THE INK IN THE WELL
From the personal journal of A'Gaeris
My little rock weevil is coming along nicely these last few months, despite his clear reluctance. Of course, he does think himself coy, offering me only what he views as but tiny morsels of technology to appease my whim. A pair of communication devices that remarkably operate over a great distance without direct attachment to one another. A means of tracking motion within a particular range. He seems to see them as nothing more than curiosities on an island as small as this and inhabited only by my modest coterie, but I am certain I can find a use for them in our endeavors.
What limited leisure time I have allowed my pet, he consumes entirely within a series of copybooks I have so benevolently granted him. I survey his work daily. Naturally, he balks outwardly, claiming that a genius of his caliber does not require someone to check his work as though he were some apprentice, but conversely, he concedes fairly quickly each night.
His work is exceptional, there is no doubt. The Age shall be a stable one, to be certain, and one of great beauty. It seems he is nearly ready for his own kortee'nea, but no more of these petty trifles. If I am to offer something as treasured in these trying days as a blank book, then Rodney McKay must offer something far more substantial in return. It is high time for Rodney McKay to earn his keep.
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The meal is a strange, silent, and dreadfully terse affair, uncomfortable for all present and ghastly the opposite of the "delightful" affair as promised by Rahd'ni. It does not begin as such, not entirely. When Sheppard and Rahd'ni arrive at the mess, Teyla and Ronon are already there, seated at the far end of the dining hall. The Athosian rises slightly to wave to the colonel and the guildsman, calling them over. Sheppard and Rahd'ni fix their plates and join the pair. Teyla greets them with a soft, serene smile and a gentle dip of her head, which Rahd'ni stiffly returns.
In days of old, when the four of them gathered this way, the meals were shared with playful banter and jest. Teyla's heart aches for those days, for, although they are together once more, nothing can ever be as it once was. The Athosian watches with an acute pang of nostalgia as Rahd'ni delicately dissects his food, scouring for any trace of citrus products, but she banishes the thought swiftly. The conversation is sparse, limited generally to her own attempts at social pleasantries. Even that is quickly suffocated by an overwhelming sense of wrongness as Dr. Keller arrives.
The doctor glances about the mess hall before spotting the group clustered together and smiles, beaming warmly upon them. As she draws near, though, both Ronon and Rahd'ni rise. She gives pause, her face falling ever so slightly and nervously. The two men exchange a glance, awkward and uncomfortable, unsure of what to do next, while Keller merely flusters where she stands.
It is almost comically and ironically fortunate, then, that all hell breaks loose at that particular moment. Alarms blare through Atlantis as lights flash in sickly red throughout the city. Sirens shriek in piercing blasts, echoing down the corridors as the horrid, high-pitched whine screams past the mess and through the heavens. Rahd'ni feels his heart leap into his chest, but the others seem almost accustomed to this, more annoyed than frightened. Rahd'ni, however, is terrified. He has heard this sound before, somewhere. He knows this sound, heralding approaching death. It is the Wraith.
"Damnit!" John swears, throwing down his fork in disgust. "Can't even finish one meal in peace."
Ronon, however, is calm and composed, moving to Sheppard's side with a swift, cool grace. "Chair?"
"Yeah, yeah," Sheppard mutters under his breath.
Rahd'ni swallows, shaking violently, the undercurrent of fear threatening to drag him down to curl up and hide under the table. "Wait, what about me?" He musters some small measure of courage and stills himself admirably. "I can help."
Sheppard whips about in his wheelchair and points squarely at the guildsman, ordering sternly "You stay here." He then points to Teyla. "Stay with him."
"Of course," the Athosian purrs, dipping her head respectfully to the colonel.
John shakes his head sourly as he departs. "If it isn't one thing it's another."
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By the time Ronon and Sheppard arrive at the chair, several darts have already descended upon the city. Ronon expertly scoops the colonel up from the wheelchair before Sheppard can voice any arguments about it and sets him down gently in the control chair. John would like to argue, truly he would, at being carted about like a child or invalid, but he has no time for such frivolities.
As soon as he comes into full contact with the chair, Atlantis sluggishly summons energy enough to rise up and kiss the back of his consciousness before dragging him down hard into the crushing mental depths of her various systems' demands. John has, in days long past, felt the sensation of initial contact to Atlantis akin to a gently rolling wave washing over him and blanketing him, while he cannot help but see it now as a raging riptide, pulling him under and sweeping him out to a dark, unkind and entirely unforgiving sea. Atlantis's dwindling ZPM power reserves are sapped to near nothingness, and the effect is an entirely overwhelming one each and every time Sheppard is forced to use the chair. Once he is fully submerged in Atlantis's inner workings, John focuses his attention on the battle, attempting valiantly to ignore how appalling lethargic the city's responses to his commands remain. The impossibly ancient and thoroughly drained city is still trying for her favorite son, and that is all that matters in the fray.
A small contingent of six Wraith darts screams across the heavens before banking to the side and splitting up before barreling towards the heart of the city. Sheppard's attention flickers between them as Atlantis tracks the enemy vessels and details them for the colonel with ease on the heads-up-display in a language he still does not fully comprehend even after all these years. No matter. After years in the Pegasus galaxy fighting the Wraith, Sheppard has come to realize – well before the science division, a source of great pride for him – that there are more than one type of dart. There are, in fact, no less than four dart types, each distinguishable from the last only by subtle nuances of shape, flight pattern, and function. These particular darts are scouting darts, perhaps the most dangerous type, frequently sent in to both survey a location and test any defenses. Sheppard licks his lips in anticipation; if he does not destroy these here and now, they will undoubtedly report back to their hive that Atlantis is vulnerable and ripe for harvest.
The darts move in a carefully choreographed battle. Sheppard has grown to almost admire the aerial artistry of the Wraith. They swoop down as one yet on separate flight paths and attacking at angles, as bees or hornets in swarm, striking at what must seem in the pilots' eyes to be the most exposed and yet valuable targets. One of the darts even concentrates its firepower on one of the many obvious communications and deep space telemetry towers, marked by several antennae piercing into the skies. Sheppard grits his teeth, knowing that the city cannot afford to lose any of their advanced warning systems considered how little power remains.
Much as Sheppard loathes it, he has no other option. He must use the precious few remaining drones to swiftly dispatch of these errant scouts before they can do any further damage or relay any potentially disastrous intelligence to the hive. Atlantis responds with a nearly pathetic swell of energy as she deploys the drones, spilling the glowing, glittering things into the sky. The lights race about the city, threading nimbly between the towers and rooting out their quarry.
After that, the skirmish is a swift one, the Wraith easily dispatched before any serious damage can be dealt. Despite that, the effect will be lasting, Sheppard is certain. For however brief the attack, it has left the city sapped of both power and the very last cache of drones that they had been saving. They are defenseless now, and it is only a matter of time before the Wraith come again. The Wraith, like any other insect, are resilient creatures that will just keep coming in wave after wave until either they or the Lanteans finally prevail.
However, more concerning is the lingering after images lurking in Sheppard's vision as he deactivates the chair and sits slumped in it, motionless and exhausted, his chest heaving laboriously. The colonel has yet to mention it to the doctors or the science teams, yet it is growing more and more frequent. It is taking progressively longer for Sheppard to resurface from his connection to the city, leaving him increasingly drained with each passing activation of the control chair, no matter how brief.
Ronon, somehow, understands implicitly. He often accompanies Sheppard to the control chair these days, except those times when his services are required elsewhere. He watches from the sideline as the colonel slowly comes back up from the connection. It has not escaped the Satedan's notice that it is taking the Earthling's senses to return him, a worrying aftereffect of the chair. Ronon waits patiently but maintains a comfortable distance; Sheppard does not always react well if approached too swiftly after using the control chair. Only once Sheppard blinks owlishly and appears to truly recognize his surroundings does Ronon draw near to once again wordlessly lifts the colonel up from the control chair and return him gently to the wheelchair.
"Thanks, big guy."
It is all that Sheppard can say. He has never been an emotionally expressive person by nature, often masking his true opinions and feelings with quick whit and sarcastic jest, nor is he a very accepting person for physical assistance or coddling. That quiet, almost curt mention of gratitude is the most Sheppard can muster. Ronon understands completely, for he is of the same mind.
He gives a single nod in return. "Don't mention it."
The Satedan pushes the chair, knowing John is too tired now to propel himself along. Sheppard gives a token protest, but it is short lived and easily quelled under a stern glare from Ronon. Ronon does not bother to ask the colonel where he wishes to go and immediately begins to take him back to his quarters. They have often traveled this way these days, with Ronon shouldering the colonel after another thoroughly tiring battle.
Sheppard balks weakly when he recognizes the familiar route. "No… Rahd'ni."
Ronon nods slowly.
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Teyla and Rahd'ni sit in silence after the battle, the quiet broken only by Jeruth's soft mewls from her customary perch atop the man's shoulder. Both rise when Sheppard and Ronon return in the quiet, almost tranquil wake of the battle. The guildsman fidgets nervously, stilling himself and flushing when the others stare almost pointedly at him. He drops his gaze, both embarrassed and unable to summon forth the courage to meet the stern gazes of these strong, proud, defiant creatures.
"Sorry, Rahd'ni," Sheppard breathes, clearly exhausted.
The guildsman licks his lips nervously. "The Wraith?"
"Yes," the colonel replies.
Without lifting his gaze, Rahd'ni fumbles with his knapsack for a moment. He pries his journal from the bag and flips through the pages, his eyes skimming over the notes with ease. Finally, he pauses and tears out a single page, thrusting it into Sheppard's hand. It is a fairly detailed and lovely drawing of Atlantis, adorned here and there with notes in a mix of D'ni, Ancient, and English.
Rahd'ni swiftly explains with all the bluster and pride of Rodney McKay, "One of the sensors in the array is damaged, yielding a decreased radius of range and minor errors in triangulation. I have marked it here-" he jabs the elegant scroll of D'ni script about one of the antennae and then to a rather large body of Ancient text "-and provided you with the necessary programming adjustments here to accommodate for the error and bypass any further issues it may cause."
Sheppard looks up, trying to meet Rahd'ni's eyes. "Thank you, Rahd'ni. I mean it."
"It is nothing," the man blurts out.
"No, really. Thank you."
Rahd'ni says nothing, but the Lanteans can spy the faintest of hints of the old McKay pride to the light in his eyes, shielded by a forced modesty. They take heart in it, for it means that Rodney McKay is alive and well in Rahd'ni. He is only hiding.
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From the testimony of Veovis
I still have not come to realize A'Gaeris's full intent when considering the outsider, nor shall I ever. He kept his matters regarding the outsider, Rodney McKay, to himself, and I did not concern myself with his project save to express my very clear objection to his teaching the outside our ancient Art. Outsiders such as Rodney McKay and Lady Ti'ana pollute both out noble blood and sound reasoning. Rodney McKay's presence was a contradiction, a direct affront against everything we held true. Should he have miraculously succeeded in creating a stable link to the world of his origin, there was no telling what manners of retaliation he might bring down upon us However, A'Gaeris assured me that Rodney McKay would never be allowed to complete his Age so long as he lived.
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The alterations go swiftly once Rahd'ni's page reaches Radek's hands. In truth, the Czech is surprised. Three degrees is such a minute amount of damage to the antennae that it is amazing that Rahd'ni had noticed at all, let alone when on swift approach in one of the jumpers. In fact, it is such a small margin of error that none of the science team has ever noticed the error. It takes only a few short hours to reprogram the long range sensors following Rahd'ni's exacting specifications and coding corrections.
Radek breathes a sigh of relief when the job is finished and reboots the long range sensors. However, that relief is entirely short lived when he sees what the increased sensor range yields. He blinks, unsure at first if what he sees is real. Radek's heart thunders in his chest, sending the blood rushing to his head and roaring in his ears, but he must focus, checking his own work and Rahd'ni's for any errors.
He gulps and reaches for the radio at his ear; there is no mistake.
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An incessant chirping awakens Sheppard from an exceedingly deserved, deep slumber. At first, he crushes his eyes shut and resolves to ignore the caller, rolling over as best as he can granted the cumbersome weight of the cast and tugging the blankets over his head. The beeping continues unabated. Sheppard groans, throwing the covers off without even opening his eyes. There is somewhat of an unspoken agreement in the city that, after any use of the control chair, the user is left to sleep it off uninterrupted. As his radio keeps sounding, Sheppard sighs and picks up the thing.
He growls, "This had better be important."
"I'm afraid it is, Colonel," Radek blurts out, his voice urgent and trembling in a way that jolts Sheppard awake. "Would please come to the control room?"
Sheppard nods slowly. "Yeah, sure. Let me just…"
"Ronon is already on his way," the Czech announces hastily.
"I'm not an invalid," the colonel grouses bitterly.
"So I am aware," Radek states firmly. "But time is of the essence."
Sheppard furrows his brow. "What's going on?"
"Sir, please, I'd really prefer we'd discuss this when you can see for yourself."
It does not matter. There is already a chime at the door, signalling Ronon's arrival. The colonel thinks the door open, amazed that the city is still able to answer his mental call. Sure enough, the Satedan stands hulking in the doorframe. Ronon smirks, his arms folded across his chest as though ready for the colonel to bawk or fight.
He shakes his head. "On my way."
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A swarm of chaos and confusion greets Sheppard when they arrive at the control room. Scientists flutter this way and that, along with several of his men. There seems to be a tizzy of activity about one console, and, as Sheppard draws closer, he spies both Woolsey and Radek peering down nervously at the long range sensors. Radek immediately gestures for the colonel to come and join them in their survey of whatever lies in wait in deep space.
Ronon moves swiftly, efficiently and effortlessly guiding the colonel's wheelchair through the bustling engineers and scientists to them. Sheppard is torn. He wants to feel offended and perhaps a bit ashamed that the Satedan wordlessly does this for him. However, he is also incredibly grateful. The evening's exersions has left him feeling decidedly worn and raw. Sheppard says nothing but nods to the burly Satedan thankfully.
"So, what's got all your panties in a bunch this late?" He quips, desperate to hide his own exhaustion.
Radek is frowning, his features pinched in displeasure; he pressed upon either side to the bridge of his nose, as though battling back a migraine as he explains, "Rahd'ni's adjustments have nearly doubled long range sensors capacity. This was our prior range, and this-" he presses something on the console, and the field of view expands dramatically "-is our current range." The Czech stabs out at the screen, scowling as he points to the far range of the array's capabilities. "That…. is problem."
Sheppard furrows his brow and peers at where the scientist stares so intently. At the far end of their particular slice of the universe, lurking just beyond the range of the sensor array before Rahd'ni's adjustments, several ships are gathering. His eyes go wide to realize that it is an armada, collecting and swelling in size. There are several large vessels, hives by the look of it, along with countless smaller ships, likely darts. Sheppard's throat goes dry at the thoughts. It is an army of Wraith, just lurking out there in the vast depths of Pegasus space.
"What are they doing out there?" Sheppard asks.
Radek's frown deepens. "Nothing." When the colonel glances up to him, Radek sighs and shakes his head. "They are not moving; they are just…. waiting."
"How long have they been there?"
"I do not know," Radek admits softly, hesitantly as though keeping something from him. "There is no way to tell."
Sheppard reconsiders the recent activity, taking this information into account, and his heart clenches. The Wraith have come faithfully every six or seven weeks over the course of the last year, making regularly attack runs and sweeps over the city in. Radek may not wish to admit it, but the Wraith have been lying in wait just beyond their range of notice for the last year, likely aware of this sensory limitation. They have remained there sending out pathetic squadrons of darts – kamakazi pilots, Sheppard now understands – to test Atlantis's capabilities conservatively across the relative safety of space. Slowly, but surely, they have systematically whittled away at the Lanteans' paltry reserves of darts and ZPM power. The next time they come, Atlantis will be defenseless, a fruit ripe for the plucking.
"How long would it take them to get here?"
"If they left now…." Radek runs his fingers through his thinning hair. "At maximum speed…." He pauses, his eyes flickering with mental calculation. "Four weeks. Maybe less, depending."
An uncomfortable silence spans between the Lanteans as they each consider how close to the brink they have been unknowingly skimming along with this new, looming deadline should even one vessel from the Wraith armada begin to approach Atlantis's perimeter. A month. It seems almost impossible that a month is all the time they will have left should the Wraith begin their advance. And, yet, it seems almost appropriate, for, at some point ages ago, this is the same, undeniable truth the Ancients faced when they sank the city, living Atlantis dormant beneath the sea and concealed from the Wraith for centuries.
It is Woolsey who breaches this silent contemplation by sighing and stating simply, "We need those ZPM designs."
"Rahd'ni won't part with them," Sheppard breathes, shaking his head solemnly.
Woolsey speaks softly, carefully choosing his words. "You, of all people, are aware of the severity of this situation. Without a functioning complement of ZPMs, we have no hope of staving off the Wraith."
"I know," the colonel says with a quick bob of his head. "Rahd'ni is still Rodney McKay, and, if I know anyone, that means he's still the most stubborn jackass alive." He sighs, his heart heavy at the thought. "Rahd'ni doesn't trust us. He just doesn't understand that we really are his friends, and, until he can wrap his mind around that, he's never going to hand over those designs."
"If we don't get those designs, Atlantis is done for as we know it," Woolsey argues, the lines in his face deepening as he speaks.
It is a cutting, calculated blow meant specifically for Sheppard; the colonel tries to ignore it, pointing out, "That might be the case, but, if we keep pushing Rahd'ni, he's just going to dig his heels in deeper. We can't just outright demand him to fork 'em over."
"I know, Colonel. Believe me, I know. But, I have to think of the welfare of everyone in this city."
"And what about Rahd'ni?" Sheppard barks bitterly, feeling the tiny, throbbing inception of a migraine building and swelling behind his eyes; it has been overdue since he left the chair this afternoon. "What about him?"
Woolsey sighs heavily, looking down and shifting his weight awkwardly. "I'm not as cavalier as you assume me to be. I am thinking about Rahd'ni, but I have to think about the rest of the city, as well as the rest of Pegasus. If the Wraith take Atlantis, then we lose all chances of stopping them. I would you think that you, of all people, could appreciate that fact."
"I do."
Woolsey gives a small bob of his head. "Then, get him to hand those designs over to you."
Sheppard glances up as Woolsey leaves them, feeling abruptly quite weary and heavy; he gives his own small sigh and asks Radek, "Let me know if they make any move."
"Absolutely, Colonel."
The colonel rubs his aching forehead and orders, "And somebody get Carson on the line."
"Right away, Colonel," one of the techs pipes up – Kutner, Sheppard thinks, from the sound of the voice.
A broad, warm palm graces Sheppard's shoulder, reassuring in its size and surprisingly gentle touch. The colonel does not even need to look to know to whom the hand belongs. Ronon. The Satedan has said nothing this entire time, blending seamlessly into the background information. He says nothing, even as Sheppard glances over his shoulder and nods. Ronon does not complain, does not argue, but, instead, silently ferries the colonel from the room, understanding implicitly.
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The Satedan should take him to the infirmary, judging by how Sheppard hangs his head and compulsively massages his forehead against the breaking migraine, but, instead, he rolls the colonel to his private quarters. Once there, he helps the man from the chair and back to bed. As the colonel arranges himself in as comfortable an arrangement possible granted the bulky cast, Ronon wordlessly fetches a glass of water from the bathroom and the bottle of Excedrin he knows Sheppard has tucked away amid his toiletries specifically for post chair use migraines, returning to hand them both to an exceedingly grateful colonel.
Ronon lingers for a moment, perhaps just a few seconds, as Sheppard swiftly downs two of the pills. The colonel closes his eyes and visibly eases before him, sinking deeply into his bed, as his muscles go pliant. The Satedan knows injuries such as Sheppard's well. He has been the victim of many fractures in his various exploits and, as such, has enjoyed the benefits of a wide variety of medicines. He knows that this seemingly instantaneous response is purely from Sheppard's relief and not from any medicinal effect. He knows the tension in the colonel stems not entirely from his wound and from the mental exertion of the chair but also from the conflict brewing within him. For now, though, once the medication works, it will settle the colonel, stilling his mind as it cuts through the pain, enough to dull the quick of his dilemma.
As Sheppard seems to still, Ronon moves to leave and is stopped only by a soft utterance from the colonel, a single, pained question. "What do I do?"
At first, Ronon is uncertain if the question is addressed to him or if the colonel is asking this of himself. Sheppard is a social extrovert in matters of meeting and greeting other people, but he is highly introverted in personal matters. Ronon has, over the course of these many years, come to see small, fleeting glimpses of the serious, emotional John Sheppard. As such, it gives the Satedan pause while he ponders whether or not to answer. However, Sheppard rolls over and asks nothing more, succumbing instead to slumber's embrace.
Ronon does not return to the quarters he shares with Jennifer; instead, he unconsciously meanders until his feet find their way to the infirmary's observation room. He does not even realize this until he has reached the door. He stares at it intently for a spell, considering the appropriateness of his presence before stepping through and approaching the observation deck.
Below him, Rahd'ni sleeps, insensate to the many social machinations moving about him, as great cogs in a clock. Ronon gazes down upon him, feeling no uncertain measure of discomfort. Rahd'ni looks abruptly small and particularly vulnerable. He lies balled up tightly on his side, his arms wrapped protectively about his chest, as a child might guard themselves against a nightmare. The stark reality smacked harshly at Ronon, for the nightmares had been real, at one point, for Rahd'ni, very real if the scars marring his features are any indication. He twitches in his sleep and curls tighter about himself, likely in the throes of another nightmare. Upon closer inspection, however, Rahd'ni is gasping, his breaths swift and shallow as sweat beads upon his forehead; he is in the midst of a night terror.
Ronon folds his arms across his chest and forces himself to stillness. The Satedan recognizes the symptoms of a night terror in Rahd'ni because he remembers, even after all these years, how Rodney McKay suffered from nightmares and night terrors. In what feels now like an entirely different life, Ronon had borne witness to many such incidences. When they had traveled as a team, there were often times when Ronon, Sheppard, and Rodney shared quarters, and, while Sheppard might sleep through anything, the former runner often woke to the hushed sounds of McKay's struggling against unseen foes lurking just beyond the scope of consciousness. Then, Ronon had gently shaken Rodney, not enough to rouse him to full waking but enough to draw him up from the depths of slumber. There were times, many times when Ronon efforts could not wake Rodney, frightening times that put the runner on edge. Rodney never spoke of what internal demons held him during those moments. However, this time, Ronon does not move to wake Rahd'ni; instead, he watches from above as Rahd'ni's night terror reaches a slow climax before receding away once more and leaving the man spent and still.
The Satedan returns to his quarters in silence, slipping inside soundlessly. Jennifer sleeps still, her form little more than a lithe silhouette against pale, silver moonlight, her back to him. He sighs wistfully at the sight of her, the long, elegant curves that delineate her form in graceful swoops and rises. He strips down to his undergarments – thin, cottony shorts the people of Earth refer to as boxer briefs – before sliding into bed with Jennifer.
His wife stirs only when he puts his arm about her and draws him close; she whispers, her voice still soft and muddled by sleep, "Everything alright, hon?"
Ronon squeezes her tightly against his chest. "Yeah. Everything's fine."
Ronon nuzzles close to her, burrowing his head between her shoulder blades and, then, starts as something tickles at his nose, cool and metallic. Ronon looks down, spying the metal ring Jennifer still wears, wreathed about her neck; Rodney's ring. The necklace suspending the ring has been pulled behind her, so the ring now hangs against her back instead of chest. Ronon stares at the offending item, feeling abruptly cold. Her wearing of Rodney's ring has not previously bothered Ronon. In truth, Satedan marital traditions do not include ceremonial rings such as engagement and wedding rings, but Ronon had embraced the Jennifer's Earthling heritage and the associated traditions and selected rings for the wedding. Theoretically, he knows it should hold no import to him, for it is the Satedan's ring that Jennifer bears upon her slender finger and not Rodney's. However, now, the mere sight of Rodney's ring stirs something decidedly unpleasant deep within the Satedan. He glares at the seemingly innocuous loop of metal for some time as his heart knots uncomfortably before the man finally reaches up and gently brushes the band over Jennifer's shoulder to her chest.
Jennifer rouses before drifting off entirely just enough to murmur, "Love you."
Ronon smiles to himself and presses a chaste kiss to the base of her neck. "Love you, too."
He cuddles close to her once more and drifts back to a sleep so deep that he never hears Jennifer's radio chirp for attention just an hour or so later.
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A voice bellows harshly in D'ni tongue, "YOU WILL GIVE ME THIS!"
"NO! NO MORE!" He screams back.
Another voice calls smoothly from the far side of the room. "I told you he would never bow to your whim." The elegant, courtly man leaning in the doorframe gives a disdainful shake of his head. "Just be done with the outsider already."
A fist collides with his head, and the first man cries out, "NO! HE WILL DO THIS!"
He shakes his head, both to shuffle loose the aftereffects of the blow and to assert his defiance. "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, AND I'LL NEVER HELP YOU!"
Another blow rains down upon him, smashing down upon the back of his skull with a sickening crack. White hot sparks flash in his eyes from the strike. The force of the blow takes his breath away and sends him crashing down to the warm stone ground beneath him. He lays there in a battered, uncoordinated heap as his dazed mind struggles to orient himself once more and as boisterous laughter sounds all about him. It is not the first time he has taken a blow directly to his head, and it is getting harder and harder for him to regain any semblance of composure to face this abuse.
He is not given the opportunity to recover so as a broad, powerful hand reaches down and snatches him by the collar of his plain, linen shirt. The hand balls the fabric of his shirt and hauls him up. The abrupt motion sends his stomach revolting, and he vomits, copiously. His attacker releases him and steps back just in time that the splash of bile and stomach contents does not splatter him. He, however, falls once more to the ground, curling upon himself and clutching his abdomen against sharp cramps that continue to plague him.
The voice sneers in his ear now, painfully close. "If you will not honor your portion of our arrangement, I am not bound to, either."
He looks up, blinking the tears from his eyes to see the man before him, his captor, A'Gaeris. The man towers over him, holding something out and presenting it to his eyes. As his vision clears, he spies a book cradled in A'Gaeris's nimble hands. The thickness of the tome and the nearly reverent way that A'Gaeris holds it suggests that this is not merely a reading book but an Age. Upon closer inspection, it is not just any Age, but his Age. He would recognize the subtle whorls of color and water marks upon the cover that have become almost intimately familiar to him. It is the Age he has traded so much for, the Age which he is so very near to completing.
"I want you to remember this moment," A'Gaeris purrs, stroking the cover with a perversely loving touch. "I want you to remember that I gave you the chance." A'Gaeris's sickly smile turns to a sour scowl in a heartbeat. "Perhaps you will earn this chance again."
To his horror, A'Gaeris turns, still looking fondly upon the Age in his grasp before pitching it directly into the hearth. His Age slams into a cheerfully burning fire, landing amid a shower of sparks.
He howls in rage and sorrow, his heart breaking at the loss of his Age. "NO!"
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"No!"
Rahd'ni gasps the word as he jumps awake, his heart thundering in his chest as he struggles to catch his breath. He blinks, forcing down the memory with several convulsive swallows. When Rahd'ni finally stills enough to look about himself and survey his surroundings in earnest, he sees that he is not in that place of suffering and sorrows that lurks just beyond his conscious memory, but in Atlantis's infirmary still. He sighs and rubs his forehead, wiping away the sweat that has collected and pooled there with the back of his wrist.
Rahd'ni checks his chrono and sighs heavily; it is slightly past third bell. He shakes his head and rises silently. It is still dark in Atlantis, yet someone stirs. Rahd'ni can hear them beyond the doors of the isolation area to the infirmary. He had not noticed until John Sheppard's arrival in D'ni how super sensitive he has become to even the most subtle of sounds, like due to the years of deprivation following the downfall of the D'ni spent alone, accompanied only by the timid little Jeruth. He listens for but a moment to the murmuring beyond the door, only to hear the sounds of Dr. Keller and Sheppard speaking in hushed tones. He cannot distinguish their words, but he can hear them still.
With a single thought, the door to the isolation unit whispers open, and Rahd'ni steps through into the main portion of the infirmary. The large hall is dimly illuminated by only a few small lights, yet it is enough to spy the physician and the colonel at the far end. The colonel reclines upon one of the beds, his broken leg propped up on a pillow, as the doctor tends to him. A pained grimace mars his features along with a sickly, grey pallor.
"You should have called me sooner," Keller chides, gently admonishing her patient with maternal care. "If I'd have known sooner, we could have started a management program for the control chair use."
Sheppard shrugs nonchalantly, but even that seems an extraordinary effort for the man. "Didn't think it was this bad."
"Men. All thinking you guys have to be big toughies," the doctor teases in a friendly tone as she prepares a syringe and injects the contents into the colonel's arm. "Asking for help is not the end of the world, you know." Sheppard's gaze drops, and Keller's joking smile falters. "What? What's wrong, Colonel?"
"Nothing."
It is a lie. Even Rahd'ni can tell from where he stands from the set of Sheppard's shoulders, the coldness to his voice, and the forced calm to his face. He hides something, even now, from Dr. Keller. Rahd'ni's blood runs cold at the thought, worrying that, perhaps, this is the plague manifesting in the colonel even after all this time. The physician gives her own shrug, letting the subject drop as she finishes tending to the colonel and helping him get settled for the night.
"Take it easy and get some rest." Keller glances up and spots Rahd'ni from the other side of the infirmary, calling, "Oh, Rahd'ni. I didn't see you there." The man steps from the shadows just slightly, enough for the doctor to see him better, and she asks, "Is there something you need?" Rahd'ni shakes his head tersely, eliciting a quizzical look from the doctor. "Are you sure? Because I'm getting a little tired of all this machismo stuff tonight."
Rahd'ni shakes his head once more and asserts, "No. I simply could not sleep."
"I could get you something to help with that, if you wanted," the doctor offers cautiously, as though afraid of driving the man back.
"No. It is alright," he assures the woman. He swallows hard, his throat abruptly dry and parched, before Rahd'ni inquires "Is everything alright with him?"
"Hey, I can hear you, and I'll be fine," Sheppard grouses, folding his arms across his chest.
Keller points an accusing finger at him. "You are supposed to be resting, Colonel."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the man grumbles, easing himself into a more comfortable position. "Happy now?"
"Much," the woman quips, before turning to Rahd'ni. "He's just got a migraine from hell. The control chair is just taking more out of him than he's been letting on."
Envy coils about his mind in tight snares. As soon as Sheppard sits upon the control chair, it tips back and alights and bathes the man in a warm, blue glow. It is Atlantis, welcoming the colonel, rising to greet her favorite son more warmly and lovingly than she could greet any other. It is almost ironically cruel that he – the only person who can truly appreciate Atlantis and her many facets - was born without the gene and is only enabled to interact with her through his counterfeit genetics.
Rahd'ni nods his head grimly at the faint hint of a memory, understanding somehow implicitly. Ancient technology is accessed and operated in part by a genetic complement. As such, the link between the operant and the city has both an electrical and an organic component. This yields a two way communication between energy of the operant and the technology in question. Under optimal conditions, the city draws its energy from a central ZPM cache, enough to continually replenish that which is sapped from the operant, leaving the individual entirely unaware of this energy dialogue. Under duress or extremely low power situations in which the city is running in an elaborately power conservative mode, the city is unable to compensate that which is drawn from the operant. Rahd'ni silently calculates the likely effects upon Sheppard, or any other operant to use the chair and files the absolutely disheartening information away in the back of his mind.
"Anyway, he just needs to sleep it off," Keller continues, shrugging it off.
Rahd'ni forces himself to smile as naturally and comfortably as possible granted the knowledge he now possesses, bowing his head slightly. "Of course."
The doctor yawns, cupping her hand to her mouth, and excuses herself, leaving Rahd'ni to return to the infirmary. When he does, he pauses at the foot of Sheppard's bed, pondering if the man knows just how close to killing himself each and every time he takes a seat in the control chair. The city's over reliance upon Sheppard for energy to fuel their connection is slowly burning him out. If his calculations are correct – and Rahd'ni knows he is never wrong – eventually, the city will begin to sap an impossible amount of energy from Sheppard through their connection, enough to potentially do irreparable damage to his central nervous system. One of these days, he will demand too much of the city, and she will respond in kind with a drawing flare that will burn through his synapses, killing or mentally crippling the colonel.
Sheppard speaks suddenly and without opening his eyes, surprising Rahd'ni. "I know you've never been the best with social skills, but watching someone sleep is seriously creepy."
Rahd'ni flushes, dropping his gaze sheepishly. "Forgive me."
"It's alright," the colonel breathes. "Something bothering you?" Rahd'ni nods, and Sheppard inquires gently, "Want to talk about it?"
"I thought we had settled that matter," Rahd'ni hisses through his teeth.
Sheppard shrugs. "Fair enough."
He hunkers down into the pillows and blankets, until Rahd'ni asks, "Does it hurt?"
"Hrm?" Sheppard raises an eyebrow to the question.
"When you… when you access the city? Does it hurt you?"
The colonel gives a slight shrug. "Kind of. It feels… funny. It's like a really bad hangover, y'know? It doesn't hurt when I'm doing it, but, man do I pay for it later." Sheppard meets Rahd'ni's gaze, attempting to make some sort of a direct connection with the man. "Y'know, with a fully powered ZPM cache, it wouldn't be a problem."
Rahd'ni draws a breath and blurts out suddenly quite bitterly, "Am I under guard?"
The colonel blinks, taken back by the abrupt nature of the question. "What?"
Rahd'ni levels a stern gaze upon the man, bristling visibly. "Am I under guard? Am I free to move about the city?"
Sheppard initially bites his tongue; he has been hoping to avoid this particular conversation for some time. It is not that he does not trust Rahd'ni. Far from it. Sheppard knows that Rahd'ni is still Rodney McKay and, therefore, still completely incapable of causing any intentional harm to another human. However, he is uncertain about leaving Rahd'ni alone to explore potentially hurtful memories. He also worries that some of the fresher expedition members – namely those unfamiliar with Dr. Rodney McKay aside from the near legendary tales bandied about – might react aversely to seeing a non-expedition member moving about the city without escort.
"Well?" Rahd'ni presses, folding his arms across his chest.
"Well, yeah, you are free to, if you want. I just figured you'd probably want someone to show you around until you get used to things again," Sheppard attempts to hedge the question as best as possible, in a faint attempt at damage control. When Rahd'ni gives no response and continues to simply stare with a cold distance, the colonel sighs. "Yeah. You can head out if you want." He reaches to the table and paws about, finding a small device. "Just, do me a favor and take this."
Sheppard tosses the thing to Rahd'ni, and he catches it with surprising ease. Rahd'ni turns the small, black item over in his hands. It is a radio, a small device meant to rest about the ear.
He grimaces, appalled by the gesture. "Have you worn this? Repulsive." He holds the radio gingerly pinched between his forefinger and thumb. "I shall have you know that the antibacterial and antifungal nature of ear wax are not proven to be one hundred percent effective. I am not placing this is my ear and contracting anything from you."
Sheppard smirks and shakes his head. "You don't have to stick it in your ear. If you need anything, just keep pressing the comm. button until someone comes to yell at you for waking everyone up."
Rahd'ni nods curtly and pockets the device before turning to gather his knapsack and Jeruth. "Fine."
As an after thought, Sheppard adds, "If you want to see your old quarters, I can give you some directions."
"Yes," Rahd'ni mutters. "I would appreciate that."
xxx
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xxx
The city is quiet as Rahd'ni walks the long halls and corridors, comforting in the stillness and silence. He follows Sheppard's directions to the letter back to what is supposedly his old quarters and finds himself at a darkly colored metal door set into a solid seeming frame flanked by angular trim in burnished copper. He has been waiting for this opportunity for some time, to explore what little remains of a life before D'ni. Rahd'ni draws a deep, stilling breath, and passes his palm over the controls, signaling the door to open.
The room is dimly lit, but, upon his entry, the lighting rises to greet him. The room is empty, for lack of a better description, but Rahd'ni is hardly surprised. Sheppard has already warned him. His more personal possessions have apparently been sent to a sister he does not recall having, while items of a more practical nature have been redistributed about the expedition members, as though salvaging everything from a life lost like carrion birds. The room is occupied only by some rather utilitarian furniture including a desk, chair, and bed. Everything is coated with a fine layer of dust. The air smells musty and stale, leaving a sickly bland taste lingering upon his palate with each breath he takes, even if drawn through his nose.
Rahd'ni sets Jeruth gently upon the ground to allow her to explore. The meek little creature darts this way and that through the room, scurrying beneath the bed and sneezing. Finally, Jeruth jumps up on the bed, stretches, settles, and places her head upon her paws to nap. Rahd'ni smiles to himself, reminded once more just how cat-like reekoos are.
Rahd'ni revolves slowly upon his heel, surveying the room with a critical eye before noting something strange. A series of pictures rest upon one of the otherwise barren shelves. Rahd'ni approaches the items slowly, cautiously, as though a trap. The pictures are free of even scant traces of dust, likely returned to his quarters by whoever kept them in his absence. The first depicts Sheppard, the hulking Ronon, Teyla, and himself. Rahd'ni is surprised at his appearance, how rounded he appears in the photograph, especially with his hair cropped quite short. The four of them are smiling, laughing. In another picture, Rahd'ni sits, grinning behind what appears to be one of the control consoles of the jumpers.
It is the third picture which makes Rahd'ni smile in earnest. It is a picture of Rahd'ni seated across from Dr. Keller, both bearing sly, shy smiles, as though caught conspiring by the photographer. Rahd'ni plucks the picture from the shelf and carries it with him back to the bed. They look…. happy. He looks happy and contented, in far better spirits than he has been this long time in D'ni, even before the fall in the company of Lady Ti'ana and Master Aitrus.
Rahd'ni reclines upon the bed, clutching the picture close to him when an odd urge strikes him. His hand moves, unbidden, snaking between the bedframe and the mattress. Rahd'ni paws about there for a moment and finds nothing. He is not certain what is supposed to be there, but it leaves the man disheartened.
He curls up, with the picture of himself and Dr. Keller, and sleeps beyond third bell for the first time in years, dreaming of her.
xxx
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xxx
"Colonel Sheppard?"
The tinny voice stirs Rahd'ni from his sleep. He groans and rolls over, burrowing his head into the pillows and pulling the musty blankets over his head to smother out the sound. However, it is not enough as a series of beeps accompanies the voice. It is the radio, long forgotten in his pocket from when Sheppard gave it to him in the wee hours of the morning.
"Colonel Sheppard, please respond."
Rahd'ni recognizes the heavily accented voice fraught with worry as belonging to Radek Zelenka, and, though it turns his stomach entirely, Rahd'ni places the device upon his ear, cringing as he does. "Forgive me, Radek, but I have Colonel Sheppard's radio."
Radek sounds genuinely surprised to hear his voice. "Rahd'ni?"
"Yes."
"Why do you have the Colonel's radio?" the Czech questions before swearing in a foreign tongue and asking, "Do you know where Colonel Sheppard is?"
"He was in the infirmary, the last I saw him."
Radek says nothing more. Rahd'ni frowns at the rudeness of the man to wake him and not explain. He shakes his head. Radek will be heading to the infirmary, or contacting Col. Sheppard through one of the many channels of communication not including the man's personal radio. Rahd'ni resolves, then, to beat the Czech to the infirmary so he can correct such rudeness. He takes his knapsacks, gives Jeruth an idle pat, and heads on his way.
The hallway outside of Rahd'ni's door is crowded with people, dozens of them, all moving this way and that, and all in a hurry. It is dizzying to see so many moving about, sending Rahd'ni's head swimming. One of the Lanteans bumps into Rahd'ni, sending him cringing back against the wall of the hall, biting back a surprised yelp. He spends the rest of his return trip to the infirmary hugging that wall, his fingertips trailing along the cool, brushed metallic surface. The physical contact grounds him, gives him focus when the flurry of motion grows too overwhelming. It takes him far longer to arrive at the infirmary than it did to traverse to his quarters in the wee morning hours – a sobering thought.
When he arrives, he is greeted by Dr. Keller, who seems flushed with concern. "Rahd'ni! Where did you get off to?"
"My quarters," he looks down and mutters, chastised by her tone. "Is Radek here?"
Keller glances over her shoulder to a curtained off area about the colonel's bed, and her face stills to a forced composure. "Yes, but he's with the colonel right now." Rahd'ni nods and moves to brush past her, but Jennifer stills him with just the faintest of electric touches from one of her pale hands upon his shoulder. "Rahd'ni, I don't think that's such a good idea right now."
Rahd'ni furrows his brow, somewhat taken back by her tone. He shrugs off her gentle touch, deaf to her continued soft protestations. Something is wrong; he can feel it. Warnings chime in the back of his mind, toning as a somber dead bell, sounding as the great bells of D'ni did in those final hours. His heart answers with thundering beats in his chest, hammering so hard against his rib cage that he wonders if it could just burst right out. Time slows as Rahd'ni crosses the infirmary, as though the world its self has taken on something of a viscous quality. Radek's words do not carry far across the infirmary, but Rahd'ni catches the tone of the man's thin voice, fraught with fear.
When Rahd'ni draws near, however, near enough to hear words clearly emanating from behind the curtained area. He can hear Radek, yes, and the colonel as well, but there are others. Among them, Rahd'ni hears the voice of Richard Woolsey, his tone a fine cocktail of fear and irritation mixed with a liberal dose of anger.
"Colonel, the Wraith are on their way as we speak," Woolsey hisses through his teeth. "We have no other choice. We need Rahd'ni's ZPM plans. Now."
Rahd'ni's heart seizes in his chest, and he finds himself stumbling backward, as though struck by their words. They have done nothing but lie to him this whole time. They have not wanted Rahd'ni, nor cared for his feelings or health as they have claimed. No. Just like his captors, they have only ever wanted the strange and wondrous things Rahd'ni can dream up. Only, unlike his prior captors, these people have had no knowledge of the Art of crafting Ages, yet another thing they have drawn from him.
"You need to get him to turn them over to the science department as soon as possible."
When Woolsey speaks, Rahd'ni hears their voices, their sniggering and snarled demands in that lyrical language of the D'ni echoing in the back of his mind, seared into his mind with the disjointed memory of having one of those thick, leather bound books torn from his hands. "Tahgemah b'zoo ah rehkor!"
He reels from the mental blow, staggering visibly. He reaches out, flailing to keep from tumbling right over. His hand catches upon the curtain and jerks at thin fabric meant for limited privacy only. The curtain rings give, tearing a small portion of the fabric down, starting the men behind it.
"Rahd'ni…." Sheppard breathes timidly.
Woolsey blinks and straightens himself. "Rahd'ni." The diplomat flusters, momentarily grasping at what exactly to say before grudgingly huffing, "I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to hear that."
Blood rushes to Rahd'ni's head, roaring in his ears at the admission. Adrenaline floods his veins and courses through him in cascading waves, steadily building up in his bloodstream. A distant part of his mind knows this reaction, cataloguing the effects numbly. However he might implicitly understand this reaction, Rahd'ni is powerless to stem the rising tide of fear swelling within him.
"Rodney?" a deep voice rumbles behind him before venturing, "Rahd'ni?"
The man in question looks up, finding the massive Ronon Dex approaching slowly, cautiously. The hulking Satedan holds his hand out, palms held out to display their naked emptiness. Dr. Keller steps beside him, her eyes wide with worry. Rahd'ni's gaze drops to the man's meaty paw of a hand, his sight caught by the gleam of metal upon his ring finger. The pattern upon it is an intricately carved knot, but it is distinct. However, Rahd'ni does not focus upon the ring. Instead, he is transfixed by those hands, the sheer size of them by compare to his own.
A broad hand swings at him, cuffing him sharply across the back of his head, sending stars flashing across his eyes from the force of the blow. For as delicate a race as the D'ni seem from outward appearances, the maintainer is a brute, capable of barbaric rage and strength. The strike catches him at the ear with a searing pain.
"Rahd'ni?" It is Sheppard, calling from behind him, breaking through to him. "Rahd'ni, talk to us."
"Tell me!" A'Gaeris demands. "Tell me how this works."
Sheppard speaks again, gently and still. "Rahd'ni, tell us what's wrong."
"No…." it is a faint whisper, a thin, croaked thing that escapes his lips.
"Rahd'ni?" Jennifer calls to him now.
When Rahd'ni turns, a glint of silver on the physician's hand catches his eye. It is a ring, a ring bearing an uncanny resemblance to the ring upon Ronon's finger. He glances to the Satedan's hand to be sure. There can be no mistaking. The rings on the warrior's and the doctor's fingers are identical. Weddings bands.
"Rahd'ni, please, you need to calm down. Let me help you," she begs.
Rahd'ni shakes his head, bitterly now. Jennifer does not wish to help him. She never has. She has her love, her husband, her Ronon Dex. Why would she ever want a pathetic wretch like Rahd'ni when she has a strong, strapping man in her bed?
His hand moves before he can stop it, reaching into his knapsack; Sheppard spies the motion and screams out, "Rahd'ni, no!"
Ronon leaps without thought, without care for personal safety. He has no concept of what Rahd'ni might have in his knapsack, no idea what sort of wonders either D'ni or Lantean in origin that Rahd'ni might use to unleash unspeakable horrors on them. Granted the genius that lurks behind those haunted, frightened eyes, Rahd'ni could be capable of any number of things.
The abrupt motion is enough to send Rahd'ni tearing the object from his knapsack, and Ronon's eyes widen when met with the sight of a Linking Book. The surprise momentarily startles the Satedan, allotting Rahd'ni time enough to rip the book open and jam his palm down upon the glowing panel of the book. His body shimmers in space as soon as the link is made.
"NO!" Sheppard screams again.
Rahd'ni cannot hear him, for Rahd'ni is gone already. His form fades away, leaving the book hanging in air for but a moment before tumbling to the ground with a deafening thud. They have lost Rodney once more, along with any hope of saving Atlantis once the Wraith arrive.
XXX
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Author's Notes : Huzzah! Another story, another update. Oh, yes, the Wraith are on their way, and Rahd'ni is gone, back to D'ni! Oh, wait, maybe that's more of an "oh nos!" moment. =/ Whichever.