A/N - if you've been drumming your fingers waiting for the whump - yer 'tis! Enough with the scene setting, already! So, hold on to your hats, folks, it's going to be a whumpy ride… :-D
Reviews/feedback/concrit/pat on head or even a teensy little emoticon most welcome. Even days, weeks, months or years later... *flutters eyelashes/beats Shep clone to make him do puppy dog eyes* ...resistance is futile! :P
oooOOOooo
They were escorted none too gently into a vast, dimly-lit hall with familiar décor; it smacked wholly of Atlantis. The centerpiece of the hall, however, was a rough-hewn, rectangular wooden table, big enough to seat at least thirty people, forty at a pinch. No stain or polish was evident; it was left au naturel. Talk about a design faux pas, thought Rodney. Frank Lloyd Wright meets Chainsaw Chic, Ancienty meets Neander-
"McKay! Rodney! Sawdust! Potted plants! Remember?" Sheppard spat.
"Eh?"
Rodney looked around, and sniffed. The room smelled musty and sweat-tainted. It soon filled to capacity, like a bar on a Saturday night, and the 'patrons' draped themselves precariously over chairs and stools and inside booths, much like the crash positions in Airplane, an old movie they had accidently ended up watching only the night before. All because some mindless grunt had confused it with Snakes on a Plane, and no-one could be bothered getting up to change it out. Still, it was a blast from the past, he guessed.
All eyes homed in greedily on Sheppard. Oh, not again! What could it be this time? No, wait. He's the team leader. It's perfectly normal to stare at the team leader. They're just waiting for him to offer them goodies.
They were roughly ushered to their seats. Rodney sat down with relief, and reluctantly fought the urge to kick off his boots, and massage his aching feet through his sweaty socks. Ronon and Teyla cunningly managed to nab themselves seats nearest the door. They were both ready to bolt on Sheppard's mark. Sheppard ended up diagonally opposite Rodney, nearer the head of the table, furthest away from any means of escape. Divide and conquer, thought Rodney. Not good.
"Saw. Dust… " mouthed Sheppard.
"Eh?"
"Sawdust? Potted plants?" Sheppard hissed. He mimed a quick swig, then tossed the imaginary drink sideways onto the floor.
"Oh. Right. Yeahyeahyeah. Sawdust. Potted plants."
"Well, now. Here we are." Mulder or whatever his name was parked himself imperiously at the head of the table, then belched. The room fell quiet, as if Mulder had just called a meeting to order by rote. "What's it to be? You hand over your weapons, or - you hand over your weapons. Won't ask you twice."
"Yeah, I get it," Sheppard replied wearily. He gestured for his team to comply. Goons relieved them of their weapons, and piled them in front of Mulder. He was clearly quite taken with Sheppard's confiscated P90, and began to stroke it fondly, caressing its contours, his eyes never straying from Sheppard, who returned the stare.
A horse-faced blonde, perhaps Sandra, Mulder's wife, tiptoed in with a trayful of nibbles. With the blank expression of a jaded waitress, she offered said nibbles to everyone present, which by then was a very alert and guarded team, all the men of the village between fifteen and fifty, and a handful of women. Oh, and one scrawny, odd-looking boy who stood next to Mulder. All were either blond or sandy-haired, relieved only by the occasional salt-and-pepper coif. They were either dumpy, stocky or weedy. Yay. The elite.
Sandra slunk off, and returned with four heavy mugs. She handed a mug to Sheppard, with a coy giggle verging on a whinney. Rodney noticed that they were all grinning like loons, and pointing at them. No, at Sheppard. No, not good at all. Either Sandra's giggle was infectious or Sheppard was pulling the Kirk thing again or they were about to be the butt of a rather nasty joke. He glanced over to Sheppard, who was looking slightly pained. Sandra then dumped a mug in front of Rodney, and slid the other two mugs like a veteran bartender down the table towards Ronon and Teyla.
"Thanks. I think," said Rodney with a sniff.
"Offworlders!' declared Mulder, sweeping his arms in magnanimous gesture and grinning broadly. "We offer you a great prize. For each of your large weapons, we give you a barrel of our famous brew. For each of your smaller weapons, we give you a flagon. We can keep you supplied, and we expect to receive more weapons in return. You'll never have to be dry again. How does that sound?" The man sounded like a cheap game show host. His hands returned to his new lap pet, Sheppard's P90.
"No. Thanks all the same," Sheppard stated flatly, his hands clasped in front of him. He put on his best poker-face. Go, Sheppard.
"Drink." That sounded more like a threat than an invitation. "Won't ask you twice."
"Since you put it so nicely … " Sheppard leaned back, and took a lazy swig from his mug. "Say, this is good stuff!" He made a huge deal of appreciating the booze by toasting all present. "Ronon and Teyla - go back to the 'jumper and bring all our weapons and ordnance. It's the really big box, the one with the red cross on it." He tossed Ronon the GDO.
"On it," said Ronon with a wink, and he and Teyla bolted through the doorway.
Mulder signaled, and two of his men followed them out. "Jarren and Garf will be accompanying them, just to make sure they get there safely."
"Good thing. That box is heavy. They could use a little help."
Rodney caught a flicker of a smile on Sheppard's face. He suspected he hadn't swigged, or even sipped for that matter. Apart from the occasional beer, the man just wasn't a drinker. Rodney, however, found himself caressing his own mugful of hooch. The smell alone was enticing.
"Drink up. You wouldn't want to insult your hosts, now."
"Not much of a drinker," Sheppard ground out.
"You don't say. Hey, you!" Mulder wagged a forefinger at Rodney. "That goes for you, too."
"Thank you! Very hospitable of you, though some actual food might tide me over just as well." Rodney watched Sheppard mouth his name, followed by what he perceived to be yet another 'can it'. Rodney, however, craved sugar by now, and here it was in the form of alcohol. He took a nervous sip, then took a nervous swig. It would take a while for his body to metabolize the sugar in the alcohol, but in the meantime, he could enjoy a little euphoria. He told himself he'd earned it after that murderous trek.
Wow. The local brew was quite delectable and surprisingly smooth. It tingled his tongue. It warmed his throat. It packed a hefty kick. It made him think of Southern Comfort with a hint of coke. It was clear, too. You could spill it and never have to worry again about staining your sister's white living room carpet with splatters of red wine that wouldn't come out despite your best efforts at scrubbing with a damp facecloth or even those handy-dandy wet wipes she used on Madeline. He could do a roaring trade with this. Rodney knocked back an entire mugful, only to have it refilled by Sandra, or whatever her name was. Sheppard mouthed another word; rotgut.
Damn you, Sheppard, why do you always get to name things? I wanted to name it 'shlurm.'
Rodney went from buzzed to smashed in a heartbeat. Shlllurrrmmm… mmm…
And then it began. Mulder placed a pile of downturned photographs in front of Sheppard, anchoring them with a very imposing, very Ancienty, pear-shaped ceramic paperweight.
"Read," he said quietly.
Rodney saw two paperweights. Then again, he could see two Sheppards. So not good. He shook his head and forced his eyes to focus, blinking the while. The single paperweight was teal with a dusting of copper. The stem and obligatory jaunty leaf - also copper. Definitely Ancienty. Sheppard eyed it nonchalantly.
"Turn over the photographs." Maldar settled back in his chair, tilting it and rocking it on its back legs. He studied Sheppard intensely, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes betraying mild amusement. "Turn. Them. Over."
"Why." Sheppard's gruff tone made it sound like a statement.
"More to the point, why not? Just do it."
"I don't think so."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm here to talk and maybe trade, not reminisce."
"Ah! So, you already know what we want."
"Pretty much what the Genii and half the galaxy want."
"You. You match the description, and ol' Amfy spotted you offworld, on one of your do-gooder missions. He's a retired scout, don't you know, enjoying his retirement touring offworld taverns. He just happened to hit the motherlode." Mulder stood up and swaggered over to Sheppard, breathing fumes in his face. He flaunted his P90, waving it like a pompom, then twirling it like a baton. "We've been expecting you for some time."
A trap! We were set up! thought Rodney. His head was beginning to pound. The paperweight. What's with the paperweight? It's not even breezy!
"How do you know you have the right man? I could be anybody."
"Oh, come now. Don't take me for a fool. Faces can become a blur, but not in your case." Maldar very pointedly patted his own ears once, then tugged his own hair twice. "Even ol' Amfy could remember your picture, and that's saying something. Your picture. No-one else's. Just yours. We're not asking for your help."
"Then we're free to leave."
"No, you will never be free again. You belong to us."
"Like hell I do!" Sheppard shot up, flinging his seat aside.
Mulder's eyes grew furious. He nodded to his goons, who instantly jammed Sheppard back into his seat. Two twisted his left arm behind his back, the other two pulled his right arm forward, and banged it several times on the table. Sheppard clenched his right fist, and struggled to free himself. Mulder slammed the butt of Sheppard's own P90 against his forehead twice, opening a long, ragged gash. Sheppard stifled a groan through gritted teeth.
Rodney watched in horror as blood trickled down either side of his team leader's left eye, forming rivulets on his cheek and down the side of his nose. Sheppard sucked in his lips, either in pain or to avoid imbibing his own body fluid. Two men began punching his face, the third tried in vain to force his fist open. The fourth tried pressing and banging his face into the table, but still that stubborn fist would not open. Rodney suppressed the urge to peek through his fingers.
"Flip him over."
"Go. To. Hell!" Sheppard growled as he fought two more goons, who made short shrift of landing him on his back.
"Already there!" cried Mulder, and as two goons held Sheppard's head still, he poured a flagon of rotgut over his face. Sheppard thrashed, trying to avoid the downpour. Oh, god! He choked and spluttered, then swallowed several gulps in between struggling to catch his breath. There was no avoiding it. This was waterboarding. Only with alcohol. Was there even such a thing as boozeboarding? Rodney felt himself sink.
"Damn rotgut… looks like water… tastes like laced coke. You give this… to… your pregnant women? To your kids?"
Rodney watched through increasingly blurred vision, trying to keep himself as small and insignificant as possible. He watched through his fingers after all as Sheppard's face twitched and turned red as if with some internal battle he was clearly in grave danger of losing. His mouth quivered, and his neck muscles corded. Perhaps sensing Sheppard's imminent defeat, Mulder gestured for his goons to pull Sheppard's arms away from his body. Sheppard bucked and kicked, then drew his knees up with a groan as he received several vicious blows to his gut. Two more goons pinned his legs down.
Either Sheppard's guard had dropped or he'd been weakened, as his right fist was finally forced open. Mulder slammed the paperweight into Sheppard's palm. Mulder watched with glee just as Rodney watched in terror as Sheppard's eyes rolled and his eyelids fluttered. Sheppard was losing. Losing what?
Hold the damn thing, Sheppard. What's the big deal? You can always throw it afterwards! Rodney took another gulp. He didn't know what else to do.
The paperweight grew translucent, then began to glow from within, a soft pearlescent aqua. Rodney drained his mug. Then the paperweight slash ATA gene detector started screaming like a telepathic Lantian whale, and for a fleeting moment, Rodney was stone cold sober. The goons let go of Sheppard, and he rolled onto his front, slumped back into his seat, and rested his forehead on the table, panting.
"Noooo… " he cried, and he banged his head down, leaving a bloody smear on the wood.
oooOOOooo