Many thanks to shepsgirl72, who clued me in about how to moderate guest/anon reviews. Good to know. Cheers, missus! So now said reviews will show up sooner, since I just have to give a thumbs up/down rather than let them fester for however many days in cyberlimbo. I've never deleted a review yet, so once I get a notification in my inbox, I shall let those reviews post. *does 'totes adorbs' Wraith queen voice*All of them! LOL! Anyway, on with the whump fest! And you all thought Sheppard was done being whumped? Bwah! Not in my whumpy paws, he isn't! XD
Oh, and ch 7 was growing too long, so I spliced it in twain. Well, not precisely in twain, but here's the first chunk of said splice as a bonus chapter in honor of Hump Day. Yeah. The rest will be turning up on Sat as promised. Enjoy! XD
...
He woke up flat on his back to the hangover from Hell and beyond, and endless prods to a now aching left shoulder. He guessed it was some kind of wake up call, one to which he clearly hadn't responded fast enough since his shoulder hurt like there was some deep bruising already. But where was he? Who was that talking at him? Poking him? What was so urgent that he couldn't be left to wallow in his misery? Sleep it off?
His left leg was killing him. Felt like someone was sawing it off. No! He steeled himself to sit up, fight them off, reach down, feel his leg; save it!
He scrabbled his left hand against his leg as far as he could reach. It was splinted. To his right leg. Great. It was broken then, but that was better than the alternative. He sank back into his pillow, feeling spent.
"State your name." A gravely male voice. Forceful. Cold. This dude meant business. Uh oh.
"Whuh?" He swallowed hard, and peeled open one sticky eye only to look up at the unsteady vision of a broad set, redheaded man with a heavily pockmarked face. He wore some blue-gray, button-down uniform with huge lapels that looked woolen and itchy as hell. Reminded him of... someone. Someone bad.
"I repeat. State your name."
"I – don't recall." And he really didn't. He was too busy hurting all over. Every part of him especially his head and leg throbbed in unison with his rapidly beating heart. Felt like his eyeballs were being gouged out over and over again. With a melon baller. That or a backhoe.
"Give a name, boy, and we will consider treating your injuries and rampant sickness."
He ran a shaky hand across his forehead and into his hairline. It came away bloody. Sweat prickled his palms, and ran into his eyes and down his the sides of his nose and onto whatever passed for a pillow. He was pouring sweat. His entire body was soaking wet by the tacky feel of the sheet covering him to his waist, and the damp feel of whatever it was he was lying on. Some kind of prison cot? Yeah, most like. The thing creaked with every movement, and springs jabbed his back, adding to his discomfort. This sucked. Ass.
The gruff dude poked him in his ribs with... a baton. Back to business then. At least his ribs didn't hurt. Nothing broken there – for a change? So, who was he? He better come up with something. All this man wanted was a name. For now. He fished for one.
Think...
"Fair dues," he whispered hoarsely.
Think!
"Uhm, name's, uh... Indiana Jones. Indy for short," he croaked out. Good enough. It was all he could think of, but was it right? Sounded about right, though the frantic churning in his gut told him a different story. "I'd appreciate any help you can give me. Thanks." He flashed the winningest, shit-eatingest smile he could drum up, though he couldn't recall if it ever worked on anyone. Not that that ever stopped him from trying. Or so he thought.
"Neither your appreciation nor your gratitude have any place here, boy. And you can wipe that smile from your face." The gruff dude scanned him up and down, then assumed a knowing look. "Did some lovelorn slave wench assist you?"
"I don't understand... your line of questioning." Uh oh. This was rapidly heading south. He brought out the big guns. Puppy dog eyes. Not that he remembered if that ever worked for him either, but it was worth a shot. He guessed it never stopped him before.
"In your escape. From your previous owner. No matter. You bear no owner mark we acknowledge here on the island. Decided to swim for it, did you?"
He could hear derision in the man's voice. He guessed he wasn't the only one to supposedly dare swim for it only to fall into the wrong hands.
"Owner mark? Whuh? I'm a free man, chief," he gruffed out. He shifted uncomfortably on his cot, exacerbating his injuries. He needed a moment to take stock of himself, but this dude was giving him no quarter. He squirmed away from the sharp springs digging into his back, ass and the backs of his legs, but kept a wary eye on his captor.
"I sorely doubt that. You bear multiple telltale marks, boy. Whip marks. Burn marks. Slash marks. Stab marks. Abrasions about your wrists and ankles. Owner marks all. All the hallmarks of a life of slavery. Which one is your current owner mark? Is it the one about your right ear? Well?"
He was prompted into spilling by a sharp poke in his presenting left shin, which merely set off a wave of agony. He writhed on the cot, gripping its frame for dear life.
"What about the one on your chest, boy? There is a small, perfectly round pocked scar on your right upper arm, though it is flesh colored." The man moved closer, and prodded him with a baton right on that scar. Funnily enough, it didn't hurt him, though he braced himself for another onslaught of pain. From – pretty much all over.
"This is not a mark I have seen before. Is that the most recent, perchance? A precursor to a tattoo? We would return you, of course, per the law of the land, but we know not of any of these marks on Blerry Bluff, since none is registered with us. We are too insignificant for such attention to detail. Are you from Skojo City? Odd customs there. Not our ways. The old ways. We mark in a way that we can sell on, unlike the uppity inner islanders or the fancy big islanders, who mark their slaves permanently."
Slave?! You got to be shitting me!
He let go the frame, and put a shaky hand to his right ear, and felt a long, thin welt. It was still sore from... from what? He'd been badly beaten recently that was pretty much a given. But - by whom? He raised both hands to his face, and turned them over and over before his eyes. His wrists looked like he'd fought restraints.
His right hand flew to his chest, and he could feel a scar just above his sternum. He ran his hands up and down his bare arms. There really was a round pock mark on his upper left arm alongside two long grazes which were both, what, only a flesh wound? He frowned. Where had all these marks come from? Indy gulped. He was a real mess. But no way was he ever a slave. Although he recalled pretty much close to nothing much about himself, he knew at least that would never fly with him. And why did he keep calling him boy? The dude was barely a decade older than him.
"I don't... remember." He didn't want to remember. He just knew remembering would hurt. Heck, everything hurt. Especially his chest from probable congestion, and his right arm was on fire. His left leg throbbed. His back felt itchy and tender. He reached his left arm to over his right shoulder, his fingers finding purchase on abused skin. He felt long, thin, raised scabs verging on scars. In rows. As far as he could reach. How the hell did that happen? And why? What was he blocking out? Whatever it was, it had to be monumental.
He could feel seemingly endless scars from his shoulder blades to his collar bone. He traced his fingers along two longer ones. They reached right across his collar bone to his navel. He felt several raised, almost parallel lines along both flanks. Holy crap!
He could hear the steady whooshing sound of a whip descending time and time again against his bare back, some strikes reaching his chest and belly, even his face, and saw in his mind's eye another heavy-set man and a tiny, shapely yet muscular woman taking it in turns to flog him senseless. That couldn't be real. Could it? Something told him it was.
They both had brown eyes. His were cold, hers were warm. Maybe she hadn't wanted to beat him quite so hard. Maybe his punishment hadn't quite fit the crime. But... then he'd been punished further. By two men he might have once trusted but not any more. Never again.
So, he'd been burned then stabbed after a flogging. He felt his eyes well up. What had he done? Then someone else he had once trusted with his life time and time again had half-healed him only to half-drown him. Waterboard him. Then another someone he'd misguidedly placed his trust in dumped him here, wherever here was.
There was no-one here for him, but he was pretty sure there was no-one out there for him either, no-one who cared if he lived or died. Except maybe... a brother? He had a brother? Davy? Davy. Jones. Davy Jones. Indy and Davy. That sounded about right, too. The names went together. Matchy-matchy. He had a brother named Davy. He ordered himself to focus.
"Then I claim you per salvage rights."
"Whuh?" He couldn't think straight, he was so sick. One thing was for sure - this was just not right. John squirmed.
"Until or unless we locate this Master Chownz of yours. You undoubtedly bear your owner's name."
"You found me? Where?" He struggled to keep the plea out of his voice.
"A local ne're-do-well found you washed up on the beach. I paid him off. You are now the property of Sheriff Seb Blerrybuck of Blerry Bluff, namely me." The gruff dude thumbed towards his chest. "Welcome to our island, Indiana Blerrybuck. Indy. Yes, that name will suffice. Sounds somewhat Skojii. Unlike Chownz. Some offworlder? No matter. You will be tended first then marked outer island style. And Indy Boy, you will find I am firm but fair. Do not irk me." The man glared, then turned on his booted heel.
Indy declined to thank his so-called new owner as the man slammed the cell door shut. The clanking sound reverberated through the cot frame all the way to his broken leg, forcing him to clutch it at the knee. He grimaced as fierce shock waves of pain shot up his leg and into his spine, taking residence in the back of his neck, radiating into his skull.
He struggled not to rub his leg. Not yet. It had to heal some first. Instead he rubbed the back of his head, scratched his scalp vigorously, and mouthed this new name he was supposed to use.
Indiana Blerrybuck.
Indy Boy.
No.
It was all wrong.
He was Indiana Jones. He had a brother called Davy. Who had a locker? At the bottom of the sea? He'd almost drowned down there, tangled up in seaweed. Why could he remember nothing else? Did he come from across the sea? Had he been thrown overboard? Had he really taken a swim for it? Where was he from?
He half-remembered being ripped out of a screeching block of hollowed-out metal only to slam into a brick wall, snapping his left leg. The brick wall had yielded, morphing into swirls and eddies of water. He could still taste salt. Smell it. He looked himself over. He was encrusted with it. He closed his eyes, but instantly regretted that one small move.
He felt himself being tossed and turned, desperate to grasp his leg and stop it from twirling around in counterpoint to the rest of him, until one arm found purchase on a rock, lost purchase, and found purchase again on a fistful of seaweed. It, too, betrayed him, tried to ensnare him, grip him, tug him under, and he fought against a riptide with his three good limbs. He finally tore himself free of it only to succumb to exhaustion.
The incoming tide had nudged him further and further along a stretch of shoreline, flipping him over and over against abrasive sand and seashells with every crashing wave. He had fought against it at first, but he then snatched at the air and, finding he could breathe, he allowed it to happen, allowed the tide to take him, until it went out, leaving him half-buried. So the sheriff wasn't lying to him. He really had washed up on a beach. Somewhere. Somehow.
This sucked ass and then some. Indy closed his eyes, threw his left arm over his face in an abortive attempt to stifle tears. He was spent. Sick. For want of a better course of action, he tried to reach for the thin woolen blanket draped at the end of the cot, to pull it up and over his trembling body, but even moving one inch set his bones jangling. He gave up. Instead he yanked the thin sheet up further since it was still within his grasp. He tucked it under his armpits, braced his arms against the edges of the cot to steady himself, closed his eyes, and promptly succumbed to a fitful sleep.
...
Indy jerked awake as something cold hit his torso.
What gives?
He made to grab his leg again, to save it, keep on saving it, save it until he couldn't save it any further, but his fumbling hands were slapped down, which only made him fight all the more, however feeble he was in his current condition.
"Save... m'leg... Pl'se... "
"Desist, boy. I am here to help."
He felt someone dab at his injuries with a wet cloth soaked in something smelling kind of medicinal if not borderline offensive. Whoever it was also attempted to pour something down his throat. He shied away from that, batting a hand away with little success. The same someone slapped his cheek, and pinned his hands down with ease, which scared him shitless. He couldn't remember being this weak before. Then again, he couldn't remember, period.
Whoever it was slid a hand around the back of his neck, ran it up into his hairline, gripped his head just above the nape including a fistful of hair, and raised it off the pillow, shoving his head forward as if it belonged to them and not to him. He balked at that, resented it, but the choice wasn't his just now. He was too weak to resist, too weak to protest. Someone, maybe the same someone, tucked an extra pillow behind his head to prop him up. He knew that feeling of old. Still, it sent a jolt along his bum leg, and pulled at taut, lingering scabs on his back. Gah!
He prized open his eyelids using facial muscles he didn't know he had, wishing he had matchsticks to prop them open or could even use his fingers to part them – and hoped to see a familiar face, perhaps even someone who gave a damn about him, someone who would nurse him back to health.
Nope. No dice. He stared into the baggy, pale blue eyes of an old, gray-haired woman, searching her features for some semblance of familiarity. He didn't recognize her, though she reminded him of the aged version of a cold-eyed harpy he once met, who wore tight-fitting, dark brown leather and high heels. That one once had him beaten bloody with his hands tied behind his back, and had threatened to kill him several times. So what else was new?
He was a stranger in a strange land. He was even a stranger in his own body. In his own mind.
"No, boy, you know me not, but you will know me well before long. You may call me Ettifah," she declared in a grating, high-pitched, granny lady voice.
Was he always that readable?
"Now drink this. It will help you. In what was and what is yet to be."
That sounded ominous. Still, he was thirsty, if the old sports sock and twisted shoe insert lining his mouth and throat were anything to go by. And this Ettifah seemed like the real deal. A nice li'l ol' healer lady. Okay, maybe not so nice. She'd already slapped him even though he lay on his sickbed, pretty much battered, weak and drained, not to mention in some serious pain. And she'd pulled his hair, though that was probably inadvertently. He guessed he must've looked pretty bad, too, because every time he winced and grimaced, this Ettifah let out a gasp.
He couldn't get the image of that lascivious harpy out of his mind. Was she a previous owner? He could barely move by himself, so whichever way he was completely at this old woman's mercy. He had to trust someone. For want of a better course of action given his current energy level, he drank willingly from the flask she proffered him. It was warm water laced with something bitter tasting. He needed two hands to hold it, like a little kid. Sheesh.
"Guess I need a sippy cup," he quipped. She merely stared at him.
He couldn't stop his full-body shaking, and spilled some of the supposed medicinal drink onto his chest. It made him shiver. She instantly dabbed his chest for him with a rag, pausing wide-eyed over a scar there, then left the rag on the headboard. He eyed the rag, taking care not to turn his head too sharply. Okay. It was too skimpy to be a loincloth. He hoped someone would leave him something to cover his dignity. He peeked under the blanket. He was wearing something. Boxers. Yeah, boxers. His boxers. Blue and white striped ones. They seemed familiar. Comfortable. He stared at them long and hard, hoping to remember what else he normally wore. He found himself fumbling against his sternum, then checking his right wrist. There was nothing there bar numb keloid scars on both counts. Indy felt a wave of disappointment and an overwhelming sense of loss.
...
The pink light of dawn filtering through his eyelids awoke a tight sensation in his chest and head, and he longed to drift back to sleep, to avoid reacquainting himself with his uncooperative body. One reason was due to some prolonged sickness and the fact he hadn't yet coughed up any overnight build-up of phlegm, the other – a rough metal collar. He pushed himself upright to aid his breathing, hunched over, coughed up into the rag that'd been left for him whether it was a loincloth or not, then sank back down, already exhausted even though his day had barely even begun. He ran his fingers around the entire expanse of the collar. It was seamless. Crap.
This was it then. He was a slave. With memory loss. And like the man said, given the nature of his injuries, he had always been a slave. An abused one at that. Seemed everyone wanted to beat him or shoot him or whip him or stab him or burn him or smack him around at one time or another. He guessed he had that effect. Or stun him. He had the strangest feeling that never got old.
It made him wonder about Davy. Who owned his brother? Had they been owned together? Was there maybe even a chance that Davy was a free man?
He'd co-operate with his current owner for now, then go find Davy when he got the chance, though he couldn't quite see his brother's face in his mind's eye. He'd have to check his own face in a mirror, window or puddle first, and transpose that image onto his idea of who the heck Davy was, how he might look. It gave him hope, something or someone to latch onto. He couldn't recall having any other family left. In fact, he couldn't recall having anyone.
He'd somehow have to find out what clothing he wore when he was washed ashore, and whether any other items had washed up with him. Try to work out where the hell he came from, either to go back there or possibly even avoid the place. He'd make cautious, cloak-and-dagger inquiries about Indy and Davy Jones. He just had to stay positive. At least his broken leg had been slapped in some kind of cast while he was out of it, and someone had wrapped a bandage around his head.
Indy vowed to recover, co-operate, then escape. Make a run for it to the nearest... 'gate? Yeah, 'gate! He'd leave the details of any foolhardy plan on the back burner till he could think straight. Just maybe his memory would come back. In the meantime, he mouthed his name once more. Indy. It didn't quite fit. Maybe he was Han.
"So long, Indy! It's Davy Jones's locker for you!"
Whuh? No! That wasn't his name! It was a trick! His name was... his name was... Reed Richards? Joe Shmoe? Joe Sixpack? Shep?
- think, John, think! –
John?!
Stupid!
So he was John. John What? John... Watt? John Watt. It was all he had to go by, but it was good enough for now. John stifled a telltale sob of relief, sucking in his dry lips, his tongue running over cracks and abrasions there, then allowed himself the sleep of healing, praying he would still remember his whole name come sun-up.
His last thoughts were of not having a brother called Davy after all.
...
