(no subject)
Challenge: sgahcchallenges Fall 2008 Fic Exchange
Title: We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows
Author: chensuu
Rating: PG-15 for swearing, violence
Word count: 16,341
Characters: Sheppard [H/C], McKay
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Disclaimer: MGM owns the show and not me. I just like to write about them.
Spoilers: Season 4, Very brief references to Season 5 episodes Search and Rescue and The Seed
Writing for: Kriadydragon
Assignment: Kriadydragon requested “... After being rescued from imprisonment and torture, Sheppard falls terribly ill.”
Author’s notes:The story kind of ran away from me a little bit. But instead of starting right at the point of rescue, I decided to go back a little earlier, like all the way to the point of capture! Still, I hope you enjoy the story and it fits with your request!
We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them. - Kahlil Gilbran
We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows
John’s not a pessimist by nature so he doesn’t foresee any trouble when the team gates through to P97-310. The planet is just like any number of pre-industrial worlds they’ve visited over the past four years, complete with trees, buildings blasted to smithereens by the Wraith, communities based on agriculture, strange food, even stranger citizens, etc.
“All right, let’s be on our best behavior. We’re not sure who these people are and it’s been a long time since we’ve just dropped by a planet from the database for a friendly visit. I saw crops on the way in so it’s a good bet they’re probably farmers.” John smirks and continues, “That’s right McKay I said farmers. Now get that look off your face before someone important sees you.”
It doesn’t take them very long to make contact.
The Dunedin live in a large city on the outskirts of a larger acreage of farmland. Much of the city is in ruins, large buildings once teeming with a viable society, now unlivable, reduced to shells of their former glory. At first the Dunedin seem overly suspicious of the strangers bearing weapons they’ve never seen before and clothing styles outlandishly different from their own but little by little they let their guard down, start to smile instead of scowl and decide to play nice.
John speaks with the leaders while the team makes small talk. He sets up plans for diplomatic relations with Woolsey and then he agrees to attend a grand function with food, wine and the city’s most attractive and influential people. Rodney winces at a display of what looks like citrus fruits and swears he’s going to starve or have a hypoglycemic fit but then Ronon offers to take the first bite before he eats anything and that solves the burgeoning problem.
John beams at Ronon, “Thanks buddy.”
The Ambassador of the Dunedin, a tall man called Zemen, presents John with a delicate ancient device during the opening ceremony which of course lights up and initiates in his palm immediately upon contact. John smiles cautiously while all around him people start to bow, chatter, and stare at him in shock.
“Curious,” Zemen allows and looks toward another man sitting on the far side of the stage.
John thinks, “Here we go again” and gazes intently at his team for support.
“What did you do to it?” Rodney asks.
“I didn’t do anything. It just clicked on.” He stares at the object and then looks back at Rodney and is met with a concerned shrug. John furiously thinks “offoffoffoffoffoff” until the lights power down and whatever it is stops humming. “Well, that’s better…” he offers with a sigh of relief, but of course they’re in Pegasus, so no, it’s not.
When the screams start up John realizes he’s in a hell of a lot of trouble.
Zemen eyes him coldly. “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly.
The murmurs start first, followed by the shouting, and then some scant weapons fire. In a matter of seconds his team is surrounded by an army bigger than anyone expected to find in this backwater realm and John is shoved around in the crowd until he’s standing in front of the Ambassador.
Zemen shouts, “Take him!” and the guards do as ordered. They grab John, strip away his weapon and drive him to the far side of the stage where a Dunedin man in fancy dress is lying on his stomach, unmoving. John sees an identical ancient device clutched in his hand and says, “Crap.”
“You killed the Prime Minister.”
“I did what?”
Because seriously, what?
“Who sent you to our north city?” Zemen seizes John by the hair and Ronon growls. “Was it Madem in the east?
John stares at the vast amount of weapons fire trained in their direction and admonishes Ronon to lower his gun, “Easy big guy,” he says and then to Zemen, “Nobody sent us anywhere. We came through the gate this morning not from across your country.” He pauses, “We never stepped foot on this planet until today.”
“The Gate is midway between boundaries, if you had come, it is possible we might have missed you,” Zemen argues.
“Yeah, but not likely,” John shrugs out of the larger man’s grasp and struggles to get a grip. If they don’t find out what happened and soon, something tells him things are going to go to hell pretty damn fast.
“McKay!”
“Right, I’m on it.”
It sounds crazy but after a lot of prying and some fast investigative work by Rodney, they finally ascertain that for some reason the bearer of an identical device, the aforementioned Prime Minister, dies from some sort of electrical shock immediately after the ancient item turns itself on in John’s hand.
Rodney figures, “Maybe it’s some kind of punishment apparatus and the Dunedin didn’t know about the danger. Or it was broken and this is just a freak accident.” He snaps his fingers in John’s face, “Or maybe they knew exactly what it did and they were waiting for a guy with the gene to come along and assassinate him. Either way, the Prime Minister is definitely dead.”
John swallows hard. He killed someone. Not intentionally to be sure, but it doesn’t really matter now. He shakes his head, fights down a swift bout of nausea, and frowns. “Well at least I’m not the only one having a piss poor day.”
Teyla tries to explain the situation to the Ambassador but it’s a tough sell all the way.
“Colonel Sheppard meant your people no harm,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice, but the Dunedins refuse to listen to her logic and force his team back to the Gate at gunpoint. John watches Ronon snarl and Rodney complain bitterly but in the end they’re helpless to do anything more than watch.
Zemen announces “Have your leader contact us in five days to discuss release and reparation terms. We will be sealing the hallowed circle until then to prevent your people from returning to our city. A minister will be sent to the East City to inform them of our actions although the reason why will not be strictly offered. Until then Colonel Sheppard is our prisoner and we will use our right to question him according to Dunedin law.”
Rodney freaks out just a little at that. John sees the horror on his face reflected back on all of his teammates.
“And by questioning him you mean what exactly? By any chance does it involve whips and chains? Because if you think we’re just going to leave Colonel Sheppard here alone with you xenophobes just so you can force some crazy confession out of him to tidy up your legal proceedings and cover up a political killing you’re mistaken.” He pauses, juts out his jaw, and demands, “At least let one of us stay behind with him!” Rodney lowers his voice just a bit but the pleading is still evident in every forlorn syllable. He looks at John but his words are directed at Zemen. “Let me stay.”
John exhales. Oh wow. He knows his team is afraid for him, hell he’s a little bit afraid for himself, but right now the choice is out of his hands. The Dunedins have guns they obviously know how to use and greater numbers on their side. He frowns and remembers the look in Zemen’s eye. They also have an assassinated leader, some circumstantial evidence and a strong need for retribution. Still, he can’t risk a blood bath over a simple misunderstanding. There’s already been one accidental death today.
He looks at his friends, moves as close as he’s able and tries to comfort them. “McKay…Ronon, Teyla, guys, look I’m fine.”
“No you are not fine so just stop saying that!” McKay shouts. “You told us we don’t leave anybody behind. Why does that always have to change when the person is you?”
“We should not leave this world without you John,” Teyla encourages.
“Just say the word,” Ronon adds with grim determination.
God, John loves all of them so much but it’s a sure bet he’ll never, ever say it out loud. This is his problem, not theirs, and he wants them to stay alive. He rubs his eyes to stave off a blossoming migraine and spreads his hands out before him reassuringly, “Look, just explain the situation to Woolsey. Tell him what Zemen said. Go, now. Don’t force me to make it an order. It’s only five days, right?”
“Bad stuff can happen to you in five days!” Rodney admonishes and John knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“Questioning” can mean a lot of things and Rodney is highly troubled that in this case when the Dunedin say “question” what they really mean is “torture”.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence Rodney. Look, I’ll be okay,” John assures them again but when his team steps through the Gate under protest and the Dunedins affix a metal plate to the front of the iris he licks his lips nervously and fights down a sudden wave of fear. He turns to Zemen and frowns, “So, now what?”
“In five days we will remove the outer shell from the gate and listen to your leader’s position. If we accept the terms you will be released back to your people.”
“And if you don’t?” John asks, waiting, wondering, infinitely curious and just a tad bit desperate but Zemen doesn’t answer. “Yeah, I get it,” John says and frowns.
And god he most certainly does get it. If Woolsey doesn’t play nice and give until it hurts, John’s going to be a guest of the Dunedin for a very long time.
Good one John, hell of a way to stay positive…
Positive or not, John knows he doesn’t want to stay on this fucking planet a day longer than is absolutely necessary. He’s still a little out of sorts from recent injuries including impalement by Wraith tentacle and Keller playing around with his insides. And god knows it’s been rough struggling to regain his team’s dynamic after Teyla’s pregnancy and the hell of the past few months. He sighs and waits and curses his luck. The mission to P97-310 was supposed to be a cake-walk, a practice run, a way for the team to gel and work things out between them but of course it turns out to be anything but. In the space of ten hours John accidentally kills the Dunedin Prime Minister and starts an intergalactic fiasco.
He sighs miserably. When the hell will he ever learn?
The Dunedins nudge John in the small of his back and forcibly shove him away from the Gate. They walk for over an hour, up hills and over sparse rock formations to an area that is strategically hidden away from the naked eye between a dip in the curve of two tree covered valleys. When they arrive at what looks to John like a beaten up fort out of an old Western movie they shove him inside and bar the door.
Once inside they take John to a small brick building with a very ornate entranceway and position him on a stiff chair facing an audience. He swallows hard and meets their angry gazes head on. After all he really didn’t do a god damn thing. There’s no reason for him to be here.
A man in a dark jacket reads the charges and John flinches to hear the word “murder” not once but three times in their description of the Prime Minister’s death. John is an officer and a soldier, and he’s done a lot of shit in service that he’s not completely proud of but to hear that word “murder” used in conjecture with his name and rank just hits home hard.
He asks, “If I’m being charged with something don’t I get a phone call?” and gulps at the Dunedin’s hard expressions. As much as he hates to admit a mistake John thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should have pushed Zemen harder to let one of his team stay behind after all. Teyla maybe, she’s good with words.
And she’s also a new mom…
Oh, yeah, there is that.
Since he’s kind of at their mercy now, John opts to smile and try to stay calm. He continues, “Do I get to speak to an attorney?” and frowns quickly when the officer gestures to the podium where some Dunedins are speaking and responds.
“That man naming you as murderer. He is your attorney.”
Well, so much for stupid questions.
It takes a little over forty minutes for the counsel to pronounce John guilty as charged of premeditated murder. They drag him back outside amid the cheers and jeers of the ever expanding crowd and then deposit him inside a clay building that John assumes is the city jail.
Things are quiet for a while, but when Ambassador Zemen arrives and takes a seat the fun really begins.
“You will be punished according to our laws,” he says matter-of-factly.
“You mean the same laws that don’t include giving me a chance to defend myself?”
The Dunedin military leader, a sinister looking man named Denik slams him hard on the hip with a large pebbled club and forces John to genuflect on the saturated mustard colored soil of what he assumes is his brand new prison cell.
John counts his enemies, examines his surroundings, grinds his teeth to get his fear under control and waits. The trouble with off world missions that turn sour this quickly is their lack of spontaneity, their lack of surprise, their…
“Take off his clothes…”
Okay, John thinks, this is different. Naked on his knees is a new one for John in both the Milky Way and Pegasus galaxies.
He tries to reason with his captors, “Hey, come on guys it’s pretty damn cold in here…” but they don’t listen, instead they tear off his vest, boots and BDU’s in record time, but allow him to keep his T-Shirt and boxers.
“Listen, maybe we can talk about this and…” John shudders when a calloused hand grazes his ankle and takes his remaining sock away, “…work something out.”
Denik smirks and gives him a look that’s impossible to decipher and signals to another guy, a much bigger guy, who nods in response and smacks John hard enough across the face to bust his bottom lip and draw blood.
John smirks “Gotcha” licks the blood off his mouth and makes a conscious decision to shut the hell up.
It’s pretty easy to see that these guys are not in a talkative mood so John relaxes without letting down his guard and waits for an opportunity to present itself. Barely fourteen hours after stepping foot on this godforsaken planet and he’s already sick of Dunedin hospitality.
“You have been found guilty of assassinating Prime Minister Kieen. How plead you dead man?”
John recoils from the harsh words and asks, “You’re asking me how I plead after I’ve been found guilty?”
Honestly, he thinks and, “dead man”? What the hell is up with that?
Two very large guards squeeze John’s shoulders in fists of steel to tight he feels the tear and agony straight to the bone. He protests briefly when they force him to lay face down in the mud and when the Dunedin guards stretch his arms and legs stiffly to his sides like a broken scarecrow and attach rubber cuffs with rope to metal stakes hammered deep into each corner of the cell, John fidgets wildly until the club strikes him hard again and he stops moving.
When John wakes up he’s exposed and wet and completely, utterly helpless. He’s lying in the mud but there’s a board placed under his head to keep his face dry. John tries unsuccessfully to bring his chattering teeth under control and clenches his fists to keep his blood flowing. He thinks about trying to reason with his captors again but changes his mind and bites his bruised lip instead. John can’t move or breathe without difficulty and he figures it’s a good idea to stop annoying the bastards for a little while and let the situation play itself out. Right now there’s no collar around his neck to match the bindings on his wrists and ankles and in John’s book that’s a very, very, very good thing.
And also, didn’t Zemen say he’d be released in five days?
Bad stuff can happen to you in five days…
Rodney’s words haunt him. He looks at his aggressors again, takes note of their large pale bodies covered in armored plating, and shudders hard enough to break a rib. John closes his eyes wearily, then opens them wide and stares. He’s so busy watching them, so consumed with trying to figure out what they plan on doing to him that he nearly misses the soft bitter words when Denik speaks.
“Breathe deep…”
“What?” he sputters when the board is removed from under his head.
Denik grabs his throat in a vise grip and gazes into his eyes. John sees hatred there, and anger, and really, please, honest to god, none of this shit is his fault. “I said breathe…”
He shakes a bit at the cutting tone and grabs a few quick breaths before having his entire head shoved down under the freezing mud. John thinks, fuck, and no and wishes he thought to close his eyes before the submersion because god, honestly, oh fuck, it’s just all sorts of terrifying being able to both see and be blinded by the darkness at the exact same time.
John’s lungs expand tight in his chest and he struggles when they start to burn and seize up from the lack of oxygen. He pushes back once, then again, and feels a slight give on the vapid suction but ultimately his captors are stronger and meaner and there’s no way in hell he can escape the combined strength of four burly men who despise him.
Please…
It just doesn’t make any fucking sense. John wonders idly why the Dunedin’s didn’t just kill him outright when they had the chance earlier during his mock up of a trial instead of going through a heap of a lot of trouble just to drown him in some mud. He body starts to weaken. His eye aches from the pressure of the dirt. Just when he’s sure he’s going to black out or die strong hands pull him out gasping, shaking and weak as a kitten before immediately doing the entire dunking thing all over again.
When he’s pulled back up the second time John says, “Wait a minute…” to gain a little momentum and is rewarded with a punch to the back of the head that has him seeing stars. Another submersion in the mud follows, but at least this time John has the foresight to close both his eyes up tight.
Later he coughs and sputters and says a silent prayer for the hell to stop soon because ever since he was nearly buried alive in Michael’s compound, suffocation scares the crap out of him on oh so many levels. Since he doesn’t have the strength to fight any more he decides to go with the flow, waiting, watching, holding his breath and hoping for any opportunity to get the fuck out of here and head home to Atlantis.
The Dunedin repeat the dunking intermittently throughout the day so many times that John loses count after immersion ten. Every time he sees one of the pale bodies moving toward him he cringes internally and his hands start to shake. In a way it’s kind of embarrassing because John’s just not the “fear” type of guy. Usually he’s strong enough to take anything life throws at him.
But it’s not the death thing that bothers him here. Since they always tug him up before he drowns John’s pretty darn sure the Dunedin intend to keep him alive. Instead it’s the mud, the murky, black, deep, and much thicker than quicksand mud, so eager to cling to his skin and ensnare his every breath that terrifies John to the bottom of his soul. He’s helpless next to its pull, the mere threat of it enough to make him want to puke and hide and beg for mercy.
God…
The Dunedin finish their task and place the board back under John’s head near to sunrise. He sneezes once, and shakes like crazy, and for the remainder of the night switches intermittently between sleeping for a few minutes and shivering awake in the cold damp air.
Denik returns one last time before morning and orders his men to unhook John’s arms and legs from the ground. The lack of blood flow causes them to cramp and burn and John whimpers from the blinding agony. Oh god it hurts, fuck it hurts so freaking bad.
They grab his hands and twist them harshly behind his back hard enough that John first hears then feels, the bones snap in his left wrist.
“Uh...” John murmurs roughly and buries his face against his shoulder to ride out the initial pain.
“Tie his arms. Free his legs for now. We’ll bind him again in the morning.” He sneers at John. “You’re lucky. For the duration of your captivity, the dunking will not be so severe.”
When John tries one final time to ask a question of anybody who’ll listen, and ask for water before they leave, Denik grabs his throat and constricts his breathing roughly until John trembles his consent and feels his body start to fade. He’s released just in the nick of time and seconds later a guard stuffs a cloth that stinks like turpentine against his mouth and John descends into another type of blackness.
****
“Oh, please stop boring me, all right!” Rodney runs his hand over his face and bites back some choice words for Atlantis’ new leader.
“Look, I know all of you are upset and tempers are running high. But we need to be calm and figure this out,” Woolsey says.
“What if after five days the Dunedin refuse to negotiate? We’re still going to get Sheppard back right?” Ronon sounds like a worried little boy. It’s weird to hear the big guy sound so vulnerable.
“Of course we are. We just need to figure out the correct way to do it.” Woolsey offers weakly, but there’s a hidden strength behind his words that confuses the hell out of Rodney.
Ronon slams his hand on the desk. “I don’t like this at all.”
Rodney listens to Ronon’s outburst and shakes his head in both irritation and agreement.
Woolsey just isn’t listening to them. He’s a bigger idiot now than he was with the IOA. He tries his best to sound unruffled and says, “We can’t just sit here and do nothing. They’re going to kill him.”
“You don’t know that,” Woolsey argues.
“They think he murdered their ruler,” Teyla adds briskly before continuing at a more even pace, “They were very angry. I don’t put much faith in the Dunedin guarantee that the Colonel will remain alive.”
Woolsey sighs in exaggerated despair and attempts to play the peacekeeper, “I know that you’re worried about Colonel Sheppard and believe me I am too. I have no intention of just sitting here on my hands while one of my people is being tortured by some rush to judgment bull-shitters who keep pulling my chain every time I try to negotiate.”
Rodney’s respect for Atlantis’ new leader jumps up a notch but he remains cautious. Woolsey is the city’s new bureaucrat and Rodney doesn’t trust him. Of course Samantha Carter didn’t count because she was a soldier. And Weir, he remembers his friend with a swallow of regret, Elizabeth Weir was a surprising contradiction.
“But the fact remains that the Colonel is guilty. And that a very important Dunedin is dead.”
“That wasn’t Sheppard’s fault!” Rodney argues, because god, the stupid god damn politics of it all. “The Ambassador handed him the amulet and he took it.”
“And his gene ignited the device and the device killed the Prime Minister. Yes, I understand. And those people...” Woolsey sneers, “...rolled a stone in front of the iris. All of my attempts at verbal communications are being met with the same terse reply.”
“They mean for us to wait the entire five days,” Teyla says glumly. “Perhaps everything will work out for the best?”
“I seriously doubt it. This is Sheppard we’re talking about,” Ronon says with a hint of a smile.
Woolsey stands from behind his desk and continues, “Major Lorne is assembling a strike force as we speak.”
“I want in on that by the way,” Ronon announces. Teyla’s assent assures Rodney that they’ll both be on the team.
“Of course you do,” Woolsey says. “They’ll be ready to go out at a moments notice.”
Rodney thinks, well it’s about fucking time but instead says, “Yes and while I think that’s a wonderful idea, a brilliant idea, an even better idea would be to cover our asses and have Colonel Caldwell fly the Daedalus around to the planet. Judging by gate distance it will take a little over five days. That way if those bastards give us any trouble... ”
“Someone can still beam in and get Sheppard back,” Ronon finishes.
Rodney nods wearily, “Right.” God, he should have never have left his friend behind. If anything happens to Sheppard, Rodney’s not sure what he’ll do. He gazes at Teyla and Ronon, runs a hand through his ever shrinking hair and scowls. Damn, minus one teammate again; and just when they were finally starting to get their mojo back.
Woolsey twists his mouth into a resigned frown, “Fine. I’ll contact the Colonel and let him know our plan. As administrator of this city I’ll impose my discretionary authority. ” He looks at McKay quizzically. “And will you be going with Major Lorne as well Doctor McKay?”
“No. Rodney shakes his head determinedly, “I’ll be on the Daedalus.”
****
John huddles into the furthest corner of his cell and curls his forehead across his knees in an effort to keep himself as insignificant as humanly possible. It’s a tactic he learned many years ago as an Afghani prisoner of war. Don’t let the bastards notice you. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t give them any ammunition to want to hurt you more than they already have. And do whatever you have to do to stay the fuck alive.
He buries his face in the curve of his arm and breathes in the warm air closest to his body. It’s been days since he felt anything other than ice water running through his veins. Most nights, when the sun sets the cold becomes nearly unbearable and John loses whatever body heat he has left over from the day rather quickly from chattering teeth and a soggy T-shirt
The mud...god, John hates it so much. It coats his shoulders, his chest, his head and his fingers. He feels it caking on his face when the sun is hot, and winding its way under his fingernails during the small moments he’s able to grope at his face and tear the shit off or dig his fingers into the ground when he’s staked into the dirt. He knows if he looked in a mirror he’d see it warping his eyelashes and skin and spiking his hair like a freakish medusa.
John gulps mud every day and swallows it more often than he wants to admit. It’s impossible not to. No matter how he tries to distance himself, the fucking stuff is everywhere. He inhales it wet through his nose and when it’s dry the puffs of yellow vapors sift into his body and work their cruel magic on his lungs sending him spiraling into coughing fits that go on and on and on.
Chris John, can you get any more pathetic?
He stretches his back careful to not pull on his broken wrist, and thinks about standing up, moving around, maybe creeping on his tip toes, peeking out the window and seeing if the Dunedin are nearby and if they have any more plans for him but in the end he’s just too tired to do a god damn thing so he flops back against the wall and waits for them to come to him. It’s going to happen. You can bet your life on that. But since the Dunedin don’t keep to any coherent schedule their arrival is always a pleasant little surprise.
Every night it’s the same thing. They pull him from his muddy cell and drag him outside, scraping his bare feet against the stone ground even though he doesn’t resist. They read him a list of his crimes that include spying, terrorist acts against the government, assault, and oh, yes, murder. They smack him around for a while until he’s so dizzy he can’t see straight and then, when he’s on his knees and shivering, exhausted beyond all comprehension, Denik holds up his head while the Prime Minister’s family parades before his eyes.
John gathers bits and pieces of information along the way, some surprising, some not, and from what he’s able to ascertain, the North City has been engaging in passive warfare with the citizens in the East City for many hundreds of years. The Dunedin’s believe that John planned the assassination of their leader with help from their enemies which is really a great big kick in the ass since he didn’t even hear the word “Dunedin” until he arrived on this cursed planet with his team four very long days ago. Still, it’s enough to start the citizens chanting for a real war, the kind that kills people, and that makes the ruling faction very happy. They want John to admit to murder with aid from the East and that’s something he’s not prepared to do.
Yeah, right, well you did kill him John...
When the parade is over they transfer John to a smaller, more sinister looking facility where he answers question after question during a verbal sparring/physical torture session with Denik and a Dunedin scientist.
John’s body and mind pay the price for denial with every electrical shock charred onto his skin, and every knife pointed menacingly at his throat. When Denik is finished with him, never satisfied, only finished, they dump him back in his cell to look forward to more mud and torment the following day.
John feels sick and exhausted and his body aches in places he didn’t know existed. It’s impossible to sleep. Breathing is a god damn nightmare; he can feel the foggy vapors of mud sifting in and out of his mouth, depositing bile and grime throughout his ribcage. Swallowing hurts his chest and grinds his bones together. John can’t stop sniffling and when he coughs and sneezes the mud disperses and regurgitates around him in great golden gusts of fine powder that he swallows with the next inhalation.
And god, the smell...
The stench of the mud makes his head throb until he’s pretty damn sure it’s going to explode. The fucking shit is everywhere. It’s all around him. When John opens his eyes his vision is blurry and it takes a few minutes for the mud induced haze to subside and for his eyesight to clear. He wishes to god he was strong enough to overpower a guard, grab a weapon and get the hell out of dodge.
“Good one John,” he mumbles softly and closes his eyes, “You’re not going anywhere.”
John fights past the memories and waits for night to pass into day. If he can survive the evening without another session he just might have a chance to see his team again and return home to Atlantis. He coughs once, then again, the sound grating and miserable and when he attempts to stifle a third attack by covering his mouth and biting into his bruised fingers hard enough to taste blood the agony from keeping the air inside his burning lungs causes him to black out temporarily.
When John wakes up he’s strapped to a chair in a dirty lab and a Dunedin scientist, John thinks his name is Gilpin, is smiling at him sadly and clutching a long copper implement in his left hand. John doesn’t have a clue what the stick is called or what its original purpose is but after almost four days in the Dunedin prison he’s aware that one touch of the point against his dry skin is more painful than anything he’s ever encountered - and he includes being sucked on by a Wraith in that sentiment. He gulps down hard and eyes the bucket of water sitting in the corner of the room. And if his skin is wet, oh sweet Jesus, the agony increases ten-fold.
Gilpin moves toward him and checks the rubber restraints on John’s wrists tugging them once or twice until he’s satisfied that his victim, patient, political prisoner, whatever the fuck he is to these people, cannot break free once the torture starts full throttle. John wants to shout at him, scream that there isn’t any way he can move a muscle that they don’t want him to move because his body is too tired, too malnourished, too achy and too beaten to break through the rubber bindings even if he was at the top of his game.
“We’ll begin now shall we?” The man strokes John’s hair out of his eyes and moves his face back and forth noting the new and old bruising in a worn notebook. “The mud is intrusive is it not?”
John trembles through another personal touch and schools his expression away from the scientist the best he’s able. “Yeah,” he sighs, “It is that.”
“Let’s check you out.”
John closes his eyes tight when Gilpin presses his ribcage clinically and moves up to feel the groove of his collarbone, his throat. Bits of dried mud prick behind his eyelids. He’s impassive, quiet, tired, dead…
“Ach…they have been too rough.”
He opens his eyes in time to see Gilpin insert a three inch long syringe into his arm. He looks at the man questioningly and the doctor shakes his head. This is the first time he remembers the Doctor drugging him.
“I’m curious how much mud you’ve swallowed or breathed inside your body.” He stares at John expecting an answer.
John mumbles, “A lot” and feels himself start to drift.
“I see,” Gilpin replies, frowning. He prepares another syringe, quickly plunges it in after the first and then looks over his shoulder.
The doctor seems relieved that no one is watching and that makes John suspicious. Gilpin rarely asks after his condition or makes small talk during the interrogation preferring to get straight to the business at hand: pain intermingled with questions John can’t answer or answers he gives that the Dunedin don’t wish to hear.
He thinks about it for a second. Sure it’s weird but speculating isn’t going to change things. John’s still going to return to his cell tonight a heck of a lot worse than when he left it earlier.
Although…
He turns his head and stares into the blackness waiting for his vision to adjust.
Interesting…
This is the first time that Denik isn’t sitting front and center in the good seats watching the proceedings. Today for the first time in four and a half days, he’s late.
“What did you give me?” John quickly asks Gilpin, breathless, waiting.
“It is of no consequence.” The doctor dismisses his inquiries with a shrug and takes John’s chin in his hand. The look on his face begs forgiveness. “Please do not worry. It may already be too late.”
“Yeah but…” John tries again, swallowing past a steadily building nausea.
Without warning Gilpin’s posture stiffens and John surmises that Denik has arrived. The doctor says, “You have no right to question these proceedings Colonel,” and slaps John roughly across the face.
“Uh…” he replies and then is promptly slapped again. John feels shattered and sick and used up and all other types of bad, negative things. He wishes to god he never set foot in this god damned hellhole.
He wonders about this team and whether he’ll ever see them again, if they’re worried about him and plotting a rescue or if they trust that Dunedin at their word. Ronon, so strong and loyal, Teyla, serene and beautiful and Rodney, arrogant and brilliant Rodney, his partner in crime, his best god damn friend in the world. So much bluster, so much caring. John whimpers and shakes his head. Jesus, he misses them all so much.
Although he hates this planet with every fiber of his being, John’s glad it’s him in the chair tonight and not one of them. The thought of his teammates being held here, submerged in that fucking mud in his stead is way too much to bear. He thinks for a minute, considers, god, what if Zemen handed the device to Rodney instead?
No, don’t even go there…
John shivers uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry I’m late Doctor but please continue. We only have this last evening together. Let’s try and get the answers we need.” Denik’s voice sounds rushed, nervous even, his usual deliberate posture broken up by thoughts he obviously doesn’t want to share.
“Yes, of course,” Gilpin responds quietly. He squeezes John’s shoulder and now that feels weird. What the fuck is going on?
“Now Doctor!”
John listens to Denik shuffle papers in the background and then shakes a bit when the cold voice announces, “If all goes well, tomorrow you go home Sheppard. But you’ll never forget the Dunedin.”
****
Rodney stares at the desolate remains of the North City in horror. For a moment he surmises, Wraith, but the scorch marks are different, the battle patterns and body wounds more indicative of projectile weaponry and explosions than stunners and hey, no one’s been fed upon and the Wraith usually take a small break to stop for breakfast.
He turns to Caldwell and sniffs, “I don’t know where he is,” and then, “I don’t know where anyone is.” He fumbles for his life signs detector and pulls it out with a flourish. “Got it! Now we’ll get some answers.”
They try to track Sheppard’s subcutaneous transmitter from the Daedalus when they first arrive in orbit but it’s impossible. Someone, a botanist maybe, theorizes that properties in the muddy soil are blocking the signal. Rodney frowns. Does the Daedalus even keep a botanist on board?
“You said you just visited this planet last week?” Caldwell asks and Rodney hates him for the suspicious tone of his voice.
“Yes I said that,” He sighs, “What, you think I made you fly to the wrong planet?
Caldwell shakes his head. “Of course not Doctor. But what the hell happened here?”
“Give me a minute while I check my crystal ball,” Rodney shakes the LSD and sporadic dots start to appear. God, he hopes they’re friendly. And that one of them is Sheppard. Fuck he thinks, just fuck.
“I have no idea.” He bites his lip and steadies himself. “I knew we shouldn’t have left him behind.”
“From what Woolsey said you didn’t have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice! We just made the wrong one.”
“Understood,” Caldwell nods succinctly and goes back to the business at hand. He instructs his men to check out the buildings, turn over dead bodies, and do emergency triage when necessary.
Never again, never ever again...
Sheppard made the rule of “leaving no one behind for a reason” for a reason dammit! And it’s a good rule. It’s something to live by, something to follow every day of your life in the Pegasus galaxy. But not when it’s John Sheppard. Oh no, certainly not then. Sheppard you can leave behind nine out of ten times to die on a piss hole of a muddy planet all alone and afraid and ...fuck, if Sheppard’s gone, god, if his friend is dead...
Rodney exhales through a quick bout of panic. He berates himself out loud, “Stop it all right! Just stop thinking like an asshole and find him!” and then sputters when Caldwell looks back in his direction. “What?”
Rodney comes across a man wandering in the street and stops him. The look on the man’s face is one of pure dread. It doesn’t take long to figure out the mystery.
“We attacked them...the East City.” He stares at Rodney in shock. “And they fought back....”
Rodney nods brusquely, “Tell me what happened.”
Bolstered on by rumors of war and the Prime Minister’s assassination, Ambassador Zemen bows to the pressure of his citizens and the North City attacks the East City. The battle doesn’t last very long because, hey, wouldn’t you know it, there’s a very good reason why the two cities have shared a deadlock for nearly four hundred years. The East is stronger by leaps and bounds with technology the North can only dream about. They have bombs, and weapons and a hell of well trained army. In short the East decimates the North City in under a day.
Rodney turns to Caldwell and whistles. “Well, now we know why they didn’t roll the stone from the sepulcher and let Lorne’s gate team pass through.” He looks across the large divide and swallows. “There wasn’t anyone left alive who knew to do it.”
“You’re still showing life signs doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go find Colonel Sheppard.”
“You think we will?” Rodney hates having doubts, he’s usually so sure of everything, but this time, this place, he shudders. God, Sheppard.
“Whenever I think Colonel Sheppard might not be coming back he never fails to throw me a curve ball. I gave up doubting him a long time ago. We’ll find him McKay. Let’s keep looking.”
Rodney nods and examines the LSD again. He notices areas in the city where the life signs are gathered, sees a few separate bleeps in a completely different direction and makes a decision. He gestures to Caldwell, “This way,” and takes a leap of faith.
****
CONTINUE to part 2
Title: We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows
Author: chensuu
Rating: PG-15 for swearing, violence
Word count: 16,341
Characters: Sheppard [H/C], McKay
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Disclaimer: MGM owns the show and not me. I just like to write about them.
Spoilers: Season 4, Very brief references to Season 5 episodes Search and Rescue and The Seed
Writing for: Kriadydragon
Assignment: Kriadydragon requested “... After being rescued from imprisonment and torture, Sheppard falls terribly ill.”
Author’s notes:The story kind of ran away from me a little bit. But instead of starting right at the point of rescue, I decided to go back a little earlier, like all the way to the point of capture! Still, I hope you enjoy the story and it fits with your request!
We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them. - Kahlil Gilbran
We Choose Our Joys and Sorrows
John’s not a pessimist by nature so he doesn’t foresee any trouble when the team gates through to P97-310. The planet is just like any number of pre-industrial worlds they’ve visited over the past four years, complete with trees, buildings blasted to smithereens by the Wraith, communities based on agriculture, strange food, even stranger citizens, etc.
“All right, let’s be on our best behavior. We’re not sure who these people are and it’s been a long time since we’ve just dropped by a planet from the database for a friendly visit. I saw crops on the way in so it’s a good bet they’re probably farmers.” John smirks and continues, “That’s right McKay I said farmers. Now get that look off your face before someone important sees you.”
It doesn’t take them very long to make contact.
The Dunedin live in a large city on the outskirts of a larger acreage of farmland. Much of the city is in ruins, large buildings once teeming with a viable society, now unlivable, reduced to shells of their former glory. At first the Dunedin seem overly suspicious of the strangers bearing weapons they’ve never seen before and clothing styles outlandishly different from their own but little by little they let their guard down, start to smile instead of scowl and decide to play nice.
John speaks with the leaders while the team makes small talk. He sets up plans for diplomatic relations with Woolsey and then he agrees to attend a grand function with food, wine and the city’s most attractive and influential people. Rodney winces at a display of what looks like citrus fruits and swears he’s going to starve or have a hypoglycemic fit but then Ronon offers to take the first bite before he eats anything and that solves the burgeoning problem.
John beams at Ronon, “Thanks buddy.”
The Ambassador of the Dunedin, a tall man called Zemen, presents John with a delicate ancient device during the opening ceremony which of course lights up and initiates in his palm immediately upon contact. John smiles cautiously while all around him people start to bow, chatter, and stare at him in shock.
“Curious,” Zemen allows and looks toward another man sitting on the far side of the stage.
John thinks, “Here we go again” and gazes intently at his team for support.
“What did you do to it?” Rodney asks.
“I didn’t do anything. It just clicked on.” He stares at the object and then looks back at Rodney and is met with a concerned shrug. John furiously thinks “offoffoffoffoffoff” until the lights power down and whatever it is stops humming. “Well, that’s better…” he offers with a sigh of relief, but of course they’re in Pegasus, so no, it’s not.
When the screams start up John realizes he’s in a hell of a lot of trouble.
Zemen eyes him coldly. “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly.
The murmurs start first, followed by the shouting, and then some scant weapons fire. In a matter of seconds his team is surrounded by an army bigger than anyone expected to find in this backwater realm and John is shoved around in the crowd until he’s standing in front of the Ambassador.
Zemen shouts, “Take him!” and the guards do as ordered. They grab John, strip away his weapon and drive him to the far side of the stage where a Dunedin man in fancy dress is lying on his stomach, unmoving. John sees an identical ancient device clutched in his hand and says, “Crap.”
“You killed the Prime Minister.”
“I did what?”
Because seriously, what?
“Who sent you to our north city?” Zemen seizes John by the hair and Ronon growls. “Was it Madem in the east?
John stares at the vast amount of weapons fire trained in their direction and admonishes Ronon to lower his gun, “Easy big guy,” he says and then to Zemen, “Nobody sent us anywhere. We came through the gate this morning not from across your country.” He pauses, “We never stepped foot on this planet until today.”
“The Gate is midway between boundaries, if you had come, it is possible we might have missed you,” Zemen argues.
“Yeah, but not likely,” John shrugs out of the larger man’s grasp and struggles to get a grip. If they don’t find out what happened and soon, something tells him things are going to go to hell pretty damn fast.
“McKay!”
“Right, I’m on it.”
It sounds crazy but after a lot of prying and some fast investigative work by Rodney, they finally ascertain that for some reason the bearer of an identical device, the aforementioned Prime Minister, dies from some sort of electrical shock immediately after the ancient item turns itself on in John’s hand.
Rodney figures, “Maybe it’s some kind of punishment apparatus and the Dunedin didn’t know about the danger. Or it was broken and this is just a freak accident.” He snaps his fingers in John’s face, “Or maybe they knew exactly what it did and they were waiting for a guy with the gene to come along and assassinate him. Either way, the Prime Minister is definitely dead.”
John swallows hard. He killed someone. Not intentionally to be sure, but it doesn’t really matter now. He shakes his head, fights down a swift bout of nausea, and frowns. “Well at least I’m not the only one having a piss poor day.”
Teyla tries to explain the situation to the Ambassador but it’s a tough sell all the way.
“Colonel Sheppard meant your people no harm,” she says in a gentle, soothing voice, but the Dunedins refuse to listen to her logic and force his team back to the Gate at gunpoint. John watches Ronon snarl and Rodney complain bitterly but in the end they’re helpless to do anything more than watch.
Zemen announces “Have your leader contact us in five days to discuss release and reparation terms. We will be sealing the hallowed circle until then to prevent your people from returning to our city. A minister will be sent to the East City to inform them of our actions although the reason why will not be strictly offered. Until then Colonel Sheppard is our prisoner and we will use our right to question him according to Dunedin law.”
Rodney freaks out just a little at that. John sees the horror on his face reflected back on all of his teammates.
“And by questioning him you mean what exactly? By any chance does it involve whips and chains? Because if you think we’re just going to leave Colonel Sheppard here alone with you xenophobes just so you can force some crazy confession out of him to tidy up your legal proceedings and cover up a political killing you’re mistaken.” He pauses, juts out his jaw, and demands, “At least let one of us stay behind with him!” Rodney lowers his voice just a bit but the pleading is still evident in every forlorn syllable. He looks at John but his words are directed at Zemen. “Let me stay.”
John exhales. Oh wow. He knows his team is afraid for him, hell he’s a little bit afraid for himself, but right now the choice is out of his hands. The Dunedins have guns they obviously know how to use and greater numbers on their side. He frowns and remembers the look in Zemen’s eye. They also have an assassinated leader, some circumstantial evidence and a strong need for retribution. Still, he can’t risk a blood bath over a simple misunderstanding. There’s already been one accidental death today.
He looks at his friends, moves as close as he’s able and tries to comfort them. “McKay…Ronon, Teyla, guys, look I’m fine.”
“No you are not fine so just stop saying that!” McKay shouts. “You told us we don’t leave anybody behind. Why does that always have to change when the person is you?”
“We should not leave this world without you John,” Teyla encourages.
“Just say the word,” Ronon adds with grim determination.
God, John loves all of them so much but it’s a sure bet he’ll never, ever say it out loud. This is his problem, not theirs, and he wants them to stay alive. He rubs his eyes to stave off a blossoming migraine and spreads his hands out before him reassuringly, “Look, just explain the situation to Woolsey. Tell him what Zemen said. Go, now. Don’t force me to make it an order. It’s only five days, right?”
“Bad stuff can happen to you in five days!” Rodney admonishes and John knows exactly what he’s thinking.
“Questioning” can mean a lot of things and Rodney is highly troubled that in this case when the Dunedin say “question” what they really mean is “torture”.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence Rodney. Look, I’ll be okay,” John assures them again but when his team steps through the Gate under protest and the Dunedins affix a metal plate to the front of the iris he licks his lips nervously and fights down a sudden wave of fear. He turns to Zemen and frowns, “So, now what?”
“In five days we will remove the outer shell from the gate and listen to your leader’s position. If we accept the terms you will be released back to your people.”
“And if you don’t?” John asks, waiting, wondering, infinitely curious and just a tad bit desperate but Zemen doesn’t answer. “Yeah, I get it,” John says and frowns.
And god he most certainly does get it. If Woolsey doesn’t play nice and give until it hurts, John’s going to be a guest of the Dunedin for a very long time.
Good one John, hell of a way to stay positive…
Positive or not, John knows he doesn’t want to stay on this fucking planet a day longer than is absolutely necessary. He’s still a little out of sorts from recent injuries including impalement by Wraith tentacle and Keller playing around with his insides. And god knows it’s been rough struggling to regain his team’s dynamic after Teyla’s pregnancy and the hell of the past few months. He sighs and waits and curses his luck. The mission to P97-310 was supposed to be a cake-walk, a practice run, a way for the team to gel and work things out between them but of course it turns out to be anything but. In the space of ten hours John accidentally kills the Dunedin Prime Minister and starts an intergalactic fiasco.
He sighs miserably. When the hell will he ever learn?
The Dunedins nudge John in the small of his back and forcibly shove him away from the Gate. They walk for over an hour, up hills and over sparse rock formations to an area that is strategically hidden away from the naked eye between a dip in the curve of two tree covered valleys. When they arrive at what looks to John like a beaten up fort out of an old Western movie they shove him inside and bar the door.
Once inside they take John to a small brick building with a very ornate entranceway and position him on a stiff chair facing an audience. He swallows hard and meets their angry gazes head on. After all he really didn’t do a god damn thing. There’s no reason for him to be here.
A man in a dark jacket reads the charges and John flinches to hear the word “murder” not once but three times in their description of the Prime Minister’s death. John is an officer and a soldier, and he’s done a lot of shit in service that he’s not completely proud of but to hear that word “murder” used in conjecture with his name and rank just hits home hard.
He asks, “If I’m being charged with something don’t I get a phone call?” and gulps at the Dunedin’s hard expressions. As much as he hates to admit a mistake John thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should have pushed Zemen harder to let one of his team stay behind after all. Teyla maybe, she’s good with words.
And she’s also a new mom…
Oh, yeah, there is that.
Since he’s kind of at their mercy now, John opts to smile and try to stay calm. He continues, “Do I get to speak to an attorney?” and frowns quickly when the officer gestures to the podium where some Dunedins are speaking and responds.
“That man naming you as murderer. He is your attorney.”
Well, so much for stupid questions.
It takes a little over forty minutes for the counsel to pronounce John guilty as charged of premeditated murder. They drag him back outside amid the cheers and jeers of the ever expanding crowd and then deposit him inside a clay building that John assumes is the city jail.
Things are quiet for a while, but when Ambassador Zemen arrives and takes a seat the fun really begins.
“You will be punished according to our laws,” he says matter-of-factly.
“You mean the same laws that don’t include giving me a chance to defend myself?”
The Dunedin military leader, a sinister looking man named Denik slams him hard on the hip with a large pebbled club and forces John to genuflect on the saturated mustard colored soil of what he assumes is his brand new prison cell.
John counts his enemies, examines his surroundings, grinds his teeth to get his fear under control and waits. The trouble with off world missions that turn sour this quickly is their lack of spontaneity, their lack of surprise, their…
“Take off his clothes…”
Okay, John thinks, this is different. Naked on his knees is a new one for John in both the Milky Way and Pegasus galaxies.
He tries to reason with his captors, “Hey, come on guys it’s pretty damn cold in here…” but they don’t listen, instead they tear off his vest, boots and BDU’s in record time, but allow him to keep his T-Shirt and boxers.
“Listen, maybe we can talk about this and…” John shudders when a calloused hand grazes his ankle and takes his remaining sock away, “…work something out.”
Denik smirks and gives him a look that’s impossible to decipher and signals to another guy, a much bigger guy, who nods in response and smacks John hard enough across the face to bust his bottom lip and draw blood.
John smirks “Gotcha” licks the blood off his mouth and makes a conscious decision to shut the hell up.
It’s pretty easy to see that these guys are not in a talkative mood so John relaxes without letting down his guard and waits for an opportunity to present itself. Barely fourteen hours after stepping foot on this godforsaken planet and he’s already sick of Dunedin hospitality.
“You have been found guilty of assassinating Prime Minister Kieen. How plead you dead man?”
John recoils from the harsh words and asks, “You’re asking me how I plead after I’ve been found guilty?”
Honestly, he thinks and, “dead man”? What the hell is up with that?
Two very large guards squeeze John’s shoulders in fists of steel to tight he feels the tear and agony straight to the bone. He protests briefly when they force him to lay face down in the mud and when the Dunedin guards stretch his arms and legs stiffly to his sides like a broken scarecrow and attach rubber cuffs with rope to metal stakes hammered deep into each corner of the cell, John fidgets wildly until the club strikes him hard again and he stops moving.
When John wakes up he’s exposed and wet and completely, utterly helpless. He’s lying in the mud but there’s a board placed under his head to keep his face dry. John tries unsuccessfully to bring his chattering teeth under control and clenches his fists to keep his blood flowing. He thinks about trying to reason with his captors again but changes his mind and bites his bruised lip instead. John can’t move or breathe without difficulty and he figures it’s a good idea to stop annoying the bastards for a little while and let the situation play itself out. Right now there’s no collar around his neck to match the bindings on his wrists and ankles and in John’s book that’s a very, very, very good thing.
And also, didn’t Zemen say he’d be released in five days?
Bad stuff can happen to you in five days…
Rodney’s words haunt him. He looks at his aggressors again, takes note of their large pale bodies covered in armored plating, and shudders hard enough to break a rib. John closes his eyes wearily, then opens them wide and stares. He’s so busy watching them, so consumed with trying to figure out what they plan on doing to him that he nearly misses the soft bitter words when Denik speaks.
“Breathe deep…”
“What?” he sputters when the board is removed from under his head.
Denik grabs his throat in a vise grip and gazes into his eyes. John sees hatred there, and anger, and really, please, honest to god, none of this shit is his fault. “I said breathe…”
He shakes a bit at the cutting tone and grabs a few quick breaths before having his entire head shoved down under the freezing mud. John thinks, fuck, and no and wishes he thought to close his eyes before the submersion because god, honestly, oh fuck, it’s just all sorts of terrifying being able to both see and be blinded by the darkness at the exact same time.
John’s lungs expand tight in his chest and he struggles when they start to burn and seize up from the lack of oxygen. He pushes back once, then again, and feels a slight give on the vapid suction but ultimately his captors are stronger and meaner and there’s no way in hell he can escape the combined strength of four burly men who despise him.
Please…
It just doesn’t make any fucking sense. John wonders idly why the Dunedin’s didn’t just kill him outright when they had the chance earlier during his mock up of a trial instead of going through a heap of a lot of trouble just to drown him in some mud. He body starts to weaken. His eye aches from the pressure of the dirt. Just when he’s sure he’s going to black out or die strong hands pull him out gasping, shaking and weak as a kitten before immediately doing the entire dunking thing all over again.
When he’s pulled back up the second time John says, “Wait a minute…” to gain a little momentum and is rewarded with a punch to the back of the head that has him seeing stars. Another submersion in the mud follows, but at least this time John has the foresight to close both his eyes up tight.
Later he coughs and sputters and says a silent prayer for the hell to stop soon because ever since he was nearly buried alive in Michael’s compound, suffocation scares the crap out of him on oh so many levels. Since he doesn’t have the strength to fight any more he decides to go with the flow, waiting, watching, holding his breath and hoping for any opportunity to get the fuck out of here and head home to Atlantis.
The Dunedin repeat the dunking intermittently throughout the day so many times that John loses count after immersion ten. Every time he sees one of the pale bodies moving toward him he cringes internally and his hands start to shake. In a way it’s kind of embarrassing because John’s just not the “fear” type of guy. Usually he’s strong enough to take anything life throws at him.
But it’s not the death thing that bothers him here. Since they always tug him up before he drowns John’s pretty darn sure the Dunedin intend to keep him alive. Instead it’s the mud, the murky, black, deep, and much thicker than quicksand mud, so eager to cling to his skin and ensnare his every breath that terrifies John to the bottom of his soul. He’s helpless next to its pull, the mere threat of it enough to make him want to puke and hide and beg for mercy.
God…
The Dunedin finish their task and place the board back under John’s head near to sunrise. He sneezes once, and shakes like crazy, and for the remainder of the night switches intermittently between sleeping for a few minutes and shivering awake in the cold damp air.
Denik returns one last time before morning and orders his men to unhook John’s arms and legs from the ground. The lack of blood flow causes them to cramp and burn and John whimpers from the blinding agony. Oh god it hurts, fuck it hurts so freaking bad.
They grab his hands and twist them harshly behind his back hard enough that John first hears then feels, the bones snap in his left wrist.
“Uh...” John murmurs roughly and buries his face against his shoulder to ride out the initial pain.
“Tie his arms. Free his legs for now. We’ll bind him again in the morning.” He sneers at John. “You’re lucky. For the duration of your captivity, the dunking will not be so severe.”
When John tries one final time to ask a question of anybody who’ll listen, and ask for water before they leave, Denik grabs his throat and constricts his breathing roughly until John trembles his consent and feels his body start to fade. He’s released just in the nick of time and seconds later a guard stuffs a cloth that stinks like turpentine against his mouth and John descends into another type of blackness.
****
“Oh, please stop boring me, all right!” Rodney runs his hand over his face and bites back some choice words for Atlantis’ new leader.
“Look, I know all of you are upset and tempers are running high. But we need to be calm and figure this out,” Woolsey says.
“What if after five days the Dunedin refuse to negotiate? We’re still going to get Sheppard back right?” Ronon sounds like a worried little boy. It’s weird to hear the big guy sound so vulnerable.
“Of course we are. We just need to figure out the correct way to do it.” Woolsey offers weakly, but there’s a hidden strength behind his words that confuses the hell out of Rodney.
Ronon slams his hand on the desk. “I don’t like this at all.”
Rodney listens to Ronon’s outburst and shakes his head in both irritation and agreement.
Woolsey just isn’t listening to them. He’s a bigger idiot now than he was with the IOA. He tries his best to sound unruffled and says, “We can’t just sit here and do nothing. They’re going to kill him.”
“You don’t know that,” Woolsey argues.
“They think he murdered their ruler,” Teyla adds briskly before continuing at a more even pace, “They were very angry. I don’t put much faith in the Dunedin guarantee that the Colonel will remain alive.”
Woolsey sighs in exaggerated despair and attempts to play the peacekeeper, “I know that you’re worried about Colonel Sheppard and believe me I am too. I have no intention of just sitting here on my hands while one of my people is being tortured by some rush to judgment bull-shitters who keep pulling my chain every time I try to negotiate.”
Rodney’s respect for Atlantis’ new leader jumps up a notch but he remains cautious. Woolsey is the city’s new bureaucrat and Rodney doesn’t trust him. Of course Samantha Carter didn’t count because she was a soldier. And Weir, he remembers his friend with a swallow of regret, Elizabeth Weir was a surprising contradiction.
“But the fact remains that the Colonel is guilty. And that a very important Dunedin is dead.”
“That wasn’t Sheppard’s fault!” Rodney argues, because god, the stupid god damn politics of it all. “The Ambassador handed him the amulet and he took it.”
“And his gene ignited the device and the device killed the Prime Minister. Yes, I understand. And those people...” Woolsey sneers, “...rolled a stone in front of the iris. All of my attempts at verbal communications are being met with the same terse reply.”
“They mean for us to wait the entire five days,” Teyla says glumly. “Perhaps everything will work out for the best?”
“I seriously doubt it. This is Sheppard we’re talking about,” Ronon says with a hint of a smile.
Woolsey stands from behind his desk and continues, “Major Lorne is assembling a strike force as we speak.”
“I want in on that by the way,” Ronon announces. Teyla’s assent assures Rodney that they’ll both be on the team.
“Of course you do,” Woolsey says. “They’ll be ready to go out at a moments notice.”
Rodney thinks, well it’s about fucking time but instead says, “Yes and while I think that’s a wonderful idea, a brilliant idea, an even better idea would be to cover our asses and have Colonel Caldwell fly the Daedalus around to the planet. Judging by gate distance it will take a little over five days. That way if those bastards give us any trouble... ”
“Someone can still beam in and get Sheppard back,” Ronon finishes.
Rodney nods wearily, “Right.” God, he should have never have left his friend behind. If anything happens to Sheppard, Rodney’s not sure what he’ll do. He gazes at Teyla and Ronon, runs a hand through his ever shrinking hair and scowls. Damn, minus one teammate again; and just when they were finally starting to get their mojo back.
Woolsey twists his mouth into a resigned frown, “Fine. I’ll contact the Colonel and let him know our plan. As administrator of this city I’ll impose my discretionary authority. ” He looks at McKay quizzically. “And will you be going with Major Lorne as well Doctor McKay?”
“No. Rodney shakes his head determinedly, “I’ll be on the Daedalus.”
****
John huddles into the furthest corner of his cell and curls his forehead across his knees in an effort to keep himself as insignificant as humanly possible. It’s a tactic he learned many years ago as an Afghani prisoner of war. Don’t let the bastards notice you. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t give them any ammunition to want to hurt you more than they already have. And do whatever you have to do to stay the fuck alive.
He buries his face in the curve of his arm and breathes in the warm air closest to his body. It’s been days since he felt anything other than ice water running through his veins. Most nights, when the sun sets the cold becomes nearly unbearable and John loses whatever body heat he has left over from the day rather quickly from chattering teeth and a soggy T-shirt
The mud...god, John hates it so much. It coats his shoulders, his chest, his head and his fingers. He feels it caking on his face when the sun is hot, and winding its way under his fingernails during the small moments he’s able to grope at his face and tear the shit off or dig his fingers into the ground when he’s staked into the dirt. He knows if he looked in a mirror he’d see it warping his eyelashes and skin and spiking his hair like a freakish medusa.
John gulps mud every day and swallows it more often than he wants to admit. It’s impossible not to. No matter how he tries to distance himself, the fucking stuff is everywhere. He inhales it wet through his nose and when it’s dry the puffs of yellow vapors sift into his body and work their cruel magic on his lungs sending him spiraling into coughing fits that go on and on and on.
Chris John, can you get any more pathetic?
He stretches his back careful to not pull on his broken wrist, and thinks about standing up, moving around, maybe creeping on his tip toes, peeking out the window and seeing if the Dunedin are nearby and if they have any more plans for him but in the end he’s just too tired to do a god damn thing so he flops back against the wall and waits for them to come to him. It’s going to happen. You can bet your life on that. But since the Dunedin don’t keep to any coherent schedule their arrival is always a pleasant little surprise.
Every night it’s the same thing. They pull him from his muddy cell and drag him outside, scraping his bare feet against the stone ground even though he doesn’t resist. They read him a list of his crimes that include spying, terrorist acts against the government, assault, and oh, yes, murder. They smack him around for a while until he’s so dizzy he can’t see straight and then, when he’s on his knees and shivering, exhausted beyond all comprehension, Denik holds up his head while the Prime Minister’s family parades before his eyes.
John gathers bits and pieces of information along the way, some surprising, some not, and from what he’s able to ascertain, the North City has been engaging in passive warfare with the citizens in the East City for many hundreds of years. The Dunedin’s believe that John planned the assassination of their leader with help from their enemies which is really a great big kick in the ass since he didn’t even hear the word “Dunedin” until he arrived on this cursed planet with his team four very long days ago. Still, it’s enough to start the citizens chanting for a real war, the kind that kills people, and that makes the ruling faction very happy. They want John to admit to murder with aid from the East and that’s something he’s not prepared to do.
Yeah, right, well you did kill him John...
When the parade is over they transfer John to a smaller, more sinister looking facility where he answers question after question during a verbal sparring/physical torture session with Denik and a Dunedin scientist.
John’s body and mind pay the price for denial with every electrical shock charred onto his skin, and every knife pointed menacingly at his throat. When Denik is finished with him, never satisfied, only finished, they dump him back in his cell to look forward to more mud and torment the following day.
John feels sick and exhausted and his body aches in places he didn’t know existed. It’s impossible to sleep. Breathing is a god damn nightmare; he can feel the foggy vapors of mud sifting in and out of his mouth, depositing bile and grime throughout his ribcage. Swallowing hurts his chest and grinds his bones together. John can’t stop sniffling and when he coughs and sneezes the mud disperses and regurgitates around him in great golden gusts of fine powder that he swallows with the next inhalation.
And god, the smell...
The stench of the mud makes his head throb until he’s pretty damn sure it’s going to explode. The fucking shit is everywhere. It’s all around him. When John opens his eyes his vision is blurry and it takes a few minutes for the mud induced haze to subside and for his eyesight to clear. He wishes to god he was strong enough to overpower a guard, grab a weapon and get the hell out of dodge.
“Good one John,” he mumbles softly and closes his eyes, “You’re not going anywhere.”
John fights past the memories and waits for night to pass into day. If he can survive the evening without another session he just might have a chance to see his team again and return home to Atlantis. He coughs once, then again, the sound grating and miserable and when he attempts to stifle a third attack by covering his mouth and biting into his bruised fingers hard enough to taste blood the agony from keeping the air inside his burning lungs causes him to black out temporarily.
When John wakes up he’s strapped to a chair in a dirty lab and a Dunedin scientist, John thinks his name is Gilpin, is smiling at him sadly and clutching a long copper implement in his left hand. John doesn’t have a clue what the stick is called or what its original purpose is but after almost four days in the Dunedin prison he’s aware that one touch of the point against his dry skin is more painful than anything he’s ever encountered - and he includes being sucked on by a Wraith in that sentiment. He gulps down hard and eyes the bucket of water sitting in the corner of the room. And if his skin is wet, oh sweet Jesus, the agony increases ten-fold.
Gilpin moves toward him and checks the rubber restraints on John’s wrists tugging them once or twice until he’s satisfied that his victim, patient, political prisoner, whatever the fuck he is to these people, cannot break free once the torture starts full throttle. John wants to shout at him, scream that there isn’t any way he can move a muscle that they don’t want him to move because his body is too tired, too malnourished, too achy and too beaten to break through the rubber bindings even if he was at the top of his game.
“We’ll begin now shall we?” The man strokes John’s hair out of his eyes and moves his face back and forth noting the new and old bruising in a worn notebook. “The mud is intrusive is it not?”
John trembles through another personal touch and schools his expression away from the scientist the best he’s able. “Yeah,” he sighs, “It is that.”
“Let’s check you out.”
John closes his eyes tight when Gilpin presses his ribcage clinically and moves up to feel the groove of his collarbone, his throat. Bits of dried mud prick behind his eyelids. He’s impassive, quiet, tired, dead…
“Ach…they have been too rough.”
He opens his eyes in time to see Gilpin insert a three inch long syringe into his arm. He looks at the man questioningly and the doctor shakes his head. This is the first time he remembers the Doctor drugging him.
“I’m curious how much mud you’ve swallowed or breathed inside your body.” He stares at John expecting an answer.
John mumbles, “A lot” and feels himself start to drift.
“I see,” Gilpin replies, frowning. He prepares another syringe, quickly plunges it in after the first and then looks over his shoulder.
The doctor seems relieved that no one is watching and that makes John suspicious. Gilpin rarely asks after his condition or makes small talk during the interrogation preferring to get straight to the business at hand: pain intermingled with questions John can’t answer or answers he gives that the Dunedin don’t wish to hear.
He thinks about it for a second. Sure it’s weird but speculating isn’t going to change things. John’s still going to return to his cell tonight a heck of a lot worse than when he left it earlier.
Although…
He turns his head and stares into the blackness waiting for his vision to adjust.
Interesting…
This is the first time that Denik isn’t sitting front and center in the good seats watching the proceedings. Today for the first time in four and a half days, he’s late.
“What did you give me?” John quickly asks Gilpin, breathless, waiting.
“It is of no consequence.” The doctor dismisses his inquiries with a shrug and takes John’s chin in his hand. The look on his face begs forgiveness. “Please do not worry. It may already be too late.”
“Yeah but…” John tries again, swallowing past a steadily building nausea.
Without warning Gilpin’s posture stiffens and John surmises that Denik has arrived. The doctor says, “You have no right to question these proceedings Colonel,” and slaps John roughly across the face.
“Uh…” he replies and then is promptly slapped again. John feels shattered and sick and used up and all other types of bad, negative things. He wishes to god he never set foot in this god damned hellhole.
He wonders about this team and whether he’ll ever see them again, if they’re worried about him and plotting a rescue or if they trust that Dunedin at their word. Ronon, so strong and loyal, Teyla, serene and beautiful and Rodney, arrogant and brilliant Rodney, his partner in crime, his best god damn friend in the world. So much bluster, so much caring. John whimpers and shakes his head. Jesus, he misses them all so much.
Although he hates this planet with every fiber of his being, John’s glad it’s him in the chair tonight and not one of them. The thought of his teammates being held here, submerged in that fucking mud in his stead is way too much to bear. He thinks for a minute, considers, god, what if Zemen handed the device to Rodney instead?
No, don’t even go there…
John shivers uncontrollably.
“I’m sorry I’m late Doctor but please continue. We only have this last evening together. Let’s try and get the answers we need.” Denik’s voice sounds rushed, nervous even, his usual deliberate posture broken up by thoughts he obviously doesn’t want to share.
“Yes, of course,” Gilpin responds quietly. He squeezes John’s shoulder and now that feels weird. What the fuck is going on?
“Now Doctor!”
John listens to Denik shuffle papers in the background and then shakes a bit when the cold voice announces, “If all goes well, tomorrow you go home Sheppard. But you’ll never forget the Dunedin.”
****
Rodney stares at the desolate remains of the North City in horror. For a moment he surmises, Wraith, but the scorch marks are different, the battle patterns and body wounds more indicative of projectile weaponry and explosions than stunners and hey, no one’s been fed upon and the Wraith usually take a small break to stop for breakfast.
He turns to Caldwell and sniffs, “I don’t know where he is,” and then, “I don’t know where anyone is.” He fumbles for his life signs detector and pulls it out with a flourish. “Got it! Now we’ll get some answers.”
They try to track Sheppard’s subcutaneous transmitter from the Daedalus when they first arrive in orbit but it’s impossible. Someone, a botanist maybe, theorizes that properties in the muddy soil are blocking the signal. Rodney frowns. Does the Daedalus even keep a botanist on board?
“You said you just visited this planet last week?” Caldwell asks and Rodney hates him for the suspicious tone of his voice.
“Yes I said that,” He sighs, “What, you think I made you fly to the wrong planet?
Caldwell shakes his head. “Of course not Doctor. But what the hell happened here?”
“Give me a minute while I check my crystal ball,” Rodney shakes the LSD and sporadic dots start to appear. God, he hopes they’re friendly. And that one of them is Sheppard. Fuck he thinks, just fuck.
“I have no idea.” He bites his lip and steadies himself. “I knew we shouldn’t have left him behind.”
“From what Woolsey said you didn’t have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice! We just made the wrong one.”
“Understood,” Caldwell nods succinctly and goes back to the business at hand. He instructs his men to check out the buildings, turn over dead bodies, and do emergency triage when necessary.
Never again, never ever again...
Sheppard made the rule of “leaving no one behind for a reason” for a reason dammit! And it’s a good rule. It’s something to live by, something to follow every day of your life in the Pegasus galaxy. But not when it’s John Sheppard. Oh no, certainly not then. Sheppard you can leave behind nine out of ten times to die on a piss hole of a muddy planet all alone and afraid and ...fuck, if Sheppard’s gone, god, if his friend is dead...
Rodney exhales through a quick bout of panic. He berates himself out loud, “Stop it all right! Just stop thinking like an asshole and find him!” and then sputters when Caldwell looks back in his direction. “What?”
Rodney comes across a man wandering in the street and stops him. The look on the man’s face is one of pure dread. It doesn’t take long to figure out the mystery.
“We attacked them...the East City.” He stares at Rodney in shock. “And they fought back....”
Rodney nods brusquely, “Tell me what happened.”
Bolstered on by rumors of war and the Prime Minister’s assassination, Ambassador Zemen bows to the pressure of his citizens and the North City attacks the East City. The battle doesn’t last very long because, hey, wouldn’t you know it, there’s a very good reason why the two cities have shared a deadlock for nearly four hundred years. The East is stronger by leaps and bounds with technology the North can only dream about. They have bombs, and weapons and a hell of well trained army. In short the East decimates the North City in under a day.
Rodney turns to Caldwell and whistles. “Well, now we know why they didn’t roll the stone from the sepulcher and let Lorne’s gate team pass through.” He looks across the large divide and swallows. “There wasn’t anyone left alive who knew to do it.”
“You’re still showing life signs doctor.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go find Colonel Sheppard.”
“You think we will?” Rodney hates having doubts, he’s usually so sure of everything, but this time, this place, he shudders. God, Sheppard.
“Whenever I think Colonel Sheppard might not be coming back he never fails to throw me a curve ball. I gave up doubting him a long time ago. We’ll find him McKay. Let’s keep looking.”
Rodney nods and examines the LSD again. He notices areas in the city where the life signs are gathered, sees a few separate bleeps in a completely different direction and makes a decision. He gestures to Caldwell, “This way,” and takes a leap of faith.
****
CONTINUE to part 2