The Greater Good

By Ann3

Writer's Note: Awww, yes, a bit of a tearjerker, wasn't it, that last chapter...? And you want a bit of 'Beckett-bending' too now, I see. Okay, then, you sadistic bunch, just in time for the weekend - it's whumpage time ...!

Chapter Three

Fox In The Henhouse

They'd prayed for a miracle. John Sheppard's tight, bitter voice told them they weren't going to get it.

"Damn...! Atlantis, there's too many of 'em... I hate to say it, Elizabeth, but we – we just can't hold them..."

"Understood, John... do your best, we'll give you all the help we can..."

Breaking the connection, Elizabeth closed her eyes, allowing herself a brief, nerve-steadying breath. For John Sheppard to sound as rattled as this... well, bad didn't come remotely close to covering it.

She'd expected it, of course, but... by God, for the last three hours, Atlantis had been ripped apart.

She was shaking again now, as yet another volley of explosions and weapons fire raked her defences. And how truly ironic it was, that her city's survival now rested on this brutal attack's terrified target.

There was no time to reflect on that irony, though, as Elizabeth wearily re-activated her headset – grateful, astonished, but most of all proud as a familiar, softly determined brogue came through its ear-piece.

"I – I heard, Elizabeth... an' whatever happens, lass, I'll – I'll do right by ye..."

"I know you will, Carson..." Elizabeth replied just as softly, allowing herself just a trace of a smile – letting her mind create the reassuring picture of her CMO in the weaposns control chair, safely guarded and ready to fight.

Seconds later, that mental comfort became preciously real as Atlantis' defences thundered to life. Above the noise and crashing chaos around her, Elizabeth even heard a whoop of delighted relief – letting her own betray itself, in heartfelt pride, as yet another salvo roared from her city's heart.

"Yes, Carson...! Yes...! Keep going, Carson, you can do this... I know you can do this..."

Even if those words had come through his headset, Carson was in no fit state to appreciate them. Now completely under the Ancient chair's control, his eyes were screwed shut against its power. His head was already reeling from the agonising demands of his efforts.

There was something else, though, in his mind now. Something that made Carson's throat tighten in helpless terror, his blood turn to ice. A presence. A whispering, chillingly menacing voice tugging at his consciousness – ruthlessly demanding that he obey it.

'Stop resisting us, Dr Beckett... stop resisting me... your weapons cannot stop us... stop firing them...'

Already in agony from its connection to the chair, Carson's mind reeled from this brutal intrusion – a strangled sob escaping him as its defences finally buckled, allowing that intruder to gloat at its weakness.

'Yes, doctor, you will submit... you really should know better, doctor, than to try and defy me... I can, and will, make you suffer for your defiance... you cannot stop me, you have neither the strength nor the courage... your mind is mine now, doctor, and you will submit...!'

Pain, then - a raw, unrelenting agony that was every bit as brutal, every bit as excruciating, as it had been before.

A few seconds of lulling respite, then back it came again - so deep, so penetrating, so unbearably intense, that Carson screamed then, his body jerking in protest as his resistance was ripped brutally away from him.

The chair's soft, almost comforting humming beneath him sputtered, faltered, then stilled. A terrifying, unmistakeable whine took its place. Deep in a now brutally controlled mind, that voice taunted him once more, revelling in its victory.

'Yes, Dr Beckett... yes, I'm coming for you... I'm coming now... and as for your pathetic protection... well...'

Raw energy sizzled the air around him. A yelling, falling body hit the floor. Then another. Another. Three more.

Then silence. Pure terror. His guardians were gone. He was completely unprotected.

Crying out in futile protest, Carson then felt that intruder in his mind wrench his eyes open again – forcing them to meet a living nightmare of reptilian green slits and a callously triumphant smile.

Briefly studying what remained of his protectors, those eyes then zeroed back onto their target – relentless in their hold, brutally clear in their intent, even as that gloating smile gleefully widened.

Every fibre of Carson's being was screaming at him, now, to escape this deadly threat against him.

'Move...! For God's sake, move...! Get away from him... for God's sake, get away...!'

He just couldn't do it, though. Even as he sobbed in helpless protest, Carson simply could not move.

His consciousness, his will to resist, his very soul itself, was being pulled ruthless away from him – soaked up into the unwavering eyes of an enemy who, yet again, held his life completely at its mercy.

By the time his captor reached him, he lay still and silent, his eyes still open but now totally blank – showing no reaction, not even blinking, as inhuman fingers slowly unzipped the front of his shirt. Its edges were then roughly torn the rest of the way open, exposing the bare, heaving chest beneath.

Taloned fingers lazily explored him. Stroked his shoulders. Caressed his chest. Pressed down, ever more agonisingly, onto his stomach.

Those fingers probed, pushed, fondled. Yet still Carson Beckett couldn't move a muscle to stop it, offer any form of resistance to this deliberately debasing violation of his body. All he could do was stare helplessly upwards, into eyes that now gleamed with the feral horror to come

"Well, Dr Beckett..." Michael said at last, savouring every moment of this truly delicious control – his smile widening in triumph as his fingers re-took Carson's temples into a vice-tight, inescapable grip.

"Here we are again, doctor... and, just as before, you're exactly what I need..."