A/N: Let me just say right now that there is a God and he loves me! Let me explain... I go to write the next bit of this story last night, opening the file and scrolling down to where i had left off and the pages stop at 17...mind you i've written 49 pages so far. I nearly fainted last night to see that over half of the story had been deleted. I was able to recover 10 pages from my flashdrive and another few from this site but I had still lost enough to make me wanna cry. But no! i thought to myself, i'd try a few tricks to see if i could find my missing pages. Long story short, i found them... And i said all of that just to say that this early chapter is in celebration of me finding the missing pages to my story! Enjoy!


oOo

It was day seven.

By now, Sheppard was ready to get out of the prison and away from the guards. He didn't care where they took him as long as he was out of here. He wanted out so bad. The physical torture was bad enough but then you add the other smaller things like the cramped cell, the cold temperatures, and the putrid smell of human waste… These prisons were created for one thing; to thoroughly punish a criminal. They were designed to make a man as uncomfortable as possible. And they were very successful…

Somewhere, a door clanged shut. John could hear footsteps. They were coming for him…or at least he hoped they were. Every second, the footsteps grew louder. Lots of footsteps, several guards. Flashes of meaty fists, cold hard batons, and long coiled whips suddenly bombarded Johns mind. He could feel his skin splitting with each lash. He could hear bones cracking under heavy blows. He could smell his own blood in the air, the bitter odor mixing with the foul stench of urine and vomit to burn his nostrils and churn the fluids in his stomach. So fresh were the memories in his mind that they made him whimper and try to curl further into himself. He felt delirious…infection most likely. There was an icy chill to his bones that sharply contrasted the warmth that drifted off his skin.

Yup…definitely fever. Big surprise there. Infection was inevitable in a cesspool like this but he honestly didn't think it would manifest so soon. All the more reason for the despair that gripped his heart in the past few days.

Two sets of heavy boots stopped in front of John's cage. John could only stare at the boots, his mind suddenly blank. The bars that obstructed a complete view of the boots moved away and still John could only stare at the black clad feet. His wished he had boots... His body was lifted up and carried away and still John could only stare at the boots, which now moved along the ground. Those boots had spent many hours kicking the crap out of him. Those boots had tromped on his feet, breaking several bones in the process.

And then he was dumped unceremoniously on the ground. A bucket of cold water was splashed over his fevered body, forcing a small amount of awareness back into his brain. Despite that awareness, there was still a thick cloak of illness firmly wrapped around his mind. Someone was speaking to him, no doubt offering him some more official mumbo jumbo crap. He couldn't care less at this point.

He was hefted upright again. His head lolled to one side. Two hands gripped his head firmly and held it so that his eyes looked into those of a hard faced man. Then a woman stepped into view. John hated his woman. When male guards tortured another male, they normally avoided certain areas. It was a guy thing. Some last shred of respect between the captive and his tormenter. But a man couldn't be certain when a woman walked in to do the torturing. Especially this woman. Her goal was to make him scream with pain. And she exactly where to hit…

She examined him with a critical yet indifferent eye then pulled a syringe type device into view. John's eyes narrowed at the sight of it. Then he gave her a delusional and sarcastic grin that was far from amused.

"A parting gift?" He slurred. The woman's eyebrows arched and she fixed him with a cold glare. In response to his inquiry, she simple jabbed the needle into his neck. John gasped at the pain. And then it felt like he had been pumped full of a concentrated form of caffeine. A jittery energy filled his limbs. John's muscles started to shake.

"W-what…the crap?" He stuttered. The hazy fog that had seemed to cover his eyes was now replaced with something else…like he put on a pair of glasses that were for a farsighted person. It had to have been some sort of stimulant. Everything was painfully, unnaturally, clear…at least as far as sight went. His head still felt like it was stuffed with soggy cotton which made for a very strange combination of feelings.

They pushed him forward and, to his surprise and amazement, he was able to stay on his own two feet as he was herded down the hall. He stumbled into an elevator type contraption. John couldn't grasp what was happening to him. Whatever they pumped into his system was screwing with his brain. Things kept skipping like a scratched DVD. One second his feet were scrapping against the rough floor then the next second he was in a fairly well lit elevator. It was as if he kept blacking out for mere seconds at a time. But pain was still a constant. It seemed to be the only thing that was. His constant pain was ironic in a twisted, evil sort of way.

John blinked and suddenly realized that he was face down on the ground. Now how did he get there? A thin smooth square plastic thing somehow worked its way under his palm and he grasped it out of curiosity more than anything else. And then he was out the door and in a fast moving vehicle. His pain had increased somewhere along the line and it made him groan miserably. A guard shoved him and mumbled something that sounded like 'be quiet', though he couldn't be sure. Johns head lolled backward and he watched with a mild, drug induced interest as they descended into the bowels of the city.

Quite suddenly, all natural light blinked out and was replaced by artificial light. It seemed as though the sun had set and John wondered if he had simply passed out and it was indeed nighttime. It was curious to be sure. The setting down here reminded him of Blade Runner…or something like that.

The lights whizzed by him, seeming to dance before his eyes. But it was when he started seeing Harrison Ford out of the corner of his eye that John realized that the drug was seriously messing with his mind.

"Crap…"He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut, not seeing the curious glance from the nearby guard.

oOo

Two sharp eyes peered out from the shadows of the narrow alleyway. They watched as the government vehicle made its way through the packed noontime crowds. It was a prison transport vehicle. It was transporting a dangerous prisoner by the looks of the man in the back. They only used that type of drug when moving a dangerous prisoner. The assassin perhaps? He had been told that they were moving him today. No one knew what the man looked like or his name or anything. But he knew where they would come to take the man to the lower levels.

This had to be the assassin. If it wasn't…well, then he would simply kill the man. He had his orders and they were clear enough. Find the assassin. That meant he could do anything he wanted as long as he found the man and brought him to Bomba.

The man waited until the transport was nearer to him. Then he hefted a small sphere. It landed with a soft thud in front of the transport.

Then it exploded.

It was a small, controlled explosion, lifting the nose of the vehicle up into the air. It toppled over as bits of burning metal rained down. People started screaming and running every which way. The man's lip curled up; if he didn't get the assassin out soon, he risked capture himself. He ran for the wreck, already searching the bodies on the ground. Finding the limp body of the assassin, he hefted it over his shoulder and ran for the shadows. Locating the dark spaces easily, he made his way down, seeking the lax security of the lower levels.

After a time, the man came within sight of Bomba's tavern. He slowed his steps. If he came to Bomba with the wrong man, he could be putting himself at risk. Finding a vacant ally, the man dropped his load down and started a small fire to add some light to his little hideaway. He looked closely at the assassin. The man was not in good shape. His back was one mess of blood and tattered skin; infection was setting in. Multicolored bruises peppered his chest and face. Clothing hung in pathetic shreds off of his lean frame. This man would die soon if he didn't receive any treatment. It was a shame really. But all he wanted was for the assassin to be lucid enough to answer one question. Just one. But if he was as drugged up as the man thought he was, than this prisoner wasn't going to be much help for a while yet.

The man pulled out a bottle of water and poured it on the assassins' unconscious body. The prisoner sputtered and coughed for a bit then turned groggy eyes towards the man. Well, if he was lucid enough to focus his eyes, he might be lucid enough to answer questions.

"Did you kill Marklov?" The man demanded. The assassin blinked, his face scrunched up in confusion.

"Wha—"

"Did you kill Marklov?" The man demanded again. The assassin simply gazed around, his head lolling to one side. The man slapped him. Hard. "Did you kill Marklov?" He was nearly shouting. But he had the assassins' attention.

"Yeah…but—" The man punched him, silencing further talk. He had no desire to know why Marklov was dead. He stamped out his small fire and hefted the assassins' body up and onto his shoulder. Then he made his way to the tavern.

oOo


TBC...