him like it had the first time. The sand and grime of his mouth made him smack his lips.
"It is good to see you awake."
Turning his head took more effort than it should. "Te'la," he slurred.
She smiled at him, leaning in close to speak. "Don't try to talk too much. Dr. Beckett said you might still be feeling the effects of the anesthesia and intubation."
That would explain the fuzzy feeling of his tongue. "Wat'r?" he asked.
"Ice chips," she replied, grabbing a cup with a plastic spoon. "Just a few at a time."
Damn, he couldn't even lift his head off the pillow so Teyla rested her arms over the rail to feed him a tiny bit at a time. The coolness melted away a little of the foulness but he longed for extra moisture. She obliged by giving him more, until he was too wiped out to swallow.
Teyla put the glass away and studied him. "You had us all very worried."
"S'ory," he mumbled, dragging heavily on the nasal cannula. He bit his lower lip, taking stock of himself, knowing better than to move.
The cold he'd felt before hadn't waned and the shards of ice Teyla had doled out had triggered a set of unrelenting shivers. It was as if he slept on a mattress of sleet and ice that sucked every molecule of heat out of his body. He couldn't move his hands to rub them up and down his arms to create friction. He wondered if he wasn't lost in the wasteland of Antarctica, hallucinating within its frigid hold.
"Do you want another blanket?"
He didn't answer right away, still gaining his bearings. The fact that he wasn't able to control the trembling seemed to be indication enough for Teyla as she nodded with a small smile and left. The shaking woke him further, pulling and tugging at his tubes and lines in the process. A BP cuff inflated around his left bicep every few minutes, a clip covered a pointer finger and he didn't dare move his leg propped up by several small pillows.
Bits and pieces of what led him to this predicament began filling in the holes of his Swiss cheesed mind. Teyla returned and unfolded a heavy wool blanket, covering him with it, careful of his many attachments. The added layer insulated him more, but his skin still crawled with goose flesh.
He was grateful nonetheless. "Thank you," he whispered.
"You are very welcome." She began tucking parts of it in as she spoke. "Rodney will be very pleased to see you awake. He's been very..." She paused as she chose her words. "Concerned."
He remembered laying on the floor of his room, the cold fingers of death wrapping around him as all of his warmth poured out into red pools beneath his body. "Did they catch him?"
Her face grew dark, frowning. "No, not yet. Everyone is searching Atlantis for the person who assaulted you."
The black figure was well trained, versed in special combat. His own unofficial special training had proved no match. His heart beat faster at the realization that he could have led others right into danger. "Anyone hurt?" he asked.
Teyla touched his shoulder. "Everyone is fine." She searched the dim room. "A nurse just left from checking your vitals. I should tell her and Dr. Beckett that you're awake now."
That would explain the poking in his ear earlier, a digital thermometer no doubt. He nodded, frustrated at how weak he felt. He drifted off but no sooner had he closed his eyes than he heard two people arguing.
"Teyla just said he woke up; can't you wait just a few minutes before you begin interrogating him?"
That was Rodney's familiar voice, though he couldn't imagine who the man was fighting with.
"See? He's asleep again."
His eyes fluttered open. "I'm awake," he said, more for himself than for the company.
Major Lorne approached his bedside with Rodney in tow, looking absolutely awful.
"You look... like crap, McKay," he croaked. He had to breathe deeply to regain his voice.
"Well, you should see yourself in a mirror, colonel," Rodney snapped back, but his tone was tinged with affection.
Lorne cleared his throat, shooting the physicist a look before talking to his CO. "Nice to see you up, sir."
It was hard to keep up appearances, his ability to actually keep his eyes open a chore. The major must have sensed his imminent descent and his face grew serious. "Do you remember anything about what happened, sir? Did you see the guy or know who he was?"
"No," he said, struggling to get comfortable. The pain in his leg was becoming more prominent, the throbbing pronounced.
"What do you remember?"
"Comin' in... after talkin' with you."
Lorne's face betrayed guilt, but Sheppard took another shuddering breath. "Put... my gun away... Th-the usual." He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to recall any details, ignoring the searing in his thigh. "Nuthin' much. Just gettin' ready... for a shower when..." He paused.
"When what, sir?"
"Just give him a break, Major," Rodney's irate voice cut through. "He can barely string a whole sentence together."
Lorne ignored the scientist. "Just a few questions, sir. Then you can sleep."
He shifted, not at all at ease with the implication that he wasn't up for this. He'd been more seriously injured in the past, in more pain. The least he could do was offer some clues to what the hell happened.
He grit his teeth as he tried to adjust his body and took a moment to ride out the lancing pain. "He just... came out of... nowhere," he ground out.
"Were the doors closed and secured?"
Were they? He tried to recall. "Yeah." He had thought them closed.
"And you didn't notice anyone lurking when you first walked inside?"
"No." And that bugged the hell out of him. How did the bastard get inside his quarters?
"The doors were locked when Ronon and I got there. I told you that already," Rodney growled.
Lorne glared at McKay. "Did he say anything to you?"
Sheppard felt his jaw clench. "No, he was... the silent type."
His tags. The asshole took his dog tags. He lifted a shaky hand to reach for the silver chain, tracing it down. Fingers got caught with some of the wire leads until he felt the aluminum and gripped it. "Bastard took one of 'em," he mumbled.
Rodney and Lorne leaned in to get a closer look, obviously finding the theft an intriguing clue.
"Why the hell would someone try to kill you and then hang around to swipe one of those?" Rodney wondered out loud. "Did he take it in the middle of your knockdown fight?"
Sheppard remembered the way the smug bastard had stared at him after he'd been knifed and was bleeding to death. He felt the bile burn the back of his parched throat. "He stood there ...an' waited."
Lorne stiffened, Rodney didn't say a word which was even more telling. People tried to kill him all the time; it was a requisite of being a solider. But not very many took pleasure in watching. Well, maybe a few, but this guy acted immune to it all. Sheppard felt a chill go up his spine and wanted to bury himself deeper within the meager comfort of his covers.
"Bloody hell. I leave to check up on the rest of my patients and you two come in and disturb the colonel when he should be restin'."
Rodney pointed an accusing finger at Lorne. "I told him to wait."
Lorne bristled but kept his cool. "Sorry, Doc. I had to find out what happened first hand." He turned to his CO. "I'll come back later to keep you apprised of any progress."
Sheppard automatically pushed up on his hands, trying to straighten. He balled his fist up in response to the anguish consuming his entire leg.
"Easy lad, no fidgeting around," Carson reprimanded.
It was hard to override the signal to move but his beaten body let him know it wasn't ready for such jostling. A gasp escaped his lips and the room began to tilt on its side as the shredded muscle overloaded his pain receptors. He couldn't do a damn thing but lay helpless and wait out the next wave.
He could hear McKay's frantic voice whirl around with the buzzing in his head. Before he could tell them he was fine, a familiar, warm fuzzy sensation poured into his vein from a pinch in his arm. Sheppard opened his eyes in time to see Carson finish injecting something in his IV.
"No... not yet." There were still things he needed to know. The city was on high alert and no one had briefed him about their progress.
"You just got out of major surgery, son. Let your body begin the long healing process."
"Umph...what abo't...the ..Geniiiiii," he slurred.
"They can wait. I don't want ya getting all worked up."
No, Carson didn't understand and he struggled against the black tide that threatened to pull him back into the abyss. "Mc'ky."
The physicist's blurry face peered down on him; he saw worried blue eyes and he wouldn't tolerate that. "Rod--"
"Shhhhh. Will you just let the good drugs do their job? You're on gobs and gobs of morphine; let the happy little cloud take you away. The disasters and tribulations will still be here when you wake up."
He lost the battle, the fire of his injured limb dying down along with the voices softly discussing him. Sheppard's lips grew numb, and he was only vaguely aware of someone removing the blanket over his leg. He heard in the recess of his mind Beckett mutter about inspecting the wound. Just before the lights went out, Sheppard realized he'd never even asked how he was doing.
Ronon had been in the darkened labyrinth of Atlantis for over a day, the green, shimmering walls and black-shadowed corners revealing nothing. He would freeze, waiting for a shift in heat signatures, only to stare at the same set of hues. He'd slip off the night goggles to scrutinize with his own keen eyes for spacial anomalies, only to find the same empty space stare back at him.
He'd crouched, fingers tracing the cold, damp ground that revealed centuries old dust and non use. His heart beat in a steady cadence, nothing pinged on his internal radar. Nothing in his gut; no rumble or signal to raise the hairs along his neck. He gripped his blaster, pausing every few feet to study the next corner, fingers curled and ready.
The odor of mildew from flooding filled his nostrils along with old chemical fumes from abandoned labs. Death and decay lay in areas left untouched since life had renewed the city. One corridor after another, rooms of every shape and size that could conceal the intruder were left undisturbed.
Where was the blood? Tiny speckles, droplets or even the smell of it were absent. He had winged the alien, inflicting a wound. Yet there was nothing.
He ticked off each section as he passed, the time creeping long into another night. Atlantis was huge and the ability to back track and dart in and out of sectors for days was a real possibility for a skilled person. He gnawed at his bottom lip, trying to quell the rising heat, furious at his inability to save Sheppard and stop the intruder.
Time marched on; the odds of catching the guy grew larger. This was a feeling he knew far too well. Life and death. Prey and the predator.
Seven years he'd been enslaved; seven years removed from social niceties. His home world was a smoldering rock, his life burned away with the rest of the city he'd sworn to protect. His failures had been measured on each planet where he'd been forced to hide and fight. Most would have considered his life a set of lost battles, every Wraith corpse a hollow victory.
Until a year ago.
He spun around another corner, confronting another defeat. There was no way of knowing if the alien had occupied the last place searched; moving from room to room as teams left them. His body remained rigid, his ribs twinging slightly, reminding him of a few weeks ago.
When he'd gone back to Sateda. Back to life as a slave, an animal on a leash with just enough give before being jerked back and hunted down. It'd been a reminder, a taste of how things could revert back in an instant. No more secure surroundings, no one else to count on. But this time the tables had been turned and he'd stalked the one who'd made him a runner.
Instead of facing his demons alone, his team had his back. They had done the impossible to find him, never giving up. That was the John Sheppard way, his doctrine. It was one of many things he admired and respected about the man. They shared the same language. Sheppard had once called them a dynamic duo, even if he hadn't really understood what that had meant.
This was more than a debt to pay. It was loyalty; an allegiance, but it was also an internal promise to protect his friend and he had failed.
When he was ordered to meet back in the control room, he almost dismissed it. After a second and third attempt to reach him, he nearly turned off the com. Instead he sighed. He was part of something now, had been allowed to join a group who could defeat the Wraith. Trust was had been bestowed upon him by one and slowly shared by everyone else. He would not tarnish the faith placed in him.
But that didn't mean when he stormed into the meeting, that he'd hide his displeasure at being summoned in the middle of tracking.
"Good of you to join us," Caldwell said, leaning back in his chair.
Ronon turned to Elizabeth. "You called me back for a reason."
"Our teams have been searching for over a day and we thought it'd be a good idea to re-evaluate things," she reasoned.
"He's not leaving anything behind for us to find," Ronon replied.
Lorne shook his head. "The problem is, nothing is showing up on the life signs detectors. Nothing from scans, the command room and no reports from the field."
Ronon rested a hand on his gun. "So?"
Lorne allowed frustration to cloud his face. "We have to face the possibility that this person is one of our guys and has blended back with the general population--"
"You're wrong," Ronon interrupted gruffly.
Caldwell got to his feet, adjusting his jumpsuit. "Or he's already left Atlantis the same way he entered."
"Or he has technology that cloaks him from our sensors. He's still out in the abandoned areas," Ronon replied.
Lorne slapped two hands on the table, leaning over one of the diagrams of Atlantis. "Without a way to locate the suspect, the only thing we can do is post guards at the major intersections from the empty portions to the populated, until our internal investigation gets concluded or one of our teams locates the guy."
Teyla rose out of her chair and was by Ronon's side in two quiet steps. "What about until then?"
Caldwell took the stage, speaking in a calm and commanding tone. "We're taking the attempted murder of the military commander very seriously. Gate travel has been suspended until further notice. All priority sectors of the city are being protected and Major Lorne is going to meet with Zelenka about any physical evidence gathered from Colonel's Sheppard's quarters and review security tapes. There was a small blood trail in the hall that vanished a few feet later and we're hoping it'll give us a clue."
Yeah, that blood had been a dead end, Ronon thought.
"We'll be conducting inquires to eliminate any internal suspects before centering our focus on alien possibilities," Elizabeth interjected.
"We also have the Genii situation to deal with in the next two days," Caldwell said, clearing his throat.
"The meeting is still on?" Teyla inquired.
Elizabeth crossed her arms. "Even with a situation of this magnitude we still have the greater responsibility to the principles of this expedition and that includes trying to build ties with the Genii."
"Sheppard won't like being out of the loop on that," Ronon pointed out.
"We know, but I think Colonel Sheppard realizes the importance of this during his absence," Caldwell replied.
"Doesn't the timing of such an event after what just took place seem..." Teyla paused, searching their faces. "Odd?"
"Yes, it does," Lorne answered without haste.
"It's something we'll examine as well," Caldwell finished.
The meeting devolved into more theories and ideas that Ronon tuned out. He remained out of courtesy, his brain three steps ahead of anything discussed. When the conference was over, he felt the need to prowl again, but Teyla would not allow it.
"You need to rest or you will not be in any shape to help find the person behind this."
"What I need to do is go back out there," Ronon said, undeterred.
She would not have any of it, forcefully guiding him towards the hallway in the direction of the mess hall. "You should eat and then sleep. The morning holds new possibilities."
"How is Sheppard?" he asked, avoiding the topic.
Teyla contemplated before speaking. "You know he is resting."
"I knew he was okay when no one contacted me after I left the other day. Even checked in with Beckett," he said, defending his choice to go after the intruder instead of visiting.
She studied his face. "I know you conceal your concern with this desire for revenge. Do not forget that John needs our support in other ways."
Guilt was a familiar weight that bore down on his shoulders, the tonnage growing heavier. "He is going to be all right?"
"John's in a lot of pain, but Dr. Beckett says he is doing well. He is weak and I think that bothers him greatly. They want to see him try to get up and move around."
Ronon balled up his fists, but was unable to unburden himself to her. "Maybe I'll go see him."
She placed a hand on his upper arm. "Wait until tomorrow. He needs his sleep, as do you. I am sure he'll be happy to have the company."
"I want to..." Anger swelled again, at his failure towards his commander.
"We cannot drown in regrets, Ronon. We owe it to ourselves and to the people that we care about to rise above such treacherous waters." Teyla waited to see if he understood.
Ronon wanted to; he knew what had happened in the past could not change. It was a motto that had gotten him by for so many years. Regrets were things he let go in order to carry on. This time they threatened to undo the fragile state he'd taken so long to achieve.
Sleep was cotton balls stuffed in his ears, lead weight over his eyes and white fluffy clouds. He shifted from glaciers, to icy river water, and finally to warmth. The brief bouts of lucidity he remembered consisted of a poker twisting in his thigh only to be extinguished by morphine cocktails. This was the third time he had awakened, but the first he felt coherent enough to wonder what time it was.
There were curtain dividers up for privacy and he thought he was tucked away in one of the remote corners of the infirmary for security reasons. Sheppard glanced up at the ceiling, trying to recognize patterns he had memorized from visits past. The pain made his leg feel like it was slowly roasting over an open flame, but he wasn't going to allow himself to be snowed under again. He heard footsteps approach his bed, then he saw Carson emerge from the other side of the curtain.
"How am I doing, Doc?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
Carson grinned, his bright expression belying the dark shadows under his eyes. "A lot better now that you've pinked up a wee bit."
Sheppard noticed he was absent one tube; no more donations from the blood bank. "That's good."
The Scot watched the BP cuff inflate, then he turned to several digital readouts, making nonsensical noises to himself. Seeming satisfied he pushed down the railing of the bed. "Now that you're more aware, I'm afraid I have to run a few tests that might prove a bit uncomfortable."
Sheppard remembered what Carson had said earlier about fidgeting and settled for a noncommittal sound.
Beckett grinned. "It'll be just a second, after I take a look at my handiwork here. I'll try to be gentle," he added as he pulled out a pair of scissors from his lab coat pocket.
Sheppard's eyes grew large. "Aren't I cut up enough?"
The physician eyed him wearily. "Not funny, Colonel. I'm just checking the stitches and I'd imagine you'd prefer I not lift your leg right now to unwrap the bandages."
"No," Sheppard said, relaying exactly how he felt about that choice.
Carson pulled away the blanket and sheet, rolling Sheppard's gown up to expose his thigh. "Since your temperature is almost back to normal, I'll be leavin' your leg out from under the sheet so my staff can check the wound periodically for infection and to change the dressing."
The upper part of the limb was a dreadful mess of blotched flesh tones, pinks, red and inflamed areas. The line of double stitching stuck out as a dark color against a sea of angry flesh. Carson examined with gentle hands and another expression of contentment. Satisfied, the physician folded over the rest of the linen to one side to uncover the rest of his leg.
"I need to conduct some tests to verify that the impeded blood flow didn't cause any nerve damage."
Sheppard kept his face neutral, though inside his mind screamed with worry. The words nerve and damage could ground a pilot permanently. He licked dry lips, breathing deeply on his oxygen. "'Kay," he responded quietly but was not successful at hiding the anxiousness from in his voice.
The physician pulled from his lab coat pocket what looked like a large straight pin, or the biggest sewing needle he'd ever seen. "Now just relax," Carson coaxed, running the tip of it finely along the sole of his foot.
His foot reacted and even that tiny movement flexed other ligaments and muscle, causing him to grunt when the nerve signals fired through the rest of his limb.
"Quit ticklin' me," Sheppard choked out as he tried to jerk his foot away.
"Sorry, lad. Good news is your toes curled in which means no sign of nerve damage."
"Gooood," he groaned.
"Your Babinski sign was negative, so two more, then we're done." Carson searched for more magical goodies from the depths of his coat, retrieving a little rubber hammer. "This won't hurt."
Sheppard wanted to remind him that anything that created movement in his leg hurt, but grit his teeth as the doctor tapped the instrument around his ankle. The one thing he didn't want to admit was being awake now for a grand total of five minutes was proving nearly too much. He waited for the next inevitable torture, and forced his eyes open to Carson's sympathetic face.
"This is the one that might hurt the worst," Carson explained, rubber hammer in hand.
"Just... get it over with, Doc," Sheppard said, cringing at the gravelly sound of his voice.
Beckett popped the head of the mallet lightly against his knee. Even though his thigh was cushioned on all sides by pillows, the sought after reflex made his lower leg flinch. All ten fingers dug into the bed, his teeth gnashing together and his body stiffening in response. After the red faded to white beneath squished eyelids, his breathing evened out to normal levels.
"All done, and everything is looking great," Carson said in a cheery tone, pulling the sheet up to his left knee and arranging the rest of the blankets to cover most of his torso. "You warm enough?"
"Yeah," he gritted out, but now the nice long gash on his right arm added to the chorus of his screaming body. The floaty clouds were being ripped apart by simple, everyday movement; the stretching of skin and muscle.
"You're due for another dosage of pain meds; I just needed ya to be more awake."
"It's... fine." Sheppard swallowed. "How long... will I be in here?"
Carson stared at him as if he'd inquired about joining the circus. "Look, Doc, I just want a time table." He fought the fatigue from talking and tried to muster up some strength to his voice. "There's a lot of crap happenin' at once and I..."
"Save it, Colonel," Beckett interrupted brusquely. "Right now there's no deadline to meet when it comes to your health. You're weak as a newborn kitten, and you have massive trauma to your leg that's going to take physical therapy and time to heal. Let's not forget that arm laceration that cut to the bone, mind ya---"
"Doc--"
The physician held out his hand to cut him off. "You've been out of surgery barely twenty-four hours where my nurses we're havin' to push as much blood volume back in ya as you were leakin' out. You'll be feelin' anemic, you can't put any weight on your leg, and when we force you to get up and move around tomorrow it'll be no picnic, believe me."
The ticked off Scottish accent was like tiny seismic waves in Sheppard's head, a growing ache between the temples as he fought not to flinch. He HATED this. If he held up his hand... it'd shake. If he so much as wiggled a little, then the ramifications stole his breath away. His left leg was like a damn lightning rod ---when he was awake to feel it.
He couldn't be bedridden, not during so many crises. He just needed to get back on his feet, grin and bear the pain until there was time to deal with it later. A day when untrustworthy Genii leaders weren't playing games with them and his team wasn't being ambushed on some planet.
Let's not forget someone just tried to kill you, John.
Sheppard had tuned out the rant until he heard his name being called.
"Damn it, have you been paying attention, lad?"
Truth be told he was feeling dizzy again, and he felt worn and frayed as a tattered blanket. "No... not really," Sheppard admitted.
Carson looked sheepish. "I'm sorry, Colonel. I shouldn't lash out like that. I just want ya to understand how serious this is. You have a call button and I want you to use it, son. If you're feeling bad or something's bothering ya, let one of my staff know."
"Sure thing," he replied, feeling exhaustion dig its heels in.
"I've got you on blood thinners, but I'll wait until you're out of it to send Carol over."
"Just another shot, right?" Sheppard dared to ask.
"No, lad. They go in your stomach, I'm afraid."
"Oh, the stomach, huh... Yeah... maybe when I'm asleep," he replied, the usual hint of humor to his words lost.
The blackness was already claiming victory and he knew that he'd have to fight harder than this to make any headway. Sheppard would be damned if he played the role of wounded solider, while leaving decisions about the security of Atlantis to be made by others while he was on the mend.
The Hunter trained his weapon from above, his line of sight even with the back of the head of one the soldiers. The unit numbered five and if he squeezed the trigger now, then he'd get off three more shots before the last one knew anything. Always kill the one in back, confusing the others just enough to take the rest out. The military men canvassed the corridor, entering the room to the left, then the right.
After each sweep they moved out, his gun still zeroed in at the sweet spot from his perch in the rafter. When the unit went on to another sector, he rested his gun on a knee and waited. They were not his target and he did not kill unnecessarily.
Nothing.
He'd studied the blobs of reds and oranges approaching, all muscles perfectly still to keep his location secret. His armor protected him from their scans but even a twitch could cause the metal beam to creak. He lowered his breaths to only a few per minute. Only once the danger was past did he descend back down to the floor, his back to the wall.
No one had ever looked up.
He entered the room to the left; it had two doors, an exit and an entrance. The Hunter lowered his body to sit in the middle, his attention on both. Always pick an area with more than one means of escape. He listened to the air, for fluctuations and movements, the screen inside his helmet relaying no one else occupying the same space.
Brain signals switched off the thermal readings of his mask with normal vision replacing it. He didn't risk removing his helmet again, the fissures from his target's earlier weapon blast making it too fragile to take off and on too often.
Gloved fingers tapped a combination on the panel on his wrist and the exoskeleton shimmered before turning off. He probed the long break in the outer layer, testing out the repair, ensuring it held together under the patchwork. Carefully, he traced the beginning edge near his hip, manipulating the plating until it pulled apart. He peeled it away, exposing his entire side.
He inspected the long row of stitching, his gray flesh white on both sides of the sutures. He pulled out a small circular container of salve and applied more to the healing laceration. It burned, but not as badly as the topical antibiotics and not even close to when he'd weaved the thread to sew up the skin.
It was a moderate wound, just enough to affect some range of motion. The one thing he should have counted on was his target's team mates. During the test, his intel had indicated that the man, Sheppard, commanded strong loyalty from his unit. They worked collectively, cohesively; all signs of a shared connection. The Satedan's presence intrigued him; most of that warrior's kind had been considered long gone.
A slip in blood had cost him honor; forced to seek escape before being outnumbered by military security. He pulled out the identification tag from one of his pockets, fingering the indentions in the metal.
He took the jewelry as a sign of admiration, a trophy worth keeping of a formidable opponent. Sheppard had proved skillful in his ability to defend against his attack. Most victims succumbed to a strike in seconds; this 'Lantean showed signs of great skill, even after being weakened by the test on the planet.
Too bad. Had he been successful, it would not have been a hundred percent clean kill. He gripped the metal tag in failure. His target still lived and the city was on full alert. He rose to his feet, hand testing out the weakness of mask's filtration unit caused by his target's gun. It still functioned well enough.
He closed his eyes, feeling every beat of his heart, maintaining complete control of his body, shutting off the pain receptors to his wound. All that mattered was retaining face, regaining a superior advantage. Seek out the weakness once more to be exploited. He knew where his target was located; all that remained was to devise the means to neutralize him.
He thought back to the days of observation when he had to be keep his distance. Every hour he'd followed, this Sheppard ensured the security of his city. The target was constantly surrounded by others with no opportunity to strike available. It was helpful reconnaissance to observe how the man operated, but the 'Lantean had somehow become aware of his presence.
It was fascinating, really. To his knowledge this Sheppard had no telepathic power, just the gene of the Ancestors. The Hunter rubbed a leather-gloved thumb over the silver trophy, deliberating. There were several options left to finish the deed, a few more honorable than others. Maybe the time spent learning about his subject would prove most helpful.
The Hunter had the tools at his disposal, knowing with experience that there were many ways to take out an objective. He would repair the black mark of his failure and seek out the Order's judgment of this mission. If he died while carrying out the tradition successfully, then all would be made right. If he lived to seek their counsel, then he would accept whatever punishment they deemed necessary.
Whatever the outcome, he would not stop until his mission was complete.