Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Stargate: Atlantis, nor any of its fantastic characters.
Author's Note: This story started out as an answer to the Carson Beckett Thunk/Whump Thread challenge on The Clubhouse. It went on to become something of a learning experience for me, as well as a story to try to fill in a few gaps. I suppose you could use this as a prequel to any of my clone!Carson stories. This story, however, is pure whump. No relationship this time outside of team friendship. The challenge was to use a pic of Carson (from "Misbegotten") and use it as a springboard for our story. This one took a rather dark turn for me, and contains spoilers for anything up to "Misbegotten" and "Kindred, Part 2." Special thanks to Ani-Maniac494 for beta work, as well as the girls over on the Clubhouse Carson thread. You've all been a big help. Also, for the record, this story is completely written and should post every other day or so. I hope you enjoy!
oOo
He woke to a needle being pulled from his neck. He felt the tug, but he couldn't open his eyes for a moment. But he heard sounds. Strange sounds, almost like. . . . .
Carson's eyes snapped open, his hand naturally coming up to rub the injection site on his neck. It didn't get very far—maybe an inch off of the mattress—before encountering the restraints. He blinked at his surroundings. Dark. Organic. Green lights reflecting off of screens that resembled skin. And a hard metal slab for a bed. Movement caught his attention, and he turned his head a bit too quickly. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him, but he stifled the gag and glared as Michael set down the massive needle he'd just used.
The Wraith turned, his short white hair spiked and glowing in the blue-ish lights. "Good, you're awake."
Carson refused to comment.
Michael laughed. "Be angry all you want. I've just injected you with a serum designed to make you more compliant to my wishes."
Carson clenched his teeth together and turned his gaze to the ugly ceiling. So, he was Michael's captive. He stared as he slowly pieced the events of the last few days together. Or weeks? How long had he been out?
He'd joined Colonel Sheppard on another misguided attempt to make Wraith into humans. Granted, this time had a very good reason. The only way to survive had been to disseminate the retrovirus on a Hive ship. They'd been stranded in the void between galaxies and needed a ride home. Major Lorne had bunked down in the bridge of the damaged Daedalus while Michael towed the ship with Atlantis's newly-acquired Hive. That one decision resulted in nearly two hundred new humans, as well as the dilemma of what to do about Michael.
I'm just glad he's not gonna remember this. Carson's words from just a few. . . .How long had it been? Days? Weeks? He'd been on that rock with the Wraith-turned-humans for two weeks, so it had been quite some time. Anyway, his words came back to haunt him. Of course Michael remembered. And, when he did, he was more than a little angry.
That Wraith moved to Carson's side. "Dr. Beckett, you cannot believe that you are innocent in this. After all, it is by your own hand that I find myself in the situation I currently am."
"Oh, and what's that?"
Michael smiled, his teeth a grotesque testament to his race's inability to eat normal food. "In command of a cruiser hiding on the edge of the galaxy. Your actions—and those of your friends on Atlantis—have put me in the position of taking you hostage. You, Dr. Beckett, are going to make this right."
"Not bloody likely."
"Resist all you want." Michael headed for the door, stopping to glance back. "Eventually, you will comply."
Carson listened to the door close behind him and let out a deep breath. His head pounded, probably a side-effect of the drugs Michael had used, and his normal remedy couldn't help. He usually pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a few deep breaths to calm his nerves. That "mind over matter" approach worked most often, as did the sudden rush of oxygen that helped re-energize him when he needed it. Today, he tried drawing a few deep breaths, but he couldn't.
He was a captive, taken along with Michael when the Wraith escaped that world—M8G-352. But that didn't matter. Colonel Sheppard and his team would come for him. Elizabeth wouldn't leave her Chief of Medicine in the hands of the Wraith, particularly one as vindictive as Michael. It just wouldn't happen. He simply needed to resist whatever twisted torture Michael had in mind and hang on long enough for his people to rescue him. He could do that. He'd endured a super-volcano, working alongside Wraith, having the Goa'uld plant a bomb on Atlantis, and any number of other, heart-wrenching things since his arrival in the Pegasus galaxy. If Rodney McKay could endure being a captive on one of these ships—in a cocoon, no less—Carson Beckett could survive being Michael's captive for a few days.
Content in his decision but infinitely uncomfortable in his position, Carson closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
oOo
Carson woke again to Michael coming into the room. He couldn't tell how long he'd been asleep, but the hum of the ship had changed. He turned his head, hoping Michael would give something away. He didn't. He simply motioned to two Wraith drones, who roughly removed Carson's restraints and dragged him to his feet. Heedless of his numb legs, they shoved him through the halls of the Wraith cruiser, jabbing stunners into his back when he stumbled. He had no choice but to go along with them, reminding himself that he'd be less injured if he went along with their plans.
Michael led them into a small closet and, after the drones pushed Carson inside, activated a control on the door. The light of a Wraith beam enveloped them, and Carson blinked in the sudden change in brightness. He was on a planet of some sort. The warehouses were three stories high and looked like something straight out of a 1930s tenement in New York City. Not that Carson had ever seen anything like that, but he'd read plenty of US history before joining the SGC. When he'd been younger, he'd debated between medical school and teaching history. At this exact moment, he wished he'd chosen to teach history. He'd be back on Earth, safely ensconced in a classroom in Glasgow, teaching Scottish children about the rich heritage of their country. Not pushed along by aliens who wanted nothing more than to suck the life out of him. Though, out of the two options, the second one had more adventure.
The inside of the tenement building showed dim light through grimy glass, and Carson stumbled over debris in his path. He'd finally regained feeling in his legs, however, and the shuffling pace had increased. Michael walked directly to an iron door complete with massive lock and opened it. The tiny cell was less inviting than the slab on the Wraith cruiser, and the drones shoved Carson inside. He barely kept his footing as the drones turned and walked away.
Michael stood in the doorway. "Get your rest, Dr. Beckett. You will need it."
The door slammed with a resounding clang.
Carson let out a deep breath and looked around. The cell had a single, high window, too small for him to climb through but just enough to let fresh air circulate into the room. A crude toilet and washbasin stood against the other end of the narrow room, with nothing more than a slab of wood hanging from the wall by chains, a single woolen blanket which looked suspiciously like the ones issued by the US military, and a set of prison garb. Carson glanced down at his Atlantis uniform, seeing the dirt marring the bright yellow panels on his jacket. He likely needed to preserve his jacket for as much time as possible. Who knew if Michael would give him more than he already had, and the nights might get cold?
Carson's mind went into survivor mode at that moment. Atlantis would come for him. He knew it. But he couldn't sit around and simply wait for them to show up. He'd have to be proactive about surviving.
Decision made, he unzipped his scuffed jacket and shrugged out of it. He still wore the gray and black t-shirt he'd had on back on that planet, and the fresh air on his arms actually felt somewhat good. Looking around, he found a place to hang the jacket where the chains for the wooden bed hooked into the wall, and he moved to the washbasin. The spigot turned with a squeak, and the water flowed orange at first. Carson let it continue to flow, seeing how it drained out the bottom of the basin and onto the floor to run down a drain. That could be a problem health-wise if not properly corrected. But he couldn't worry.
Finally, the residual rust in the waterlines cleared, and the water flowed clear. It was tepid at best, but Carson washed his face and arms, feeling better for cleaning the grime from his body. If his friends didn't show up soon, he'd insist on some sort of arrangement for bathing. Certainly Michael couldn't refuse that. He'd have to agree or risk Carson becoming ill from disease anyway.
Shaking his hands dry, Carson sat down on the bench and leaned his head against the back wall. He was a captive. Of Michael. Somehow, there was poetic justice in that. Even he could see it. Michael had been taken captive by Atlantis, and he'd simply repaid the debt. It didn't mean Carson would comply with Michael's wishes. When Michael had learned the truth, he'd not even complied. Why would Carson do any less?
Determined to wait this out, Carson let out a deep breath and enjoyed the fresh air flowing over his face.
oOo
Michael let him linger in that cell for two days. Carson kept time via the shift in sunlight through the window. He tried to stay awake that first day, but he eventually fell asleep. When he woke, the night had passed, and the morning sun hit him squarely in the face. He blinked and sat up, using some of the tepid water to wash the sleep from his eyes. After making himself as comfortable as possible, he started pacing. Then he sat. Then, he tried climbing to see through the window. When that didn't work, he tried to jump and grab the ledge. Just as he'd pulled himself up enough to see through—he suddenly thanked Sheppard for making him do pull-ups in the Atlantis gym—the door opened. He dropped back onto his feet, scraping his forearms on the way down, as a Wraith drone carried a bowl of unappetizing gruel into the cell.
Michael followed. "Dr. Beckett, I see you are making yourself at home."
Carson stared at him, his face hardening. Michael may have been civil in tone, but he was the enemy.
The Wraith shrugged. "It is no matter. You must eat, and I have provided food." He dropped a hunk of bread next to the bowl. "You will need your strength, Doctor."
Carson continued to stare.
Michael laughed. "Resist me all you want, Dr. Beckett. In time, you will do everything I ask."
No, he tried to say. But, for some reason, it wouldn't come out of his mouth.
Michael turned and left the room, locking the door from the outside. Carson remained in his corner, debating his options. He could try to rush them the next time they came, but that would likely result in his being stunned before he got very far. Or he could bide his time, look for an opening, and get the lay of the land. Either way, he'd need his strength.
Resigned to the food for now, he settled on the bench and used the bread to add flavor to the tasteless gruel. Some tepid water from the spigot washed it down, and he rinsed the scrapes on his arm. He hadn't got a glimpse outside, yet, but he would. Eventually. And, when he did, he'd make his escape.
oOo
The next day, Michael delivered Carson's meal with the warning that he'd better get dressed. Carson rolled his eyes and wolfed down the only meal he'd get that day. Today, the tasteless gruel seemed like a gourmet meal, and he finished it off while trying to preserve some of the bread for later that day. He failed miserably.
The Wraith drones returned, jabbing stunners into his ribs and herding him toward some sort of lab. It wasn't a Wraith-built facility, simply Wraith technology in an abandoned warehouse on an abandoned world. He enjoyed the short time he was outdoors and blinked the temporary sun-blindness from his eyes when he was shoved unceremoniously inside the lab. Michael stood in the middle of a bunch of equipment, including technology that looked vaguely Genii. For the first time in his life, Carson wished he'd never started working on Atlantis. He wouldn't have the expertise to work here. Of course, that meant Michael wouldn't keep him alive.
Michael nodded, and the drones left the room. "Dr. Beckett, welcome to your new lab."
"My new lab? Don't you mean your house of horrors?"
Michael laughed humorlessly. "Your people have such strange concepts, Dr. Beckett. But this is indeed your lab. And what more could you want?"
"I could think of a few things."
Michael simply looked at him for a long moment. "No matter. This is where you will work."
"On what?"
"Your retrovirus, of course." Michael walked around the lab, running his hand over the various equipment. "I have collected everything you might need to perfect your retrovirus."
"And what makes you think I'll help you with that? Especially considering. . . .?"
"Considering that you have used it on me multiple times?" Michael glared. "I want to use the retrovirus for something completely different, Dr. Beckett. I do not wish to simply convert Wraith into humans for feeding. I wish. . . ." He walked forward and stared into Carson's face. ". . .to combine Wraith and human DNA so that I might create an army that will destroy the Wraith."
"And after that?" Carson forced himself not to cringe back at Michael's horrible breath. Did these Wraith never hear of mouthwash? "No."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Carson met Michael's eyes. "I'm not about to give you the ability to dominate this galaxy. You'll have to kill me, first."
Michael grinned and laughed. "Resist all you want, Dr. Beckett. You will help me do this."
"No, I won't."
"We shall see." Michael left then, locking the door behind him.
Carson walked around the room, grateful for the room to stretch his legs. This room had cobwebs in the high corners and covering much of the furniture. But it seemed relatively clear of any kind of vermin. For a while, Carson simply walked. Enjoyed the sunlight and large area. Then, he looked over the equipment and shook his head. He couldn't do this. He couldn't create something that would be worse than the Wraith.
"As if that's possible," he whispered.
Resigned to his temporary fate, Carson Beckett walked over to a corner and sat down on the floor. Pulling up his knees, he propped his arms on them and simply waited.
~TBC