A/N - you're a very fine swan indeed! ;-D
oooOOOooo
Elizabeth sat at her desk, turning the precious feather over and over in her hand, twisting it this way and that. It was a secondary flight, she now surmised. She thrilled. What this represented - what their John Sheppard represented - it was just too good to be true. It would turn the tide of the expedition completely in their favor.
As a shaft of sunlight caught the feather, she realized it wasn't black at all. It was a very dark brown, with pretty reddish lowlights. She twirled a forefinger through one of her own auburn curls. She examined the feather further, twisted it in and out of her fingers, stroking it, utterly caught up in its simple, poignant, broken beauty.
Its vanes were split, the barbs either bent out of shape or missing. She thumbed along the base of the quill, feeling a certain tackiness verging on grittiness. She rubbed her thumb against her fingertips, lifted her hand to her nose, and sniffed.
The smell was coppery.
Blood.
She slumped in her office chair, and wondered about the man lying in the infirmary, fighting for his life. She prayed he would recover, become functional, even blossom under their exemplary care. She'd been shooed out of there, but had since learned that he hadn't really taken a turn for the worse as she'd initially feared, but had merely succumbed to a terrible, feverish nightmare, one of many. She couldn't begin to think what he might have gone through over the years, and shuddered at the thought. It was quite possible he'd never seen his own kind before, or at the very least had blocked out any memory of his former, hopefully once upon a time carefree life in order to protect his own psyche from his loss.
They absolutely had to make a special effort to welcome him, no question, but somehow they had to not make him feel either owing or owned. It wouldn't be an easy balance. Not in the least.
As she made to tuck the feather in a drawer, she noticed a peculiar color shift. It was entrancing. She held the feather up to the light of her desk lamp, and saw glints of green and even a dash of purple, much like a raven's. The feather was as striking as the man himself. She looked about her, feeling somewhat foolish for doing so, and for some reason she couldn't quite fathom, she tucked the feather back down the front her shirt, and rubbed her forearms against an endless array of goosebumps.
oooOOOooo
Specialist Ronon Dex sat fidgeting in the flimsy conference room chair meant to bear his bulk. Dumb Ancients. They'd obviously never met a Satedan before. He could hear the chair creaking and groaning beneath him. He did nothing to save the ears of his fellow inmates, preferring to shift uncomfortably, bringing about further grunts of complaint from the furniture. Right now, they were his voice. He grinned.
Ronon scanned the room out of habit. Civilization. He never thought he'd see it again other than from the outside looking in, with his nose pressed up against a shop window, yearning after unattainable, tantalizing goods like a half-starved, post-culling waif.
His seven years as a runner still had him checking for all exits before he could relax. It was a security thing, and not something he would drop any time soon. Other than the door he came through, he located the latches to the mirror image balcony windows, an emergency exit marked 'emergency exit' in Tau'ri, and a single panel covering the air duct, though only little Radek Zelenka could possibly fit through one of those, and even that would likely be a tight squeeze. Ronon would never let his guard down, plus he had his new people to protect, possibly even from themselves, given the extent of their naivete since their arrival in the Pegasus Galaxy.
So, where was Commander Weir? Teyla was here, and Rodney, as was Taskmaster Evan Lorne, his CO and rescuer. Decent enough guy. A little bland, truth be told, but Ronon had no real complaints beyond boredom.
Lorne was naturally gray, which somehow caused the Tau'ri womenfolk to drool and fuss if not faint over him, though for some reason, his new taskmaster never returned their favors. He had a decent enough physique and smile, Ronon guessed, though he was a little on the short side. He was what maybe some women might consider cute. Like a pup or a kit. Melena had once imparted something along those lines about a rival of his who was head and shoulders less imposing than him, though she'd said it with a wink, and a sensual double stroke up and down his forearms, followed by... nothing more than a fleeting kiss.
Ronon shucked off those thoughts, especially as Amelia Banks generally invaded his thoughts these days, and she'd followed up with more than a kiss. She'd grasped his arm, hauled him off to a dark hallway, and claimed him as if per Satedan culture.
Privacy of any sort meant a measure of interest, if not committment. The few feeble lights flickered off, and he thanked whoever or whatever had control over the City of the Ancients to grant him this brief moment of respite. Of joy.
They'd... kissed and fondled. Nothing more. Well, he didn't know if it meant the same to the Tau'ri as it did to Satedans, but he'd take his chances with a stunning, exotic-looking female kick boxer. He'd flashed a winning grin at her, and she'd smiled coyly in return. Coyly? Her expression was full of promise.
He'd needed a cold shower after that first brief encounter, bandaged or no. And the means to focus. Sparring helped. As did missions. He had some downtime coming to him. And time with Mel - no, Amelia - would be worth giving his all. To her. And to this expedition.
Lorne. The thought of his CO was enough to dampen his ardor for Amelia. He didn't exactly hate being beholden to this Lorne, but the man was just too… textbook. So here he was, on a rescue team, making others beholden to him in return. The prospect of paperwork alone made him want to take flight, but so far, he'd managed to avoid it. For Amelia.
Days like today kept him here, too. Sheppard. The man was an enigma. Ronon needed to stay. To find out. Stuff. What made Sheppard tick.
Ronon heard a commotion in the hallway. Looked like Beckett was on his way one minute, and got turned around the next, ending up delayed, most likely caught up in their single casualty, this Jo'uhn of the Shepherd Clan, the one they decided to rename John Sheppard in a totally cavalier manner as if erasing his heritage. They better not rename him! McKay already called him Conan once, though he better duck next time. After seeing the movie, he couldn't complain. Arnie was totally kick-ass. He could see himself and Amelia totally kicking alien ass together. It'd be sweet.
Yep, his addiction to action movies kept him here, too, truth be told. If he didn't have his sparring with an endless supply of rookie marines, he would have gone soft weeks ago. That Salisbury steak with mash potatoes and those little round, sweet'n'sour green pellet things helped pin him, too. And chewing gum. Of course, Amelia Dex had a nice ring to it.
Ronon wanted to get right out there and beat up some more bad guys, and maybe locate some Wraith planets, kill himself some more Wraith maybe alongside the new love of his life, but there was currently no way yet to reach those space gates the damn things hid beyond. The Atlantis expedition had those gateships stored away which might get them there someday, but they had no means of flying them. Yet. There was something missing. Judging by the buzz, this Sheppard was the key.
He'd seen movies where cars were started with those little car keys, or of late, remotes. For some reason, he imagined the same for the gateships, only the keys were feathers. Stick one in the keyhole quill end first, twist, and the thing would brum into life. He didn't get why they couldn't just hotwire a gateship, but hey, what did he know?
Remote feathers. Now that was the kicker.
Ronon pushed his chair back, tipping himself onto the two back legs, finally spinning around on one, fluttering, only to come back to fo face the omnipresent table, and have to wait some more. He thought he heard a chair leg splinter. He resorted to drumming his fingers.
"Nice pirouette there, Nureyev."
He guessed what a pirouette was, and that Nureyev dude better be an action hero, though he doubted it. These Tau'ri liked to wind him up. Yup. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table and looked up and across through hooded eyes, assuming what the Tau'ri called a poker face. McKay leaned back, eyes wide.
"Uh, thanks," Ronon offered innocently. It was fun intimidating McKay. Ronon dropped his hands in his lap at a single raised eyebrow from Teyla.
Uh oh.
So, where the hell was Commander Weir? This was meant to be a report on the rescue mission. In the meantime, he mused on what had taken place just hours ago…
oooOOOooo
"Let's get moving, people! Tango at three o'clock!"
"Repeat in plain English, McKay! I repeat! Repeat in - "
"Oh, for crying out loud, Major! Down there! Like, the only human? Hello? Over to your right? No, your other right! Oh, good thinking! Send in the grunts, why don't you! Perhaps overrunning the place would work a treat! Sneaky, much?"
Screw this! Ronon dived down amidst the dust and debris they'd churned up much to his chagrin, spotted their 'tango', and shot the man's chains off just as some big cat was dragging him downwards link by link towards immense, awaiting jaws.
He willed the man to fly up and out right then and there, making this a clean mission, but no, the dumb, self-sacrificing bastard had to fly down, and drape his body over a local, perhaps the aforementioned sister of the mole dude who'd tracked them down on their last night on Kandia just as they were packing up to go home.
He pondered upon what went down.
As Ronon had stomped out the last embers of the camp fire, some furry thing had blundered in, and had practically begged them to rescue a severely neglected avian it'd once owned, apparently much to its abject shame. Yep, it'd used the derogatory term 'avian' in front of them. Ronon nearly shot the little creep.
Teyla calmed him down, but he carried on snarling, aiming his stunner full in the mole's face. Then it burst into tears. He couldn't shoot it after that. Good thing. It yielded intelligence. Sounded like they needed to hurry.
The facility was guarded. They'd found another point of ingress by means of some fancy, encased Atlantian echolocation device they called an LSD, and Ronon had set the charges. Too many. The place had imploded.
When the dust cleared a little, they all plunged below, dodging spotlights and airborne... jewelry? Coins? - and he'd been the first to locate the 'neglected avian' sheep herder, chained to a rock. The man was clearly half dead, leaking blood everywhere, over rocks, over dirt, soaking... bandages. Bandages! Gah!
Fury kicked in, and Ronon went in guns blazing. He took out one big cat, but not before it had attacked the sheep herder. Twice. Idiot. He could have gotten away!
Ronon watched in awe as the sheep herder swooped down instead, and wrapped his entire body around that freakin' mole. Horror smacked him across one ear and then the other as the cat mauled the man's leg, then took a swipe at his right wing, partially severing it at the shoulder. Still the man clung to his charge. Damn! He sure wasn't making this easy.
Ronon swore to beat him up himself, should he survive this. He also realized in an instant that this man would make a decent sparring partner, and for that alone he was worth saving. He'd kick his sorry ass and then some. It'd be fun. Yeah.
He could hear Taskmaster Lorne calling for all civilians to vacate the premises, take cover, yet take into account there was potentially at least one civilian casualty. The ringmaster. It had stayed behind despite warnings, scrabbling around the dirt floor, and stuffing whatever it could find into pockets, its shirt front, until they were bulging. It had tried to crawl away just as the last of the cavern ceiling began to tumble. The last he saw was of it staring skywards, and attempting to shield its head with its front paws. The damn thing never stood a chance.
Ronon didn't bother to check. There was no way anything could survive a boulder that large, or blood loss that great. The scene was pretty much like a crushed burger bun with ketchup oozing out the sides.
Ronon's focus shifted back to the sheep herder. He set his gun to kill, and took out the second cat. Then all hell broke loose as the rescue team dashed as one to the sheep herder's side.
It didn't look good. Ronon stood back as the medics gently peeled their tango's right wing away from the mole, who was then up in an instant, and scurried away. It rushed into the welcoming arms of its brother, the one who'd fetched them, sobbing. It wasn't hurt. Maybe these mole dudes weren't so bad after all. Sounded like they cared. Some of them anyway. Just like humans, he guessed.
Ronon stood back in silence, panting to get his breath as the dust cloud settled, stifling a cough. He let the medics do their job, and kept his gun poised, ready to shoot. Looters, anything. None of those moles dudes better even look at him the wrong way, but they all kept their distance.
Smart thinking.
The sheep herder was a mass of blood and bruises from head to toe. And most of his injuries appeared old. He was bandaged around his entire body. They'd sent him into the ring in that state? Ronon growled. He really needed to kick ass right now, and mole ass would do even if they weren't Wraith or Replicators. He glared about him as if looks could kill, and every last mole scattered bar two.
The half-dead sheep herder was unresponsive. Ronon watched the medics run through their field treatment routine, but there was no smile or nod, just grim expressions. Shit. They did their usual - splint, stick in IVs to bags of whatever it was, then rolled the man on his front onto a stretcher.
He, Teyla and Rodney stepped aside as the marines took a corner each, stood up, braced themselves, and on the count of three, they leapt into the air. Ronon and the rest of them took free-form formation in silence. There was nothing they could do but take point or six. He looked back to see those mole siblings still clutching each other, and dammit if one of them didn't wave goodbye.
Ronon snapped out of his musings as Weir finally burst in, looking oddly flustered. She sat down at the head of the table, composed herself, which involved fixing her hair and adjusting her top around her sparse cleavage, then after making some kind of irritating hmm sound, looked at him direct.
"Specialist Dex. Ronon. Mission report. What precisely went down yesterday?"
She squinted. He frowned. He could do this. Piece of cake as these Tau'ri would say.
Ronon leaned forward, and quit pivoting on his chair.
"Uh, used too much C4. Facility caved in. Killed a big cat. Rescued John Sheppard. Flew out."
She stared at him long and hard. Then squinted again, blasting him with her eyes. Uh oh. Thankfully, they were set to stun. She didn't ask him to elaborate. Instead she turned to Rodney McKay.
"Rodney?"
"We got in, we got our man, we got out, and we stayed alive!"
"Rodney!"
"What?"
"Nothing. Teyla? Tell me something useful. Please."
Teyla nodded serenely.
"It was not easy infilitrating this facility. It was heavily guarded as we suspected. Thankfully our intelligence indicated that there might yet be another point of ingress, which sadly necessitated the use of C4."
Teyla glared at him. He grinned back, with a visible mouthful of chewing gum. C4 was the shit. Teyla rolled her eyes.
"As I was saying, the roof of the cavern housing the… Big Top, is it?...was not thick, and possessed many fault lines. It was already unstable to say the least, and might well have caved in at any moment. We chose an area to one side, in the hope of minimizing collateral damage, which thankfully was limited to just one, which ironically was that of the ringmaster."
Elizabeth looked relieved. Pleased, even.
"Major?"
"Full report already sent to your inbox, ma'am, this morning at six hundred hours sharp. Unless you'd like me to reiterate here."
Major Lorne pursed his lips, which meant - absolutely nothing.
"No! Thank you. I've had quite enough reporting for one day. Now, I want to ask you all how we should go about integrating our John Sheppard into Atlantis society. Your thoughts, please."
"Offer him a home and a purpose like you did me," Ronon stated flatly.
"And me," added Teyla with an emphatic nod.
"And, well, maybe, er, that is to say, me," whispered Rodney as he raised a tentative hand. "What?"
oooOOOooo
Jaan ran through all his past owners in his mind. It hurt his head, and rattled his frame from the top of his sorry cowlicks right down to the tips of his long toes, but it might give him some means of dealing with the latest ones, who for some reason weren't prepared to let him die, and even did huge, soulful seal pup eyes at him, especially that Elizabeth, whom he took to be his primary owner.
Seals. His thoughts rested upon his little seal prince owner, Grrshilk. Like any kid, he had been delighted to have been given a new pet.
Jaan.
The seals were all kind to him at first, and he'd learned the cycle of their years, discovering that he'd been gifted to Prince Grrshilk for reaching Gma'aghk Hllgh'k, which was either something to do with gaining double figures or surviving some decimating childhood pox. He never did find out which. Neither did he care.
For want of a better plan, he'd decided to play along. Food was plentiful, they didn't mind his occasional taking off into either the dawn or sunset, and he even had the run of the beach. Maybe they would let him swim? Bask in the sun? Run?
He'd tempted fate, and had achieved them all. Wow. He'd swum reasonably well, but nothing like they could, given their streamlined bodies, and they smirked at him, toyed with him, played with him.
Petted him.
Well, at least he could beat them at basking and surfing. He had both of those down to a fine art since he was naturally lazy. And they let him run twice a day, even inland. Still, the funniest thing to them all was the way he jumped all scaredy-cat over rock pools. The memory of it made him grin. What, he was supposed to waddle through them as they did? Get his bare feet nipped by crabs?
Nuh uh.
He shook his head.
And leapt.
They cackled.
He did it again.
Wow.
They rolled around, clutching their bellies in merriment. It earned him a nickname. Rowgli. It meant Pool Hopper or Puddle Jumper. Hey, it was better than - well, it was better than just about everything else he'd ever been called, though Fluffy came in at a close second. He lived up to the name. For five whole years. It never got old.
He often wondered what happened to the kid. And his kid sis. She was a cutie. Gwala. That always sounded like a gurgle to him. He could never pronounce any of their names correctly, and though they laughed, it was with him not at him. They didn't mind that he never mastered their language. Until the Outbreak. The Fucking Great Fucking Walrus War. That was when the beatings began. For being stupid.
He had no idea why his puddle-jumping tickled them, apart from the fact there was no way their podgy little bodies could ever become airborne, unless they were bees. Now, those things defied every law known to… those defied… they…
Known to…
Defied...
Every law…
Defied?
Defied!
Kolya!
No!
"No!"
"John!"
"Please!"
"Son?"
"I'm not fluorescent! I'll try to be!"
"Och!"
"I'm good," Jaan whispered hoarsely, and they backed off as one. Maybe they'd give him a chance to recuperate before - whatever it was they had in store for him. Judging by the way they stared at him, ogled his wings while pretending not to, it was something monumental. Crap.
"John?"
John? Okay, he could work with that. He could be John. Just another dumb play on his birth name. Until next time.
"Whuh?"
They'd come for him. This was it. He shifted position, hoisting his sore, weary body upright on unsteady arms. They wanted something. He just didn't know what it was.
They'd patched him up, sewn him up, stuck him with pins, inserted tubes, hooked him up to endless wheezing, snoring gadgets, and plunked him in the middle of the softest, most wonderful bedding he'd ever had in his whole life. Conversely, his mind felt woolly, his body felt kinda not there like he'd squirreled it away over winter and had forgotten where he'd left it, and he couldn't even take a freakin' piss by himself.
He scanned them all through bleary eyes. They looked - kinda expectant as they stood in a row before him. They were beautiful creatures, all. And oh, how they glowed as they stood proudly four-square, bathed in the wondrous light of those colored, geometric glass windows of theirs.
The male with the headful of tendrils and brown leather clothing sported magnificent, brown, leathery tattooed bat wings, and his bearing was beyond fierce. Next to him stood a graceful, honey-colored female with a skimpy, jewel-toned top no doubt to match her pert little butterfly wings. She, too, stood noble and proud. The rest of them were a little less flashy with their drab, baggy clothing with just the occasional splashes of color for the most part in stark panels, and their wings were feathery, mostly white, though some looked grubby or stained, but even they stood tall. Their wings were nothing like his.
He was painfully aware of how pathetic he must look as he lay here, beaten, dark and broken and bandaged and mismatched. He felt a new emotion. Shame. It was bad enough to be taunted by another species, but to finally find creatures oh so close to his own kind, and still be looked down upon was exquisite torture. It made him shake.
Jaan bowed his head. One of them touched his shoulder, causing him to jump. He forced himself not to shrug, to keep his body still. At least until he knew what he could and couldn't get away with.
"John."
"Yeah."
"We have a request."
This was it.
"'M listening."
"We want you to know that we care."
The usual precursor to hurt and loneliness. He stifled a cry, and took a deep breath instead.
"I hear ya."
"We want you to recover here, and feel safe with us."
Ah, the lulling approach. He flashed a lopsided smile, and offered a shrug.
"Sure." Judging by their grins, he'd appeased them. For now.
"You are free to go, if you wish. Either that, or you are welcome to stay here with us, though it would be better for you if you were fully healed first."
John snorted. He'd heard that one before, but this time, it really pissed him off. Did they really have to wave that one in his face? Make him beg?
He'd been released before, only to be recaptured by the huntsrabbits of Peng. Time and time again, they sent him out, even giving him a day's head start with a communal toothy grin. Before long, he would refuse to move from the starting block. It just wasn't worth the brief sense of hope, the short-lived elation of being free.
"Whaddya want? Just - tell me. " He winced. When would they quit this cruel game?
"You have a lot to offer, John."
"It's all yours. Like you need to ask." He shrugged. He didn't own himself after all.
"We just want you to know that you are, well, pretty special, in a sense. It's your feathers. They wield a certain power, a magic if you will. We want you to know that with them, we might well gain the stars."
"You want my feathers? My feathers, huh. Wow." He struggled to control his breathing.
"There is so much to explain! But simply put, we believe your wings hold the key to - "
"Bloody hell, Elizabeth! For a diplomat, you're making a complete bloody dog's dinner of this, I really must say!"
"I believe what Doctor Weir is trying to say is that your feathers are the key to very many more rescues," declared the butterfly woman with a sage nod.
John bowed his head, then nodded slowly. He could do this, if it meant saving others. He thought long and hard, and came to a decision.
"Take them. Take my wings. Just - do me a favor and knock me out first, huh?"
"Och, dear Lord. No, son! Just part with whatever you care to spare us during molting season!"
John heard a communal gasp. He looked up and around. Tears? What was with that? The curly-haired woman was blubbing freely, the other with hair the color of new honey was sniffling and rolling her eyes - and the men were shuffling on the spot. One pinched the bridge of his nose, another shook his head, and yet another stared wide-eyed, his mouth flapping open and shut like a gutted walrus. What was with that? The leather-winged one turned away, and smacked a fist into the wall. John cringed. He didn't dare hope they meant any of that, like any part of him was his own.
It was all too much. He felt his breathing become rapid.
He'd let his guard down.
"I… I… " he began, but speech failed him as panic set in.
They were torturing him. With false promises as ever. He had to get away! He looked about him, and with nothing else available to him, he had to attempt an escape. No question. He was alone.
The open window. Whether he'd soar or plummet was anyone's guess, but at least he could finally take ownership of his own fate. At least that. They could pluck his sorry feathers from his cold, dead body since that was the likely outcome. That or plunder whatever he might shed in his wake as he gained the sky. He could do this. He scooted up to the head of the bed, gathered the wherewithall from deep within, and launched
oooOOOooo