Author's Note: You know, when all I have to do is upload and post, there really shouldn't be any delays. So sorry again. By the time I get home from work the only thought on my mind is "bed." :) Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy!
Next Update: Sunday, August 13th.
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The Last To Fall
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"What are you doing here?" Teyla questioned, her voice cutting through the still air. She hoped that her former companion had a peaceful agenda here, but her mind was already connecting the dots between Sora and the nearly silent gunfire.
"I thought that much would be obvious," Sora replied, smirking. She lifted the gun in her left hand, concealed moments before, and aimed it at Teyla. "I'm getting my revenge."
"You have no cause for revenge," Teyla said cautiously, her eyes moving quickly around the tent, looking for a weapon or an escape route.
"No cause?" she echoed with a laugh. "I was locked in a cell for months before you traded me back home for some nuclear weapons! You are terrorists of my people!" Sora exploded.
"Being a prisoner of war, your treatment was exceptional. We are not terrorists of your people," Teyla reasoned evenly, raising her hands. "I spared your life. Is this how you repay me?" Sora hesitated only briefly, but that one moment of indecision was all Teyla needed. She stepped to the side before launching herself at Sora.
The two landed in a heap of limbs just before the door. Sora's gun had been knocked aside in their collision. Teyla grabbed Sora's hair and drove the back of her head into the ground, and then straddled her, trying to pin her down.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Sora struggled, but Teyla's grip on her wrists was tight and strong. "Getting our revenge," she finally hissed, eyes blazing with contempt. Her lip was swollen, blood trickling down her chin.
Teyla pressed her forearm against Sora's neck and applied enough pressure to make Sora extremely uncomfortable. "What is your purpose here?" she questioned angrily.
Sora's eyes focused on something at the door behind Teyla as she murmured, "The eradication of the Lantian race."
Shock engulfed Teyla's face for a moment before it was covered in pain. Focused on Sora and her words, she hadn't noticed the Genii soldier slip noiselessly into the tent and aim his stunner toward her. She fell to the ground, immobile and unable to do anything but watch as Sora stood, wiping the blood from her face.
Darkness swallowed her.
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In the brief second of thinking that he had been given, John had relied on instincts to make his decision. His finger tightened around the trigger of the P90, and Kolya simply smirked. He believed that John wouldn't pull the trigger; wouldn't put Elizabeth's life at risk.
He'd been wrong.
A hiss of pain slid through the air as a bullet pierced Kolya's collarbone. Instinctively grabbing at the wound, Kolya dropped his weapon. The soldier beside him immediately raised his own gun, aiming it at John. There was a brief pause of hesitation on both sides. The whispers outside his tent came back to John, and with a steady resolve, he pulled the trigger again, sending a spray of bullets forward. Blood sprayed across the cool ground as the shots riddled the young man's body.
Distracted by the image of another corpse crumpling to the ground, John hadn't seen Kolya pick up his gun once more, aiming it at his longtime adversary. "Too bad," Kolya murmured and, before John had the chance to react, he pulled the trigger.
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Marcus Lorne rolled over in his cot, sighing heavily. Sleep had been near impossible in the last few days. He couldn't clear his mind of thoughts of his teammates and the others that had died in the Wraith invasion. The rustling of leaves from the trees outside served as a never-ending memento of Parrish and the man's inability to leave a planet where he hadn't gotten samples of every remotely plantlike object. The smile on Marcus's face that the thought brought consisted of far more pain than joy.
Wincing at the pain in his dislocated shoulder, Marcus stood. He wasn't going to get any sleep. It was more than probable that others felt the same way, and were wandering about outside like they often did. Maybe talking to someone would help, he thought. But beneath his struggle to hold on to his optimism, he knew the truth.
Nothing would help.
He was a sole survivor of his team. If Elizabeth hadn't paired them together, he probably would never have talked to any of them. But she had, and those three men had quickly become the people closest to him. Maybe they didn't play poker every Friday night or go out for drinks, but they were family. He trusted them with his life.
Had trusted, he corrected; he had trusted them, had loved them like brothers…
Hearing a rustling outside, Marcus walked toward the entrance of the tent, wondering who he would stumble across. The previous night, he'd listened to Lieutenant Cadman as she spoke about Carson, eyes glittering with unshed tears as she told him stories from their close companionship. Her laughs had sounded more like sobs.
Marcus reached out, pulling the flap of fabric that served as a door open. His eyes only had a quick second to open in surprise at the man standing directly in front of him before he heard the two claps of silenced gunfire. The bullets collided into his chest. Pure agony burst within him. His hands instinctively pressed against the wounds. In the dark, all he could see was a black liquid rolling over his fingertips. The man brushed past him, but no wonder of what he was doing ever crossed Marcus's mind. His legs gave out on him and he toppled forward onto the ground, cheek pressed against the dirt. He could feel the blood slipping out of his two wounds.
Two.
The number resounded vaguely through Marcus's head as he lay there listlessly, darkness slowly covering his vision. He felt the warmth of his blood as it formed a thick pool around him. Two shots to the chest. Marcus ran the thought over in his sluggish mind. He knew he was dying. It was something else that gave him that fuzzy feeling. It was only when his breathing slowed and the ringing in his ears turned to silence that finally he made the association.
Two. It'd been Coughlin's favorite number.
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