Relieved of his weapons and sitting awkwardly at gunpoint, Sheppard examined the wound in his leg. It was only now starting to throb, but it was a nasty one. Right through the upper leg. Had to have either struck bone or come close, and blood was flowing steadily from the wound.

He looked at Taggart, slowly moving one hand towards the pocket of his tactical vest. "I need to bandage this." Taggart nodded, keeping the gun aimed directly at Sheppard's chest. He tied the bandage as tightly as he dared, trying to slow the bleeding.

"Now. On your feet," ordered Taggart. One of his men advanced with a sadistic gleam in his eye, clearly eager to enforce the order. Unwilling to afford him the chance, Sheppard forced himself to his feet. For the first time he felt the pain of the wound, and he gritted his teeth, trying not to moan. Taggart jerked the gun. "Now. Back to the field generator."

The leg was nearly useless, but Sheppard forced himself forward. Any time he could kill staggering towards the generator and not getting beaten would be time for his team to mount a rescue. The pain was growing with every step, and there was a sickening numbness in his lower leg. He halted, realizing he was drenched in sweat. "Look – I'm gonna need a crutch of some sort." He pointed to a stout stick lying nearby.

Taggart looked at him with obvious irritation, but clearly recognized from the colonel's glazed expression that his weakness was genuine. He picked up the stick and placed it in Sheppard's left hand. "Do I need to warn you not to try using this as a weapon?' Sheppard shook his head and pressed doggedly forward. He didn't need to fake anything to keep the pace slow; each step was a feat of strength and endurance.

He collapsed at the base of the shock field generator, pale and shaking. He was sorry to have reached their destination, but his relief of not having to walk any further overshadowed the knowledge of the certain ordeal to come.

The hammer of a gun clicked close to his ear. "Since you were kind enough to steal our only means of operating this device, we're left with just one option. You carry the ancient gene. You will activate the generator and fire its field at Proculus."

"Or, what, you'll shoot me?" asked Sheppard, raising his eyebrows. "How many ancient-gene-carriers you got lying around this planet?"

The gun traced downward, its muzzle pressing lightly at the wound in his leg. "Not fatally," said Taggart. "Shall we start with another bullet to prove my determination, or would you like to do the sensible thing and power up the generator?"

Sheppard looked uneasily at the gun. "Let's go with the not shooting."

"Good choice." Taggart stepped back, motioning to one of his men to help Sheppard to his feet. He groaned at the pain in his crippled leg, but managed to stay upright by leaning his weight on the console. Stalling as long as he could, he placed his palms on the control screens and closed his eyes.

The mental disconnect involved in controlling the ancient device relieved some of his pain, and he rested momentarily before focusing on the task at hand. Proculus. The planet appeared in his vision, and he explored the capabilities of the lethal machine until he found what he was looking for. The device wasn't designed for communication, but a low-level energy pulse could be purposed as a low-tech transmitter. You are in danger. I will protect you for as long as I can, but -

The sharp report of a gun sounded, deafening him as the bullet grazed a searing line of pain along his ribs. Back to the here and now. He allowed himself to fall to the ground, and clutching the side of his chest, he looked steadily at Taggart. "Save the threats."

Taggart's man hefted the stick Sheppard had used as a cane, and Sheppard let his weakened body slump sideways, lying down as he closed his eyes. He didn't cry out as he was beaten; he was in shock and rapidly losing consciousness.


Sheppard had learned long ago to move with caution when regaining consciousness, so he didn't stir at first when the world started to drift back. It hurt. It usually did. His leg was throbbing horribly, and his whole body was chilled and aching. He was lying on a hard surface that wasn't doing his various injuries any favors, and his head hurt. He made a cautious attempt to move, and failed. He was tied down to the board, ropes biting into his limbs. He stopped moving, knowing the method of restraint didn't bode well for how he'd be treated once he was officially awake.

It was a waiting game now. Time to gather his thoughts, his strength, and his wits. Time to avoid thinking about what was to come. He steadied his breathing, and felt his heartbeat follow. He relaxed against the ropes, allowed his head to spin at will, and focused on the few parts of his body that didn't hurt as he imagined himself safe at home in Atlantis.

Footsteps approached, and something cold and hard was pressed against his neck. A split second later, his body convulsed and a painful shock forced a groan from his lips. "Ahh, so we're awake now."

Sheppard focused on breathing calmly, in and out. Torture was a mind game, a challenge, and fear was the surest way to lose. "Hi, there," he said, opening his eyes. "That was a hell of a greeting, what happened to 'nice to meet you, how are you today?'"

"I prefer to be direct," said the man standing above him. "My men saw your people take the fire control unit through the gate. They also saw the gate address. But it seems there's some sort of force field that prevents me from following. He held up a small object. "I assume this requires a code to deactivate the force field. What is it?"

Sheppard blinked "You going to torture me for it?"

Taggart gave him a dark smile. "I think you know the answer."

"I hate being tortured," muttered Sheppard. "Fine. The code is l4m3r-f00."

Taggart, completely missing the glint of mischief behind Sheppard's stoic expression, lost no time in entering the code. When it failed to work, he slammed a boot into Sheppard's ribs.

He took his time recovering, gasping for breath. Any way to drag this out, to delay each blow, was a way to minimize the damage his torturer would inflict and gain time for a rescue. When he knew Taggart was readying another kick, he spoke. "Oh, sorry. Try 1-pwned-y00."

Sheppard had just enough time to grin before the yet-again-foiled Taggart stomped down hard on his hand, and he felt the sickening snap of bone. The break didn't actually add much to the dull roar of pain from his injuries, but it made his stomach flip. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing again. In and out. It can be fixed. Shift your reality. He was in the infirmary, with Carson blathering on about something in that comforting little Scottish accent of his. The morphine would start working soon.

"Get him on the ship," ordered Taggart. "We can't wait around on this planet any longer, I'm sure jackass here has forces coming for him."

"I was hoping you wouldn't think of that," grumbled Sheppard.


Elizabeth was watching anxiously as the team returned. Ronon shook his head with a low growl. "He's been transported off-world. We didn't find him."

Rodney stared at the floor. "Carson found – a lot of blood."

"Aye," said the doctor. "Quite a frightening amount, actually. It it's his, he'll be needing surgery and blood transfusions soon, or he will die."

"Most – likely his," said Rodney, his face rigid to control the emotion he was holding back. "It was all over the control console of the field generator, and since I'm guessing they forced him to activate it-" Teyla stopped him with a gentle touch on his back.


"I can tell you are a brave man," said Taggart, kneeling beside Sheppard. Sheppard wasn't feeling particularly brave. A man could feel many things in his situation, but brave was never one of them. Determined, nauseated, dazed – not brave. He didn't reply.

Taggart aimed a small video camera at Sheppard. "I also know that human sympathy can be easier to exploit even than fear of pain. We'll record a little message for your friends, and see if they break before you do."

"Not likely," said Sheppard. "Unless you're after Teyla's tuttleroot soup recipe, or Rodney's-"


"Incoming wormhole!" shouted a technician from above. "We're receiving a video transmission from a ship."

Elizabeth Weir leaned her palms on the console. Several failed attempts to breach the gate with no IDC had been made, and she could only assume they had been made by Taggart's men. "Video only?" she asked. The tech nodded. "Very well. Let it through. View only, don't transmit anything."

She managed not to flinch at the sight, but the other team members didn't bother controlling their reactions. Their leader was bound, covered with his own blood, and unable to conceal the severe pain reflected in his eyes despite a clear determination to try.

Carson paled and closed his eyes. "Not again," he said, his voice breaking softly.


"I'll take one of two things," said Taggart, his voice calm. "The code from you, or the fire control unit from your friends. I'd prefer the control box, and I think that's what I'm most likely to get. They can send it through nice and easy, and I drop you off for them to find. You might even be alive when they do, if this doesn't drag on too long."

His attacker pressed what resembled a cattle prod deeply into the gunshot wound and pressed the button, recording Sheppard's valiant effort to reduce what should have been a scream down to an agonized moan. If his friends had to watch this, he was going to make damn sure it was as easy on them as possible. As soon as the pain receded enough for him to speak, he opened his eyes and looked directly into the camera, managing a small smile at those who would be watching. "Don't do it. Bastard'll probably steal the recipe and open restaurants all over the galaxy."

With familiarity with pain came the ability to cope with it. He disconnected from reality, and thought about every time he'd been rescued, and the love he felt for the people who always seemed to come for it when he needed it most. He thought about an honorable wraith who had hurt him beyond anything he could have imagined, yet gave him back his life in an act of brotherhood.

And when he couldn't ignore the pain, he imagined he was merely injured and his friends were racing to help. Simple injury, no matter how painful, was easier to cope with than torture. He was in the infirmary again. No matter how much he had suffered there, he'd always been safe, been cared for.

"Carson, help -"

"Be right there, lad. You just hold on now-"

Sheppard heard his own growls of agony as though they belonged to someone else, a someone else he felt very sorry for. Not for the first time in his life, he felt himself dying. The shock ended and he gasped for breath.

"You won't last much longer, Sheppard."

"Noticed that," Sheppard replied, thinking about blinking his eyes open and deciding against it. The gunshot wound had been a nasty one, and he was all too aware of lying in a growing pool of his own blood, his body failing as the wetness spread. Absent a rescue or at the very least some competent medical care, he would be dead soon.

"Just tell us the code, and this ends."

He managed a lazy smile. "Think we established it's ending pretty soon anyway." He'd chosen this line of work. He lived with the constant knowledge that his life was most likely to end early, violently, and most likely painfully. He didn't really have a problem with that; definitely not his first choice, but something he'd come to terms with a long time ago.

A kick slammed into the gunshot wound in his leg, and he gave a sharp howl of pain. "Hey, now!" he protested, mocking. "That wasn't nice."

"Tell me the code," repeated the monotone voice, low with menace.

Sheppard opened his eyes and looked directly at the man. "You know, I'm running out of creative ways to say no, and I'm getting kind of tired, too. So let's make me a deal. You stop bothering me with questions, and I take a nap while you torture me some more."

There was icy anger in his attacker's eyes, but defeat as well. The poor fellow didn't realize that once you'd been fed on by a wraith – there was nothing a mere human could do to match the pain and horror of that.

The world started to go black and cold, and Sheppard screamed in earnest. People being tortured often wanted to die, but he didn't. I love life, I love my friends. I don't want to go. It was over, his body was dead, and he was still howling. It all vanished in a blink, flashes of light and space surrounding him as he clenched his eyes shut against reality.