A/N: Warning! Serious whumpage ahead. This chapter is rated 18+ for mature themes and descriptions of torture.

Thanks, everyone, for the lovely reviews. It makes my day to see those e-mail alerts in my inbox.

Chapter 8

A Night with the Jersey Devil

Carson woke to a raging thirst, a roaring headache and a throbbing ache deep in his bones. He tried and failed to remember a time he didn't hurt as much as he did now. Hell, even Michael hadn't hurt him this much, physically anyway. He curled his hand around the water bottle he didn't remember holding when he fell asleep. The few swallows left did little to quench the desert in his throat. He looked around, hopeful. Maybe his captors restocked his water. The room was barren; even the tray that held the meager supplies he'd been given was gone.

He shivered; his chill had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He felt that creepy crawly prickly sensation and knew the watcher was back. It was a childish gesture and more in tune with Colonel Sheppard's character than his own, but Carson waved a single finger on his right hand at the window. That brief gesture of defiance gave him small comfort, but he'd take anything he could get at this point.

Thirst tormented him. He ignored it until the torment became an ache and the scant moisture in his mouth dried to fur-coat-over-the-tongue consistency. He pushed himself to his feet until he achieved a more or less vertical position and slithered along the wall to the sink. The water quality hadn't improved during his nap. He let the tap run a bit; the water looked a little clearer, a little less like blood. He filled the bottle and drank deeply. The water tasted stale and metallic, a testament to the time it spent in corroded pipes. He refilled the bottle and slid down the wall until he was once again on the floor. He set the bottle next to him and wrapped his arms around his knees, pulled them against his chest and waited.

He didn't know what he was waiting for. He considered what he did know. Beaten, possibly drugged, if the foggy lethargy and quadruple vision were any indication, he tried to reason out why he'd been taken in the first place. So far, his captors hadn't made a single demand. It made no sense and thinking on it, seeking rationale in an irrational situation just made his head pound and his stomach swim. He sighed, closed his eyes and waited. Waited for the nausea to pass and the ache to dull. Waited for his captors to return. Waited for rescue. Carson was good at waiting; he'd had plenty of practice as Michael's prisoner.

This didn't seem much different, except he knew Rodney and Jennifer would be looking for him. He just hoped he hadn't been moved too far from Colorado Springs. He had no concept of time. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious the first time, or the second, or the third, for that matter. They'd taken his watch; he had no way to mark time. For all he knew, he'd only been here a few minutes, maybe a few hours. It could be days and he wouldn't know. Landry, the IOA, Stargate Command would be pissed if he didn't make it back to the SGC on time. If given the choice, he'd much rather face an angry IOA board than sit in this sterile boring room waiting for something, anything to happen.

The door clicked, a quiet 'snick' in the silence of the room. In the absence of sound it was as loud as a gunshot. Carson staggered to his feet, eyes wide with fear. He pressed himself against the wall, a dark smear on the dingy white as two beefy men stalked him. The fight was token resistance; he had neither the strength nor coordination to make a determined break for freedom, but he wasn't willing to sit compliantly in that damned chair either. One man twisted his arm painfully behind his back and force marched him across the floor to the chair. He spun, staggered and collapsed in the chair's metal embrace when the second man shoved him. Flex ties bound his wrists securely to the arms and once again, Carson found himself swallowing panic seasoned with fear.

He twisted his wrists; fought the bonds that held him securely. He inhaled deep shuddery breaths as he willed his heart to calm and he searched for those places of peace deep in his mind. He heard the snap of hard soled shoes on the tile as a third person approached. The heady scent of flowers and musk and something indefinable assaulted his nose in a sickly olfactory overload. A woman, then, wearing expensive perfume, his brain supplied helpfully. She laid a heavy hand on his shoulder; her fingers curled like talons into his flesh. He trembled under her touch; it held promise of pain and suffering and it chilled him deeper than the bucket of icy water ever could have done.

"Dr. Beckett." Her voice was cold steel on a wintry day as she leaned into his personal space and whispered against his ear. "We have much to discuss, you and I. You have secrets, many secrets, secrets I wish to know. Secrets I'll be paid very handsomely for...retrieving."

"I…I…don' know what ye're talking about." He swallowed against the knots that constricted his throat. "I don' know anything."

She leaned closer, her breath a warm tickle against his ear as her fingers tightened painfully in his shoulder. "Oh but I think you do know…many things. Things of great interest to the right people."

"Ye're wrong. I don' know anything. I'm just a medical doctor. I don' have secrets. At least not the kind ye think I have."

"You underestimate your value, Doctor." She straightened and the pressure on his shoulder was replaced by sharp claws that raked through his hair. He shuddered at her touch as much as her words. Michael said those very words to him so long ago. Nausea churned in his gut; if she kept touching him, he was going to vomit, hopefully on her.

"I…I…don'…" His voice trailed off as she stepped in front on him and ran a sharp-nailed finger down his face. Lydia Harper pressed her French manicured finger against his lips, silencing him. She grasped his chin tightly forcing his head up to meet her eyes. Her nails bit into his skin, little half moon dents on either side of his face. His eyes widened in recognition.

"Yes, you know many things, but we'll start with something easy. Tell me Dr. Beckett, for a man who's been dead for two years, how you manage to look so…lively and well preserved?"

Lydia removed her hand from his face and watched his eyes. He blinked, shock and fear written large over his features. He swallowed again and his eyes shifted from hers as he fumbled for an answer.

"It was an accident. The Air Force made a mistake. The man that was killed wasnae me; it was someone else. They misidentified the body. I…I spent two years as a prisoner. I only recently escaped…" his voice faded as she shook her head and pressed her finger against his lips.

"You're lying, Doctor."

He shook his head. "I'm not."

Lydia smiled, stepped back and nodded. Carson never saw the sledgehammer blow that knocked him sideways. Lydia's henchman had a fist harder than titanium and he put his full bodyweight, all 230 lbs of it, into the blow.

Stars exploded behind his eyes. White hot and brilliant, they flowed, blossomed, grew and died. He gasped, shallow panting through his mouth. Something warm and wet tickled the side of his head where it trailed down his face. He blinked tears of pain from his eyes and they mingled with the blood winding a crooked trail over his cheek.

Lydia's hand curled in his hair, pulling his head up to face her once again. "Now Dr. Beckett, listen very carefully. I know when you are lying. I don't like lying. It wastes my time and I don't like people who waste my time. Understood?"

"Aye" he gasped, his voice barely audible as he ground out the word through teeth clenched against the pain.

"Good. Now, tell me, how is it you look so healthy for a man who has been dead for two years."

"I…I…can't. I won'. I won' tell ye. Ye can beat me all ye want, but I won' tell."

Lydia stroked her fingers through his hair. He cringed as she caressed him. "I was so hoping you would be willing to do this the easy way. So be it. I gave you a chance. You've rejected it. You leave me with no other choice." She tightened her grip on his hair, released him and nodded.

The henchmen stepped up to the chair as she stepped back. Carson shrank against the chair, braced for a blow that never came. The henchmen cut the flex ties from his wrists, yanked him from the chair and stripped him of his jacket and sweater. They shoved him back in the chair and bound his wrists once again with the flex ties. He twisted, his eyes wide when they approached him, rubber tubing in hand.

"No, don' please. Don' do this. No!" His plea fell on deaf ears as one man stepped behind him and grabbed him in a headlock, meaty arm across his throat; heavy hand gripped in his hair. The other tied the tubing tightly around his bicep. Carson struggled until the arm around his throat choked him and black spots danced in front of his eyes.

Lydia held a small glass vial in her hand. Carson watched, hypnotized and horrified and powerless to escape. "You can stop this, you know. Just tell me what I want to know and we can dispense with all of this." Lydia gestured expansively with the syringe. "It's your call, Doctor."

"I can't" he whispered.

"Then you leave me no choice." She nodded at the henchmen. They tightened their grip on him, pinning him immobile against the chair. Lydia slipped the needle easily in the vein in the crook of his arm. Liquid fire burned up his arm as the pale amber-colored drug entered his vein. His face twisted with pain as he fought the onslaught.

"What ha'e ye done to me? God please, what did ye give me?" He panted as the fire spread.

"It's my own special cocktail. I use a mix of drugs. This one contains an extract from a plant similar to stinging nettle, my own personal touch, that's the burning sensation, though it will dissipate in a few hours. Until then, the effects can be quite…unpleasant. It also contains a blend of sodium pentothal, scopolamine and just a touch of lysergic acid. I find the results to be quite…intriguing, although I doubt many of my test subjects would see it that way. You, as a doctor, have a unique knowledge of these drugs, so I think I'll skip the boring what-to-expect lecture. Anyway, it will be much more interesting just to watch you as the serum takes effect."

Lydia smiled at Carson, and stroked her hand through his hair once again. She tightened her grip, jerked his head back, and forced him to meet her eyes. "You really should have told me what I wanted to know. I don't know how many treatments your body can stand, Doctor."

Lydia released him, wiped her hands on a towel as if cleaning something foul from them. She nodded at her henchmen. "Clear the room. Give him ten minutes and cut him free."

Carson listened to the snap-click of her shoes as she strode from the room. The fire in his arm matured, burned across his shoulders and chest. It ate away his self control, consumed his willpower. It bled through his veins, spilled into his flesh and settled in his bones. It left him an empty vessel, ripe for the fear that followed his loss of discipline. The fear filled him, dragged him to the depths of agony he'd never experienced. Not even Michael had hurt him so badly and oh God, he hurt, more than he ever thought possible. He rode the waves of pain as they burned through him; squeezed his eyes tight against the fire. The light burned him, blended with the drug in his veins, and consumed him with its hot breath until there was nothing but the pain.

He didn't feel the henchmen cut him free of the chair; didn't notice them toss him to the floor like a pile of discarded rags. Carson's world was hot white pain searing him from the inside out. He rolled on the floor, curled in on himself and shook with it. None of it made sense. "How could Lydia have known he lied?" It wasn't the best tale, but it was the one the SGC had agreed upon and he'd learned enough of it to tell it convincingly. So he thought. He writhed and panted, riding out the pain the only way he could. He refused to scream, bit back the cries in his throat until he tasted blood. He would deny her that satisfaction, the sound of his pain echoing through the room. He fought to hold onto his sanity, his identity. He fought for himself, his friends. He fought for something, anything to believe in, to anchor him against the unrelenting onslaught. "Rodney, hurry. Please God, hurry. I don't think I have much time." He prayed silently, curled on his side, tears leaking from his tightly clenched eyes.

۞۞۞