Aaron Rosenberg - Hunt and run

“Smart,” Nekai admitted, clapping Ronon on the shoulder and clasping his arm. “Our biggest victory yet. But let’s not try this too often, hm? I don’t know where we’d get more shuttles.” He was grinning when he said it, and Ronon grinned back. It felt good to have struck such a major blow.

And he vowed that it wouldn’t be the last. Or the most severe.

The Wraith wouldn’t know who had caused the explosion. But they might figure out a Runner had been involved. And eventually, they would learn to fear the Runners.

To fear him.

Because he was going to give them good reason to be afraid.

“Ronon Dex, conqueror of the Wraith,” Rodney declared, though not loudly — even at a whisper the sound echoed around them until it made his head ring. “So why didn’t you and your buddies simply slaughter every last Wraith? Would have saved us a lot of trouble, that’s for sure.”

“We tried,” Ronon growled. “We took out plenty of them. Not as many as Atlantis, but there were only seven of us, with barely any gear.”

“Sure, sure, you got notches in your bedpost and written commendations and merit badges, the works,” Rodney agreed. “Sounds perfect. If you like killing.”

“It was. And I do.” That last was said with deliberate menace, but Rodney waved it off.

“You didn’t go to all this trouble to keep me alive just to kill me,” he pointed out.

“No, I went to all this trouble to keep you alive so you can repair the Jumper and get us out of here. It’s Sheppard and Teyla I’m worried about.”

Rodney nodded. He was trying not to think about their two friends, and what might be happening to them right now. He was safe, if a little bruised, and sitting in a cave listening to Ronon’s equivalent of a campfire story. They’d been captured and were probably being beaten, maybe tortured — or worse.

“Okay, so we have the perfect killing team,” he said, forcing his attention back to Ronon’s tale. “A true hunter’s paradise. Why aren’t you still there with them?”

“Because nothing lasts forever,” Ronon answered after a minute. There was something different in his voice, and it took Rodney a second to place it. Regret. But more than that — grief. He’d only heard Ronon sound this way once before, when he’d talked about his wife and their homeworld, Sateda.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” Rodney asked. “What?” He was genuinely curious.

“We were at war with the Wraith,” Ronon reminded him, his voice dropping even lower. “And every war has casualties.” He didn’t say anything for a minute, and Rodney waited, not rushing him. He could tell this was something Ronon actually wanted to talk about, maybe even needed to.

Sure enough, after that minute of silence had stretched into two, Ronon picked up his tale again. “Sometimes it doesn’t take much to bring everything crashing down,” he started. “It can be something tiny. Or it can be something huge. Or it can be both at once. That’s what happened to us. ”

“How’re the boots?”

“Shhh!” Ronon motioned Adarr to quiet, looking around quickly to make sure no one had heard them. Not that there was anyone to hear except Setien, and she was out in front as always. After a few seconds he decided it was safer to answer than to risk his other teammate’s asking again. “They’re good. Thanks.”

The lanky Fenabian smiled. Adarr had been the one who’d found the boots on their last salvage mission, and he’d been as thrilled as a puppy when he’d presented them to Ronon. They’d discovered stashed clothing and even footwear a few times before, but these were the first that were large enough to accommodate Ronon’s big feet. For the first time in well over a year, he was wearing proper boots instead of something Setien had cobbled together from scraps. He could definitely feel the difference, and his feet and legs thanked him for it every day.

Now wasn’t the time to think about that, however. They were on a new world, on the hunt once again, and this time Nekai had broken them into slightly different teams: the Retemite had paired himself with Frayne, put Turen with Banje, and then grouped Ronon, Adarr, and Setien. “We’re getting too comfortable in our ways,” he’d told them all. “We should each be able to work with anyone else in the unit.”

He was right, of course. And Adarr was easy enough to handle, other than having to tell him to keep quiet every ten seconds. Setien was an entirely different matter. She’d been with the V’rdai longer than Ronon, and she was used to doing things her own way and without being too encumbered by teammates. Plus, Nekai had left the situation nebulous — Banje was the V’rdai second-in-command, so obviously he had authority over Turen, but there was no clear command structure after that. Ronon had command experience and Setien didn’t, which might mean he was in charge of their trio, but try telling Setien that!

Ronon shook his head, though he couldn’t help smiling a little. Setien was certainly something. Over the past nineteen months, he and the aggressive Mahoiran had grown close. Very close. Neither of them was looking for a relationship, of course. Ronon was still grieving for Melena, and Setien never talked about anyone back home but he suspected, due to the nature of her occupation, she’d never wanted attachments in general. And that was fine. They were still Runners, which meant they still faced the possibility of having to disappear at any time — not exactly a healthy way to start a relationship. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t find comfort in another’s company — or that they couldn’t enjoy certain physical activities together as well.

Of course, with Setien that often meant sparring. Before or after. Or during.

But she certainly kept things interesting.

As if on cue, she let out a squawk of delight up ahead. “Pears!” she announced, throwing any stealth to the wind and straightening up to stare up at one of the trees around them. Nekai had a knack for finding them heavily forested worlds, which certainly made hunting and ambushing Wraith easier but also increased the risk of a distracted Setien. Just like now. She’d caught sight of the fruits, dangling well out of her reach, and was utterly transfixed.

“Not now,” Ronon warned, catching up to her and putting a hand on her arm. She shook him off, though not meanly, but didn’t look away from the object of her desire. “Besides,” he reasoned, “it’s out of our reach. We may find others closer to hand.”

That at least got her moving again. “Fine,” she said, shouldering past him and resuming her forward position. “But I get them first!”

“Who’d dare to get in your way?” Adarr muttered at her back, and Ronon stifled a laugh. The pale man was right — all the V’rdai knew the danger of getting between Setien and fresh fruit. She’d nearly trampled Frayne a few months back when the little orange-haired man had discovered a batch of wild strawberries.

They kept moving, eyes peeled. Ronon was stalking along in his typical hunter’s crouch. Adarr was alternating between imitating him and bouncing along like a little kid, oblivious to any danger. And Setien was moving with her usual confident stride, no stealth at all but still completely alert to any danger.

Something nagged at the back of Ronon’s head as they walked, but he couldn’t figure out what. They’d seen no signs of anyone else around, no hint of any nearby settlements, and no evidence of Wraith visitation. The trees were tall and broad and solid, their branches low enough for him to reach if he stretched but high enough that he could stand up straight and not worry about banging his head, the canopy thick enough to block most of the two suns’ light but sparse enough to allow some dappled beams to dance down and illuminate the forest floor. The temperature was pleasant, cool and brisk, and there were birds somewhere, along with an occasional chittering or scraping that suggested other woodland creatures. That was always a good sign — animals instinctively feared the Wraith, and would disappear at the first hint of the lifesuckers.