John spent the first night cold and hungry and thirsty. The revelers danced and shouted around the bonfire until the first rays of the rising sun began to paint a pink glow in the Eastern sky, then wandered away in groups and families to disappear under the shrouded porches and steps of the surrounding buildings. A few were passed out in the square itself, flopped together or sprawled spectacularly inside their magnificent clothes. John had seen more than one barrel of "beverage" rolled through the party by burly men in matching costumes. When the barrels were empty and the barrel rollers' pockets were full of coins, the empty casks were added to the fire that was kept blue-flame hot all night.
John stayed huddled in his corner, away from the "champion". He couldn't sleep. The noise and some effect of the drugs kept him from being able to go out completely. His damp shirt chilled his skin in the summer breeze, and more heat leeched out into the uncomfortable stone pebbles under him.
As the pink glow became streaks of orange over the roofs on the east site of the courtyard, John eventually discovered he was able to think more clearly. His pulse didn't seem so loud within his chest. He spent some time in the quiet of a spectacular dawn thinking...
The last thing he remembered clearly was wandering down the streets of the market on 227 with Teyla and Ronon. Rodney had made some excuse about some shield on Atlantis needing calibration. John knew that he just didn't like trading missions and, to be honest, John didn't like Rodney on trading missions. He'd walked through the stargate looking forward to a couple days of eating real food and watching Teyla haggle.
He scooted a bit to catch the first warming rays of the sun that was just spilling into his cage and forced himself to remember more. They'd found an inn and spent the evening at the tavern below. John and Ronon had flirted flagrantly with the barmaids, just to annoy Teyla, but they also carefully avoided the attention of local girls (even though he'd spotted a couple looking) - you never knew who's father was going to show up in your negotiations the next day. The barmaids, though, had a kind of "professional" understanding about flirting such that you could get away with it, he'd learned - neither party expected anything to go too far.
As John shivered in his cage, he realized that he enjoyed going offworld so much because it was the closest he got to truly feeling "off duty". Atlantis had recreation areas and his schedule sometimes resembled a normal person's work week. But there was no such thing as "off base". The people were the same and ultimately, they were all either colleagues or civilians under his protection. When he was offworld, sometimes, if they were lucky and the mission was friendly, his team became merely friends and the strangers surrounding him wouldn't look at him oddly in the morning for telling bawdy jokes or giggling a little too much at Ronon's.
He dropped his head onto his knees. Was that why he was here? Had he gotten too comfortable in the friendly little village and let his guard down. Had he been careless? Maybe.
They'd hit the market early the next morning at Teyla's urging. For a while they'd stayed together, but by mid morning, Teyla was hot into negotiations with a farming co-op and Ronon was chatting up the blacksmith so John had wandered among the bright booths and carts and foot traffic by himself. It was a crowded place. According to Teyla, this particular market was well known for its large number of vendors and its uncanny ability to stay one step ahead of Wraith cullings. They moved the market from world to world and people never failed to track it down. Everyone was welcome, which made it dangerous enough that John's tactical vest and weapons prominently displayed on his chest and hip were not considered unusual nor excessive. Most shoppers were armed.
By noon, Teyla had moved her deliberations into the town hall and Ronon was shopping in the tannery. John was thirsty and had just decided to go back to the tavern when he'd felt a tug on his gun holster. John had jumped at the touch and spun to find a mite of a girl looking solemnly up at him and holding a wooden cup of juice.
"Try a sample, misser?" the girl had said as seriously as if she, herself, ran the shop. John shot a look into the nearest booth and saw a woman watching from the door to the alley behind the shops. At the time, and now in memory, John recognized her as one of the barmaids from the tavern. She'd stayed behind the bar, though, washing glasses and rarely mingling with the customers.
With a jolt, John jerked his head up and stared into the horizon of his memory - the woman had been young and pretty enough, but she'd borne a large red birthmark across one whole cheek and down her neck. The little girl had been similarly marked. He hadn't thought about it at the time. Life was a lot harder in Pegasus and the people were often more rugged - though no less handsome in John's opinion - than those from his East Coast upbringing. Now, surrounded by a throng of the hideous, John realized that the marks could not be coincidence.
He'd smiled and dropped to his knee to accept the drink from the little girl.
"This is very good," he'd said with exaggerated enthusiasm, although he didn't mean it. It tasted like mango, and he didn't like mangos. "Did you make this all by yourself?" The girl had grinned for a second, then wiped the smile off quickly, remembering she was supposed to be acting grownup.
"Me mama mades it," she replied, solemn again. "She say you is our special customer. You want some more?"
"That depends. How much do I owe you for this?" He held up the now empty cup and jingled some coins in his pocket.
"Mama say..." the girl looked over her shoulder for confirmation and John grinned when the woman held up two fingers and then made go-on motions, "Mama say two pence. But you gotta pay her. I'se not 'lowed to take the money on account I dropped a bronze in a hole once and we couldn't get it out nohow!"
"All right, then. I'll pay for this cup and have another. You know how to spot thirsty customers," John praised as he rose and stepped over to the booth. It felt five degrees cooler within the shade of the thatch roof and he was grateful. He'd started to feel a little hot and woozy in the sun.
"Mama say you're perfect for the festival. She mades the special juice just for you." The girl was bouncing up and down behind the counter, peeking at him at the top of every hop.
"Festival?" John asked idly, digging through his handful of coins, looking for the right number.
In retrospect, he should have noticed the woman stiffen at the child's words, should have paid attention when she grabbed the child's shoulder and touched her lips for silence. He should have asked what the child meant by "special juice", he realized. At the time, he'd felt suddenly dizzy and had dropped his coins to lean heavily against the counter. The woman had snatched for his elbow, murmuring about a place to sit just behind the shop. He allowed himself to be guided through the door where she'd propped him against a tall crate and handed him another cup, telling him to drink it, that he'd feel better if he did.
By that time, he'd begun to put a few things together and - not entirely out of suspicion, but out of certainty that the juice was the problem - he refused the drink. She wrestled with him for a moment, trying to get him to take more, and he'd shoved away to lurch towards the door. He never made it. His legs went rubbery and two men suddenly appeared to grab him by the arms and toss him into a cart parked nearby. He had a memory of the impression of coarse burlap covering him and the smell of dirt and manure before he passed out.
He'd woken up in the cart on this world, hungover and stripped of weapons, vest, radio and watch. All he'd been left were his shoes, pants and black t-shirt. They'd forced another cup of something down his throat before they'd untied him and started him down the street into the parade.
Good one, John. He rebuked himself with a sigh, most of the puzzle fitting into place. Taken in by a little girl. He just wondered how he was supposed to have worked up any satisfying suspicion over a woman with a birthmark and a cup of juice. He'd sampled dozens of offerings from shopkeepers that morning alone.
The sun was growing warmer with each passing minute and he was rapidly going from chilled to overheated. The summer day was gearing up to be a scorcher, if his training years in Alabama were anything to go by. The lingering effect of the drugs made his tongue feel like felt, but his head was as clear as it had been since he'd first been drugged. He stood up and stretched, testing out his legs. He paced a few times down the width of his cage before he worked up the courage to glance at the neighboring cell. The animal man was curled up against a rock, asleep, but strangely tense - as if ready to spring at your throat were he to be disturbed.
There was a little more activity out on the courtyard. People were walking around and had traded their finery for ordinary clothing. A few booths were going up at one end of the square, the traders among the crowd unable to resist the temptation of a captive audience.
With a deep breath, John forced himself to look at the bonfire. The pole was completely gone, burned away by the intense heat. Only a smoldering pile of ash and embers remained. A couple of men were adding fresh logs and poking the embers back into low, campfire-like flames. He turned away again, swallowing hard, unable to remove the image of the woman disappearing behind a wall of fire. So. He'd figured out how he got here. He just needed to figure out how to get out.
His pacing became more restless and only exacerbated his hunger and thirst. He'd been hungry before the woman had slipped him the mickey, despite his sampling in the market. He'd only had that cup of juice and the cup of drugs since, too. On one circuit around his cage, he finally noticed that there was a bucket of water and a ladle at the far side of the animal man's cage. He stopped and stared for a moment, stung by the injustice. He reached out to hook his fingers into the wire fencing.
This time, the growl warned him early enough to snap his hand away, but the man slammed his shoulders into the wire with such force that it bulged and rattled against the roof with an ominous scrape. The thing had gone from apparent sleep to violent aggression in a wink. John skittered back a couple of steps, then stood glaring, refusing to be intimidated...but well beyond the man's reach. The scratches from yesterday's encourter were sore and the skin around it was warm, inflamed.
"We're both stuck in here, friend," John tried talking to it. "But the butler is out and they've forgotten to bring me my water. Could you be a pal and maybe...share a scoop or two?"
"Ssssssssssk!" the man hissed, turning his head with each few steps backwards and forwards so that his good eye remained on John.
"You got a name?" he tried again. "Mine is John Sheppard. You know, you help me out, I can help you out. I've got people looking for me. When they bust me out I could put in a good word, have them take you somewhere you'd rather be...?"
If the man understood him, he gave no indication. After another hiss and rattle of the wire, it stalked to the bucket and scooped up the ladle for a drink. It looked at him as it drank deeply, then hissed with what could only be amusement.
"Thanks for nothing, pal!" John yelled, finally, frustrated and even more thirsty than before. "Just stop...thinking about it. That will help," he muttered to himself and put his back to the man and sat on a boulder to stare out at the square. Most people who were about were ignoring the pavilion completely. Some delicious smell from the booths began to drift across the courtyard and John's stomach growled in protest. So much for not thinking about it.
By the time the sun had risen to about 11:00, the air was thick and sweltering. John still sat, listless from hunger and thirst, rapidly succumbing to exhaustion. He'd just about decided to curl up in the shadiest part of his cage for a nap, knowing that - as much as he hated to miss any opportunity that might present itself - he would be better able to take advantage of one if he were rested. A procession of burly guard-type guys caught his attention before he'd settled down. The group of four men was carrying a couple of bowls, a plate of something and another water bucket. His stomach growled again, and he just almost considered accepting the food without trying anything, he was so hungry.
The guards went to the animal man's side first. John couldn't keep himself from licking his lips when the one carrying the bucket splashed its contents through the bars to fill up the one that was already there. With a flare of anger, John watched the water overflow and flood the gravel of the animal man's cage as the fresh water was completely emptied. No bucket for John, then. The guard carrying the plate and one of the bowls went to the iron door and shoved them underneath where there was a wider, horizontal gap. Morbidly curious, John stood on tiptoes to get a peek of the food on the plate - bread, dried meat, some cheese. The bowl was full of fruit. His stomach almost twisted itself upside down with jealousy.
When the men finally strolled towards his side of the cage, John was fuming and it took all his effort to keep his temper and play it cool.
"Hey, thanks for the food and water, boys," he said before they'd wandered even halfway to the iron gate on his side. Only one bowl remained and John could already see that it didn't hold fruit. "Haven't had anything to eat or drink for about a day. Getting pretty hot. Don't want to pass out on you and spoil the festival. Nobody wants to see dead pets lying around. What you got there? I'm partial to steak and potatoes, but a little fruit and cheese would tie me over and I'm not picky eater. That guy over there didn't even say thanks."
The more John babbled at them, the more fixed their expressions got as they tried not to react. John followed them along the bars towards the gate.
"You know anything about this Final Feast? 'Cause that guy in the green dress said something about a part in the play, but I haven't got my lines yet."
"No lines, Pretty. You won't be talking much while the champion chews your throat out," one of the guards growled, goaded out of the stoic silence.
"Screaming, maybe," quipped one of the others and they all chortled. A shiver went down John's spine, but he kept the reaction off his face.
"But he said it was a contest. You're so sure your champion is going to win?" John put a little edge in his voice, enough to drop the hint - he wouldn't go down easily. The guards just exchanged, smug glances. The one holding the bowl bent to slide it under the gate as he had done on the other side. It was exactly what John had been waiting for.
With a lunge, John reached through the bars, grabbed a handful of the guard's hair, yanked and spun him around. Just as quickly, he threw his arm around the guard's throat.
"Back off or I twist his head off," John snarled. The remaining men stared with wide eyes as their companion gasped and sputtered. John squeezed even tighter. He only had a short time for this gambit to pay off, but John had seen what these people were capable of. He would kill the guard if he had to and made sure his expression conveyed that fact. "The rest of you back off. You! With the fancy belt. You open the gate."
All three moved back, but seemed frozen with indecision. They were neither trained soldiers - which would be bad for John - nor were they cowards. They exchanged nervous looks, but didn't seem inclined to follow John's demands. He closed off more of the guard's air. The man began to sag and clawed futilely at John's arm, leaving scratches.
"I said, OPEN THE DOOR!" John bellowed. One of the guards turned tail and ran across the courtyard as fast as he could. As if the motion had unlocked the others, they also sprang closer and tried to pull John's arm away. One tried to reach through the bars, but the hostage blocked him fairly thoroughly. John could feel the man in his arms growing limp. John began to tremble with the effort.
"Your friend is dying here," he spat. "Open the door and I'll let go. You're killing him. Just. Open. The. Door."
One of the guards fell to his captive's feet and began pleading for John to let him go. The other renewed his efforts to save the man by scraping at John's face and poking at his eyes. John just twisted away. The choking man burbled and his hands dropped limply to his sides. That was too much for the pleading friend.
"I'll do it! Don't kill him. Please, I'll open the gate. Just don't kill Harz. He's my cousin."
Flushed with a moment of victory, John eased up a little on the man who was mostly passed out, but enough that some blood could start to flow.
"Just open the gate," is what he said, as vicious as before.
The cousin fumbled at his pockets for the key while the other man swatted and cursed John with renewed frenzy, screaming at his companion to keep the gate locked. John's heart leaped when the cousin finally tugged out an iron ring and thrust the key towards the lock.
"Wait! They're coming. Help is coming!"
John jerked his gaze towards the courtyard and saw no fewer than ten men running towards them, several carrying long poles and what looked like spears. The man with the key hesitated and John re-tightened his grip.
"He'll be dead before they get here!" John yelled, back to desperate. "I'll let him go right now if you give me that key. Open the damn door!" The footsteps of the approaching men were loud slaps against the marble. "Open it!"
The cousin continued to hesitate long enough for the remaining guard to yank the keys out of his hand. And that's how it ended.
"Crap," John whispered and released the man to fall, unconscious, in a heap against the gate. The crowd of helpers rushed the bars, jabbing their poles and spears at him as the guard knelt to heave his cousin over his shoulders and away from the cage. John stood out of range, sweaty, chest heaving and a little dizzy in the heat. The men cursed him and continued to reach with their poles for a few minutes then turned their backs to him in a circle of conversation.
When they broke the circle and turned back to face him, John's heart began to thrash in his chest worse than when the drugs had been messing with him. They looked smug as hell...and pissed.
"Shit," he whispered when they went for the gate. Four of them put their shoulders together at the door, and another four filed into the cage one by one, each holding one of the poles. The door was open, but there were eight men between John and the courtyard...filled with at least fifty more people, most of whom were watching the drama unfolding at the Pavilion. Really crappy odds, John, he thought to himself.
"You, ah...coming in to clean the cage? Cause I could just, you know, wait outside until you're finished."
No one answered, which was scary as hell. They all looked too damn cocky. So, what the hell. He'd try a little cocky himself. Beat dying of thirst in a cage.
He dropped his shoulder and rushed the group. As he'd hoped, they were so surprised that he actually made it past the four who were inside the door. He even managed to knock two down, but by the time he reached the gate, the rest had overcome their shock and were reaching for him. For one, blessed, split second, he was actually outside of the bars, swinging towards the road that lead back to the Stargate as he flung himself around the frame. He might even have made it outside the circle of men waiting at the door, too, if one of them hadn't gotten a clue and shoved his pole at John's feet.
His ankles got caught in a tangle, and he went down. He managed to roll enough to protect his knees, but he grunted at the sting of his palms scraping against the rough marble paving. He kicked the pole away, turned to keep scrambling for the road when another pole landed across his back. His breath exploded from his lungs with a groan and he went flat on his belly, still scrabbling, still trying to crawl his way out. Another whack landed on his shoulders, then another across the back of his legs.
"Damn you!" he yelled as more and more blows fell on him. He finally curled up, twitching and flinching with each strike. "I just wanted a drink of water." He buried his head in his arms.
He didn't notice when they stopped hitting him because the pain kept on. He was pulled to his feet to hang by his arms facing the circle of men, who were leering again, back to smug. One stepped forward, taking ownership of the abuse.
"Argyle wouldn't like to have to find another Pretty so late in the Festival, so you get to live...for another day. But if you try that again, if you so much as look crosswise at a Citizen, we will kill you and display your dead body at Final Feast without the contest."
"Go to hell, freak," John whispered. The man's face went purple. He lifted the pole he was carrying and swung it at John's head. John's sight exploded into stars and then he saw nothing at all.