Just a drabble to flesh out my writing muscles which I haven't used in quite a while.
It was dark and cold, but then it was always like that here. Cold and dark.
John pushed himself onto his side, unwilling to wake fully but completely aware of his surroundings.
John was laying on a cot, small and built for one. At one point it had been white as snow, but at the moment it was blotched with yellow and browning stains from bodily fluids. Sweat, blood, urine, spit, vomit and any other liquid yet bodily discharges. It wasn't all of John's fluids mind you, it had actually been delivered to him in that fashion and the first week John had avoided it like the plague. That is, until he the beating. He was so sore, that the small reprieve of the flattened cot would provide was worth all the filth he'd be sleeping on. After that, he figured what was the point of avoiding it now? It's not like he was given a shower, even after three months captive.
The rest of the small cell was made mostly of a concrete like structure. Rodney would probably know what it was made out of, but he was back on Atlantis and no doubt trying to find where the heck John was.
The walls were also stained and dirty, black and dark grey splotches covered two out of the four walls. One of them contained a sort of latrine for him to pee in when he felt the need. If John had to do a two, well, there was the bucket in the farthest corner for such things.
"Dzhon, ty ne spish'?"
That was something else, he had a roommate, not that there was room enough for the two of them, but their captors didn't bat an eye. She was Doctor Michelle Debroux, a French Russian if that made any sense. Currently she spoke solely Russian and very broken, I mean in reminiscent of 'shattered into a thousand pieces' broken, English. Normally, like when she didn't have a concussion and possible hemorrhaging, she spoke primarily English, Russian, and French while only speaking Czech and Ukrainian sparingly. She would tell you she barely grasped the last two Slavic dialects, but Dr. Zelenka was very impressed with her accent, although he was profoundly irritated by the way she pronounced her 's'. Dr. Biro tended to agree.
Truthfully Michelle wasn't even supposed to be off-world. She was just shy of 17 years, and had no field experience to speak of. However, Rodney was incapacitated – broken leg – and had insisted that the only one competent enough to even attempt to temporarily replace the great Rodney McKay was Radek Zelenka, his 2IC.
Zelenka then laughed in John's face and sauntered away after hearing John's offer. Needless to say, the Military Major was miffed, and in great irritation "enlisted" the nearest labrat walking by to accompany his team on the mission. And so Dr. Debroux became Rodney's temporary replacement for the team. Hoorah.
Being only 17(three months till actually), she didn't have a whole lot of prestige among the other Atlantis members. However, she had three PhDs and therefore knew what she was talking about; and not to mention that she tended to watch McKay like a hawk while he was in the labs. It would normally annoy the astrophysicist to have someone constantly looking over your shoulder, but as she was just a kid, well, let's just say Rodney took well to hero worship and leave it at that.
So here they were, John lying on his cot and Michelle sitting on hers, both waiting for a chance to escape or for rescue but receiving neither.
"Dzhon," She repeated slowly. John looked up at her with his eyes, before following with his body. Now sitting upright on his cot, he watched her, silently urging her to continue. He had learned long ago that 'Dzhon' was his name in Russian.
After a beat - "Yeah, Mikey?" It didn't look like she was going to continue without verbal prodding.
"Ty v poryadke?"
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He'd learned long ago what that meant too. 'Are you okay?' She asked that every hour or so, forgetting previously that she already asked said question. He knew what she was going to ask next too. They'd been through this many times, damn concussion.
"Yeah, I'm fine, some bruising, but I'm fine."
John didn't have much of a chance to say anything else as their kind and benevolent hosts chose that moment upon which to enter John and Michelle's humble abode.
They approached without a word, and Michelle, in her eyes never having seen them before, screeched and backed into a corner. It was futile as the encroaching aliens grabbed her by her hair, and tossed her out of the room with a hard thud, sound of skull meeting concrete flooring was loud to John's ears. He was grabbed by the scruff of his neck too and shoved out of the room and straight into the dimly lit hallway.
Michelle laid prostrate on the floor, dizzy and barely conscious. The concussion made her weak, and John moved to help her up. If she couldn't stand, then she'd be dragged or kicked until she did stand, so John helped her. He grabbed her gently by her arms and helped her to her feet before they were none too gently coerced further down the hall.
John had his own share of problems, cuts and bruising were most common on his body, but he was positive he'd a cracked rib or two, and the fact that he couldn't see out of his left eye was also greatly disturbing.
"Sit." One of the men ordered gruffly as he shoved John, and indirectly Michelle, onto a blanket on the floor. John levered himself up and saw a sort of camera, distinctly Genii in make, directed at them.
"State you name and designation." The same captor ordered, "Demand your people give us the one you call, Fergon Pothin, or we will kill you. The girl first, you after." A pause as the man seemed to turn the camera on and then, "Now, Lantean."
John looked into the eyes of the camera and didn't speak. He heard a gun cock, and saw at the corner of his eye a guard take aim at the young scientist.
"Atlantis, this is Colonel John Sheppard of the United States Airforce." He began with a haggard scratch that he was sure made itself known through the quality of his voice, "To my left is Doctor Michelle Debroux, a Russian astrophysicist and engineer." He coughed and stared into the camera again, "I give this message under duress: Our captors demand that you hand over Fergon Pothin or we will be shot and killed."
At that moment, John looked sharply at the leader of the goons, who simply stared and waited. It was unnerving, and after what seemed to be several minutes, Michelle spoke up.
"Dzhon, chto proishodit?"
The resounding gunshot was deafening and John was sure he could feel his heart stop as he saw the doctor slump, blood pooling from her abdomen. The shock lasted all but a second before John had jumped into action and placed a unholy amount of pressure onto the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.
"Mikey?" He shouted, "Mikey?"
Her eyes found him before rolling into the back of her skull, "Don't die on me, Doc!" He barked, but it was useless, she was unconscious and soon to be dead if they didn't get medical attention.
John turned sharply to the one who shot her, "Why?" He demanded, "Why did you do that?"
"She was obsolete."
Read and review? I could really use some positive feedback.
MV