"What the hell are you doing?" hissed John, poking Ronon sharply in the ribs. In the chair next to him, Ronon flinched back and clutched his belly, groaning in pain. John frowned in concern. "Crap, please tell me you didn't eat the chilli cheese dogs."
But Ronon slitted laughing eyes at him and groaned louder, a theatrical sound that had the Marines nearby snickering quietly. At the front of the room, McKay and Zelenka were still bickering over the security upgrades, too involved to even acknowledge the forty-odd jarheads they were supposedly briefing. Still, Ronon's antics were starting to attract attention. Lorne had a hand over his face, his shoulders subtly shaking.
"Sheppard," whispered Ronon hoarsely, "it's been an honour," and slowly, bonelessly, he slid out of his chair onto the floor.
John stared at him, then nudged his head with a boot. "The hell?"
Miller, sitting on Ronon's other side, suddenly gasped, eyes bugging out, then slumped over like a marionette with its strings cut.
One by one, John's men began dropping like flies. Some of them twitched and moaned in their death throes while a few collapsed without warning in their seats. John raised a despairing eyebrow at Lorne, who merely shrugged and bit back a shit-eating grin.
"Oh, for crying out loud," John muttered when Sergeant Mehra glanced over her shoulder and subtly winked at him. But he was a good sport, and fuck it, McKay and Zelenka still hadn't noticed what was going on. He mimed a noose pulling tight around his neck, choked and kicked his legs and hammed it up as much as possible, then finally let his head loll with a final, dying sputter.
Fifteen minutes later, as Rodney was taking a particularly deep breath in preparation for another rebuttal, Radek noticed the silence in the room. "Er, Rodney? We seem to have lost our audience."