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We left John in a very bad place. He'd lost everything, and was facing a miserable future. So what's happening back at Atlantis?

JUSTICE.

CHAPTER 2

Enraged, Ronon grabbed Lorne's jacket and pushed him against the wall of the 'gate room. "You left him there!"

"He gave me an order - I didn't have a choice!" Evan pushed forward, threw Ronon's hands off his body, and the two men glared at each other.

A hush descended. The atmosphere was electric as everyone stopped what they were doing and waited to see what was going to happen next.

Teyla came forward and discreetly but firmly moved between the two angry men. "Of course you did not, Major. We all know what John is like. He can be very stubborn at times. When he gets an idea into his head sometimes it is very hard to shift it."

"Hard? Try impossible!" Rodney was flushed. He'd been pacing up and down. Now he was standing with his arms crossed looking pissed. "It's a formality – he said. I'll be home in time for dinner…" He let out a long sigh and raked a hand through his hair. When he spoke again the rant was over, but his quieter tone was filled with frustration and fear. "Sheppard knew this was going to happen…that's why he didn't want us there."

"Why, Rodney? I do not understand." Teyla asked. "What happened was an accident. John was fighting for his life. It could have been any one of us. No one would have seen that man."

"The Colonel felt responsible…I could see it in his eyes." Lorne interrupted. "I know it sounds crazy but it's almost as if he wanted to be punished."

"He's right, Teyla." Rodney let out a long sigh. "It's just the sort of dumb thing that self sacrificing idiot would do. Sheppard thinks he should be 'Colonel Infallible'." When he saw her confused expression he elaborated. "You know…the hero who saves the day. The guy who beats the bad guys, rescues the fair maiden and saves the Universe."

Teyla frowned in confusion. "Is that not Flash Gordon? I enjoyed watching his movie but I thought he was a fictional character?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "The point I am trying to make is John doesn't think he should make a mistake." His voice went quiet. "Even I've been known to make a mistake…once. Anyway…when he screws up like the rest of us, he won't cut himself a break. We all know he hasn't forgiven himself for waking the Wraith." Rodney's eyes darted around the room. "Where's Woolsey? For once I agree with Ronon. We need to get moving. Get Sheppard out of there whether he wants to be rescued or not…Where are they taking him anyway?"

"It's a military prison…"

"Flenda?" Ronon interrupted.

"Yeah…that's the name." Lorne confirmed.

"Crap!" Ronon punched the wall. His fist came away covered in blood.

"Ronon!"

Teyla grabbed his arm before he could lash out again. "Your hand…we must get you to the infirmary."

Rodney's face had gone chalk white. "How bad is this place?"

"Bad."

The silence was deafening, as they all looked at each other. Lorne spoke first. "So what are we up against?"

"I've never seen the place but a guy from my regiment was sent to Flenda after he'd been caught stealing…Sallun was never the same again. He was only there six months."

Rodney piped up. "No disrespect to your friend, Ronon, but he's not Sheppard. John…"

"Sallun wasn't my friend, Rodney. He was a bad ass. One of the biggest bastards I've ever met…Flenda broke him."

The atmosphere was becoming unbearably tense, and Ronon was showing signs of lashing out again. Teyla was just as worried as the others but she wanted to try and calm things down. "I am sorry, Major, perhaps I did not hear you, but did you mention where Mr Woolsey was?"

Evan's face darkened. "He stayed behind to speak to the judge again. He's trying to get him to change his mind."

"Off world activation. It's Mr. Woolsey's IDC."

Teyla blinked as the bright blue reflection from the 'gate horizon filled the room with light, blinding her. When it faded Woolsey was standing there wearing a grim expression. Her heart sank when she saw John's clothes hung over one arm, and his boots dangling from Woolsey's hand.

ooooOoooo

The sun was shining when he rode through the Ancestral Ring. It lacked the heat of where he'd just come from but the cooler climate was welcome. Kilund didn't go much further before he reined in his mount and took a good look around.

He'd never been to Taluna before. Given the work he did Kilund mainly frequented military bases. There was the occasional visit to a large town, usually after a soldier had run amok during a rowdy vacation, but this place was something different. Taluna was quaint. There were golden crops swaying in the soft breeze as far as the eye could see. With an orchard so close to the road he could have easily helped himself to the ripe, red fruit. In the distance he saw the tree line of a forest. The tall trees in their fall colors seemed to merge into one. He couldn't see where the branches ended, and the sky began. It was the kind of place he'd like to end up, when he finally got the urge to settle down. Kilund smiled at the thought. He didn't need the grey threading his hair and the aches in his bones to know he wasn't getting any younger, but there was still life in the old dog. He wasn't ready to retire any time soon.

He reached into his saddle bag for his orders. The sandstorm he'd travelled through the day before had coated them with dust. He gave the papers a shake, and drew his hand over the more stubborn grains so he could read the words underneath. Sheppard, John. Prisoner 912. The man had been sentenced to fifteen years. His crime, manslaughter. It didn't go into details, and the additional corporal punishment was of no concern to him. It was just his job to get him to the prison.

Military men were fit, agile, and trained in unarmed combat. The best ones possessed an innate cunning. All good qualities on the battlefield. Chained and cooped up in a tiny cell, they made for a dangerous combination.

Flenda needed to be tough to manage the strong, willful men behind its gates. It was said their methods were harsh, and Kilund couldn't disagree with that. These prisoners were trained killers who had gone off the rails, many having used their skills to commit heinous crimes. There was only one way to contain them - discipline and punishment. Their deviant natures could only be ruled by strict control. Pain was the best method he knew to teach someone that crime really didn't pay.

It was regrettable that many of the long term prisoners became shadows of the men they once were. Unfortunately Kilund couldn't see a way round that. They'd only ended up in Flenda because they'd done wrong, so in his book the die had already been cast.

These men had been sent to prison for a reason. To punish them for their crime, and to set them straight. Compassion had its place, but not there. It wasn't his job to discipline them anymore. That was left to younger fitter men. His job was to transport them in such a way they soon learned what to expect. He wasn't a cruel man, but to show kindness to a prisoner heading to Flenda was a cruel thing to do. Some said it was hell. He wouldn't argue with the description. The place was every felon's worst nightmare and the sooner they got a taste what was coming, the better prepared they would be. Kilund shoved the paper inside his jacket, shook the sand off his hat and rode the rest of the way into town.

It took barely forty minutes to reach the square. The centre of small towns didn't vary much in Pegasus. Except like the rest of Taluna, this square was nicer than most. The cobbled streets were flanked by red roofed white single story buildings on either side. In the middle was a bandstand. The green roofed pillared structure amused him. He'd never been one for music, but strains of the violin would drift from the Commander's quarters at night. Kilund wondered what Rualin would make of this place, but he didn't think pretty was a word in his vocabulary. The Commander was a hard man with no sense of humor. Kilund immediately dismissed the idea of telling him, and decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

Kilund looked around for the courthouse. It soon became clear where it was. In his experience they were usually austere buildings designed to induce fear, and positioned to intimidate. Just like the square grey two story building in front of him. It was an imposing stark structure set on an incline looking down on the town.

He was tired. The sandstorm had slowed his progress and he'd taken longer than he'd expected to get there. All he wanted was to claim his prisoner, get on the road and camp down early for the night. When he heard the familiar sound of hard leather striking human flesh, he groaned. If his suspicions were correct, his plans were about to change.

It was Saturday and as expected the main door were closed. When he rang the bell and no one answered he walked around the side and found a door lying open. It opened out into a courtyard. Inside was a man tied up to a tall wooden pole being whipped.

He believed in punishment, but it should be measured, given without anger and in the manner prescribed by the law. Revenge on the other hand was personal. It was fuelled by rage which in most cases made it clumsy and ineffective. Like the young boy wielding the whip. The prisoner's back was covered in angry looking wealds, but very few cuts and torn skin. The kid wasn't doing it right.

Kilund was tempted to give him a demonstration. Show him the skill was in the wrist, not the force used. If you swung it right, the power would follow through the strike. But he could tell by the red rimmed eyes this boy was upset. His jaw was rigid, his back ramrod straight. So stiff it looked like it could snap at any minute. Kilund reckoned this whipping was hurting the boy almost as much as the man undergoing the punishment. Regardless, he couldn't let this continue. If this was his prisoner, there was a two day walk in front of him. On barefoot it was going to be rough. In pain – well Kilund wasn't giving him his Janta to ride on. He didn't doubt the punishment was deserved, but it was ill timed.

"I sure hope that's not my prisoner? If it is, he's got a long walk ahead of him and he ain't gonna be able to do it in that condition."

Apart from the kid, and the man being punished there were three men present. They all stopped and turned to look at him.

The older of the men was wearing robes and a long gold chain around his neck. It wasn't a big reach to guess he was the judge. The short white haired man eyed him with a look of contempt.

"This man was responsible for the death of this boy's grandfather. As is our custom he has the right to inflict his share of the punishment himself."

Kilund knew the custom. He counted eight stripes on the man's back, and knew the damage was already done. Despite the inconvenience this was going to cause him, it wasn't worth stopping it now for the sake of another two strikes.

The boy didn't look a day past fourteen and as he swung the whip, Kilund could tell there was no real power behind the blow. Still he reckoned the prisoner wouldn't agree. His head jerked and his skin quivered as the sharp leather bit into his flesh. The man grunted as the blow burst open the skin releasing a trail of blood. To his credit he didn't cry out as many would've done.

He was brave, hiding his fear well, but his body was betraying him. He was drenched in sweat, even though there was a chill in the early morning air. Kilund had whipped enough men in his time to know the reaction well. Under duress, the man's heart would be racing, and every nerve in his body would be on fire. Sheppard was hurting, but whether he realized it or not, this time he'd got lucky. This time he was being beaten by a boy. In Flenda the guard yielding the whip would really make him pay. The next time he got whipped, he wouldn't be able to hold back the screams.

The tenth stroke hit its target, tearing a ragged red line from shoulder to waist. It had been the best of the bunch. He heard Sheppard moan, and saw his head slump against the pole. Instead of putting down the whip Kilund saw the boy about to strike again. He was about to jump in to stop him when one of the guards beat him to it.

The young man looked bereft as the weapon was removed from his hands. Kilund felt sorry for him. That was something else about revenge. It rarely made you feel better, and it never took away your pain.

The prisoner stumbled, nearly falling to the ground as the guards untied his hands from the leather straps. He staggered, barely managing to keep upright as they led him away. His jaw was clenched in pain. His face was devoid of any color. Kilund knew he wouldn't be heading home tonight.

ooooOoooo

His back was burning. Sharp spikes of pain ripped through him whenever he tried to move. He hurt like hell, but the pain was nothing compared to the way he felt inside. John couldn't get the kid's face out of his mind.

When he'd heard about the boy's request, he'd wanted to explain. Tell him how sorry he was before he submitted to his ordeal. The boy had been close to tears when he'd confronted him, the rage clearly visible in the dark brown eyes. He hated him. Hated the man who'd killed someone he loved. John had quickly realized the best thing he could do was shut up, and let the boy take it out on his hide.

He hoped his suffering had helped, but somehow doubted it. No amount of vengeance would bring his grandpa back. John had ruined the kid's life. It had been an accident, but this had been no fender bender. He'd killed a man. He'd left a family broken hearted and now there were thirty-eight people who mourned the loss of the life he took. If this had happened back home there might have been an inquest. If he'd been found accountable there, his injury would have ensured the worse he faced was a wrist slap.

It was accepted by many of the brass and the politicians that lives lost by friendly fire were a regrettable, but sometimes unavoidable part of war – collateral damage. John had mixed feelings about that. He didn't think he'd ever killed one of his own, or an innocent before. At least he hoped not. It was too easy to play the numbers game. Too easy to justify those who died along the way to a victory. He'd killed fifty-five Genii to protect his city. John couldn't regret that, but he did feel for the families these men had left behind. He didn't take killing lightly. An enemy was just a man in a different uniform. Someone who under different circumstances, could have been a neighbor or even a friend.

The man he'd killed had been a farmer, not a soldier. These were uncomplicated people who led simple lives. His sentence was harsh, worse than he'd expected. The brutal whipping an act of violence that hadn't achieved anything but to bring him pain. He knew that was the point, and John really hoped Woolsey could strike a deal. If he didn't he wouldn't have a choice. He would need to pay the full price for his sin in time, pain and blood.

ooooOoooo

TBC

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