27. The Plans of Mice and Men

John was trussed up loosely but securely deep in a basement with a gag over his mouth when he woke up. His body was cramping and in pain, and his head throbbed, but he was in one piece and alive so he was counting his winnings on that score. There were no windows, so he could not gauge the time well, but he guessed that he’d been out for at least an hour. Of course it could have been a day, but his stomach and bladder indicated that was not the case.

He spent a lot of time squirming until he could get into a sitting position that wasn’t excruciatingly painful, which wasn’t saying much given his list of injuries, old and new. By the time he was chewing on the gag to try and spit it out, a door above him opened and heavy steps came down the staircase.

The giant looked tired and angry and blood splattered. John hoped it was Wraith blood.

“Be quiet. I didn’t get all of them.” The giant yanked out the gag.

“Thanks,” John coughed out the word. The giant looked at him for a second, then opened up a canteen and poured a little water into John’s mouth, holding his chin to keep him still.

“Thanks again.”

No reaction. The giant went over to a corner and wrangled with a small canister, and suddenly the weak ambient light was chased away by what had to be some kind of electric or gas lantern. The giant tapped it fondly. “Some of these still work. Always worth grabbing a few when I come here.”

“John Sheppard.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s John Sheppard. Not that you asked, but since we’re sharing a moment here.” John shrugged.

“Ronon Dex.”

“Can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“Not my fault your people have bad timing.”

“Yeah, thanks for that. What happened to Ford and McKay?” At the blank look John’s question got him, he tried again. “The white light? They disappeared.”

“You’ve never seen a culling beam before?” Ronon looked genuinely surprised.

“I’ve heard of Wraith cullings, but no one mentioned the beam thing.”

Ronon grunted in answer, then sat down, pulled out about a dozen knives from places and started sharpening them. John realized that he had known about the beam, at a subconscious level, from something Atlantis had shared with him during his ill-advised chair adventure. He sorted through the data that was bubbling to the top of his mind with growing horror.

“They are taking them to store on a hive ship.”

“Yeah. That’s what they do.” Ronon shrugged.

“My people…they were all taken.”

Ronon gave him a dark and grim look. “Most.”

John stomach curled, knowing exactly what it meant to the ones who weren’t included there. He still had the images of the Wraith’s murder victims outside of Vegas burned into his brain. “Damnit.”

Ronon paused and stared at his knives. “I’m killing this group off. They’ll send more once they don’t get them back, and that will be the end.”

“The end?” John really wanted to vomit, his feeling of helplessness and guilt swamping him. McKay was gone, Ford, everyone, just in a heartbeat of time that John could not change.

“At some point, if I don’t run, they’ll out gun me. They’ll keep sending more and more hunters until I can’t fight back.”

“That’s…one bad plan there, buddy.”

Ronon took a deep breath but didn’t reply. John wondered how long it had been since the guy had sat down and talked to anyone.

“Why are they hunting you? Why not just, uh, eat you?”

“I’m a runner.”

“Yeah, you said.”

“No, I’m a Runner.”

John picked up on the capitalization that time. “No idea what that is.”

Ronon looked frustrated. “Where are you from? You don’t know anything.”

“Not the first time someone’s accused me of that.” John stopped himself from laughing, which would have only devolved into hysterics. Taking his own deep breath, he focused on his captor. “Can’t tell you where I’m from. Not from around here, let’s leave it at that.”

Ronon nodded thoughtfully. “You’re military.”

“I was.”

That seemed to be enough for him. “A Runner is someone they can’t or won’t eat. They put a tracker in your back and set you loose, and hunt you. It’s training or a sport, I don’t know. But they don’t stop.”

“How long?”

“Ten years. Since Sateda fell. Time to end it.”

John could understand. It was basically the story of his life at that point, but hearing it from Ronon felt more like giving up than John was comfortable with. And worse, it would leave John in a position of being able to do nothing to save McKay and the others. He realized that he could not do that, no matter how much they hated him or he hated McKay.

“No.”

Ronon looked up at him, his expression sardonic.

“I need your help to rescue my people.”

Ronon opened his mouth but closed it. He gave John a long, thoughtful look before replying. “Two of the darts went back through the gate with them. They are all on a hive ship by now, stored for later. You can’t save them.”

“I have a ship.”

Ronon looked interested for a second, but shrugged. “So what? You can’t get on a hive ship. You can’t rescue them.”

John was finally pissed off. “Stop telling me what the fuck I can or cannot do. Untie me and let me get to my ship if you want to finish off your own suicide mission alone. I could use your damn help but don’t let me stop you from dying a pointless death for the sake of a dead planet!”

Ronon stood up, radiating fury, and John thought maybe pissing off the humongous alien was a step too far, but then he felt the ropes being cut away from his hands as Ronon loomed over him.

“You’re crazy.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

Ronon snorted and helped John to stand, which took a couple of minutes.

“You’re not in good shape.”

“I’m a fucking wreck. But this is all we’ve got to work with.”

Ronon left him to his own devices, going over to pack up his set of knives again. “I’ll go finish the last two off. When they don’t report in, the Hive will send more, and that will open the ring. If you have a ship, that’s our best chance to get through it.”

John liked having a plan, even if it was half assed. That was his usual operating procedure lately anyway.