Chapter 10: Grace Under Pressure
By the time three days had passed, he was in a bad spot.
Not that his spot had been exactly good before that. And he was only ninety… okay, eighty percent sure it had been three days, but after what he assumed was that length of time, his whole spot had only grown worse.
He ate and drank only once a day, so far as he could tell, and he was damn hungry. The thirst came and went – mostly coming after he gulped down the glassful of filthy water the hybrid guards left him with. After a while that disappeared, which worried him, or it did once he could ignore the pain in his head long enough to think. His concussion was bad. Very bad. But the thirst disappeared, and he knew, or had heard, that not feeling thirsty when you were in fact incredibly parched was just your body's gentle and kind way of telling you that things weren't looking good.
There was also the matter of his injuries. The concussion was killing his head, his ribs hated him, his wrist was struggling admirably to compete with them both, and his bullet wound was… really not good. But thankfully the hybrids kept the hitting down to a bare minimum.
Added to that was the fact that once a day, the hybrids, sometimes with Michael in regal attendance, dragged him out to that damn Lantean warship, walked him through it level by level, hoping his ATA gene would just switch something on. And he had to admit, the longer he went without enough food or water, the harder it was to concentrate on keeping things switched off and not suddenly thinking, oh, wonder what that does.
To complete the picture, his infection had indeed blown out of proportions into a fever by the end of the first day, and he was beginning to spend the days in his cell alternating between shivering and being far too hot, aching all over and not able to get respite because apparently these hybrids didn't know a damn thing about medicine or morphine, or whatever the hell it was that doctors usually fed him to relieve the affects of the fever. Because he highly doubted it would relieve itself.
Oh, and then there were the hallucinations.
They started on the morning of his third day stuck in his cell. The hybrids had just left his half-plate of food and tin cup of water, and he was crawling over to it, shivering, aching and barely able to stand. The day before the hybrids had had to all but drag him back to this dank, dark prison.
"That stuff looks worse than the crap they used to serve in the mess hall."
Sheppard jumped, spinning where he sat and sloshing half the cup over his hand. And there, standing in a corner, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, was…
"McKay?" he demanded hoarsely, putting his plate on the ground before he dropped it. He shook his head, not believing what he was seeing. "So much for my concussion going away," he muttered, sitting back against the wall and looking up at the mirage.
"Actually, I'd say it's more a combination of that and your fever. You always did have a hard head." McKay shrugged. "A collision with a jumper window is nothing."
Sheppard sighed and closed his eyes, smiling gently at the sounds of his friend even as he tried to deny the hallucination. "The last time I saw you, McKay, you were a hell of a lot older."
"What's your point, John?" the man asked from his spot in the corner, and memory and knowing twisted Sheppard's gut, making him lose his smile and squint his eyes tight.
"You're not real, Rodney," he whispered, and when he opened his eyes again, he was alone.
They didn't even reach the ship that day before Sheppard's legs collapsed and he broke down into a shivering mess, lying on the floor. He struggled to get up, but his body just wouldn't respond. A pair of boots, too fine for a hybrid, appeared by his face, and a second later, Michael's sneering voice could be heard. Only it wasn't so amused or happy, and Sheppard tried to grin. But even his mouth seemed tired, his teeth ached and his head was beginning to pound again.
"Take him back to the cell," Michael ordered, his voice coming from far away. "Get him something for the fever. Do whatever it takes to keep him alive."
Something picked him up by his arms, and he began moving. He had to close his eyes, the passing by of the floor making him dizzy and nauseas, like watching a passing road in a speeding car. He had always wondered what travel sickness felt like.
The hybrids hauled him back to his cell and left him lying, near unconscious in the middle of the cell. He heard them leave, and rolled over, groaning as his body protested. This couldn't be good, he thought as he closed his eyes.
It only added to his worries when he felt a cool hand on his forehead, even though he knew there was no one else in the cell. He shifted, and a soft voice shushed him, soothing the pain from his forehead.
"Easy, John," Teyla's faint voice called, light and otherworldly, as if she wasn't completely there. Not that she was, of course.
When the hybrid returned, Sheppard was unconscious and he didn't feel it as the medic stuck a needle into his arm.
The next time he woke, he was back on the cold table, and it felt like he was rising through air as thick as water. He could hear, sort of, hear voices that came to him as distorted words and patterns, filtering through the foggy surroundings his mind had sought.
He tried not to move, being very aware that he was unlikely to have been rescued in the hopefully short time since he had fallen unconscious. With the memory of Teyla's hand caressing his forehead.
He murmured something at that, and shifted, before lying still once more, clutching at consciousness. The two voices paused, and he imagined the owners of those voices looking at him. A moment later, satisfied that he wasn't with them, the two voices started up once more.
"I do not want medical jargon," one of those voices snapped, and even distorted as it was, Sheppard recognised it as belonging to Michael. No one else would be speaking in that smug, all-knowing, demanding tone. "Tell me, in plain terminology, why he cannot fix my ship."
The pilot would have laughed at that, if he had had the chance. If he had had the energy. My ship. As if Michael could ever truly own Lantean technology. As if Sheppard would fix it for him in any case.
There was a heavy swallow, and the colonel guessed it belonged to a hybrid version of a doctor. Who was obviously afraid in the face of Michael's wrath.
"It's his injuries," the hybrid doctor explained slowly. "His concussion and a fever from an infection in his shoulder. It's made him weak, sick, and with his various other injuries, it is just too much for his body to handle."
"Why aren't you doing anything to help him?" Michael demanded. "I know we have medicines aplenty, that hold back the fever, and heal, and stop pain."
"We've been giving him doses to keep his mind clear." The doctor sounded like he had gone through this before. "Apart from that… I tried to keep his wounds clean, and I tried to keep him healthy. But he's…"
The doctor trailed off, and Michael laughed as he got it. "He doesn't want to get better. Does he?" There was another sinister chuckle, and Sheppard felt the ex-Wraith's gaze slide over him. "Pathetic human, so willing to give up."
He obviously turned back to his underling. "No matter what it takes, keep him alive. Give him whatever you need to give him, but he must live out the week. If he doesn't, you will die with him."
"There are a combination of drugs I've been wanting to try," the doctor informed Michael. "If he only needs to live out the week… it'll tax his systems, but it should do the trick, if I can tweak it enough to suit a human."
"I don't care. Just keep him alive." There was a swish as Michael turned on the spot, and then a sharp screech as the door opened and then closed. Sheppard was left alone with the hybrid and the sinking feeling he wasn't going to like what was about to happen.
But there wasn't much he could do about it, restrained as he was. He slid back into unconsciousness, the sounds of the doctor readying something nearby a sickening lullaby pulling him down.
The next time Sheppard opened his eyes, he was back in his cell, and his eyes were blurry, heavy and sore. He rolled over onto his back, blinking purposefully, wondering what was going on for a moment. He wasn't sure he was still with Michael.
He felt better. Not sore, not tired, not sick, not anything. In fact, he felt jittery, hyperactive, a stark contrast to the lethargy he was used to. He felt strong, and aware, and… just better.
He sat up, and quickly put a hand to his head as a wave of dizziness hit him. And then winced as he felt the heat. He still had a fever. He frowned at that. He didn't feel like he had a fever.
He looked himself over. He was still injured. And obviously still sick. And he was shaking. His hands couldn't keep still as he stared at them, as if they were the image of his spiked energy inside.
He got to his feet, again ignoring vertigo, suddenly too restless to stay still. Licking his lips he looked around the cell, spotting the plate of food, ignoring it, not feeling any hunger. What had happened? What had he missed?
What had the hybrid doctor given him?
He felt good. He felt too good, and he was well aware of that. He felt alive, properly alive, for the first time since he had woken from stasis. And he shouldn't be. He should be nearly dead.
A little frightened now, he jumped as the lock on the door scraped open. He turned around in time to see Michael coming through, hands behind his back, a happy smile on his face.
"Good to see you on your feet, Colonel Sheppard," the ex-Wraith informed him, pausing a few feet from the door. Three hybrids stood behind him, watching the pilot with careful glares.
"What did you do to me?" Sheppard demanded breathlessly, looking around, nerves getting the better of him. He felt on edge, anxious, and he couldn't calm down.
Michael grinned. "Just a little something to keep you with us a little longer," the half-human told him. "My medic tells me you were dying."
Sheppard shook his head. "I'm still dying," he spat. "You're just making sure it takes longer."
"True. Longer, and more painful, no doubt." Michael's grin faded slightly, and he shifted on his feet. "Come with me. I have something to show you."
He turned swiftly and exited the cell. Sheppard didn't move for a moment, or at least, didn't move his feet. His hands couldn't stop shaking. But either Michael didn't notice, or he trusted his hybrids would bring him if he didn't cooperate.
Trying to still his thoughts long enough to think straight, he started forward, taking a deep breath as if that would do anything to calm his nerves. The hybrids fell in behind him, and they walked in silence down to the warship's hanger.
They didn't enter the Lantean vessel though. Michael led him to a table laden with a Wraith computer and various small tools. Looking at it, Sheppard suddenly got a bad feeling. As if Michael was about to show him something he really didn't want to know or see. Again.
"I've been thinking about what you said, Sheppard," Michael told him. "About not giving up your fair city. About not helping me."
He leaned over the computer and started tapping away. Sheppard watched him, shifting on his feet, unable to keep still even as dots flashed up on the screen, along with a few lines and some Wraith writing and other things that Sheppard didn't understand. But he understood enough. Enough to know what he was looking at. His breath caught in his throat, and his knees nearly collapsed from underneath him. Michael smiled in triumph as he looked around and saw the shell-shocked colonel.
"I was hoping you would understand this," he told Sheppard. Michael pointed to a single dot on the screen, representing a planet. The right planet. Or wrong one, depending on the point of view. "Atlantis."
Sheppard tried to shake his head, tried to deny it, but the drugs keeping him anxious seemed to be frying his mind as well, and he couldn't keep his thoughts still long enough to form a coherent argument against the truth. It made him feel sick, horrified, unable to shake the sudden feeling that his great city wasn't going to be around for much longer.
Michael chuckled. "I told you I knew where it was. And in three days, I'm leaving this planet and flying to that one. And I'm going to attack your city. With or without that ship to breach the shields."
Sheppard licked his lips and tore his gaze away from the computer. "Well it won't be with," he snapped, crossing and then uncrossing his arms. One last, possible act of defiance. "If you think the knowledge that you're going to Atlantis-."
Michael waved his hand and cut him off. "I am fully aware, Sheppard, that you would be most unwilling to help us, probably even more so knowing this. Even the inevitable uselessness of your defiance will not be enough to persuade you."
He said it matter-of-factly, and Sheppard glared at him. "So why the whole keep me alive charade?" he demanded, shifting again. Watching him, Michael grinned.
"Because I still hope I can convince you," the ex-Wraith told him. "I have just realized it may require a… different tact."
He leaned back on the table, and for a moment there was complete silence. The two of them, enemies for 50,000 years, just stared at each other, each refusing to drop the gaze. And then Michael grinned.
"Three days, Sheppard. That's how long you have to make yourself useful."
"Not a chance!" he spat, taking a step forward. The hybrids around him all put a hand to their stunners, but they didn't draw. Michael just kept on talking.
"At the end of that three days, I am firing up my ships, and taking them all to Atlantis. There, I will bombard your Ancient city until it is dust and ash. The last stand of the Ancients and their kin. The last foothold of your pitiful ancestors will fall, like so many of their cities before them."
Michael walked forward, until he was only inches away from Sheppard's glaring face. The pilot's heart beat fast, rapid, and he was having trouble breathing.
"And you know what you will be doing?" Michael demanded in a seething whisper. "You will be watching it. All of it. The medic tells me you have at least a week. It takes two days to get there. That still leaves you at least two days of suffering, of watching Atlantis be torn apart. Of me, making you suffer. Retribution for all the suffering you and your kind put me through."
Breathing only with an effort, Sheppard glared up at him, hatred flowing through his veins. "I don't care. I'm still not helping you." He was shaking more from anger now, rather than the drugs the medic had given him. "The people from Olympus will find plenty there to tear you down. And I'm not about to help you destroy them."
"And I'm coming to accept that," Michael told him quickly. "But if you do help me fix my ship, I'll keep Atlantis in more or less one piece. And I'll let you die, with… at least a little more peace and dignity."
Sheppard crossed his arms and tilted his head up in defiance. "I've lived all my life without peace and dignity. No need to take them on now."
He leaned in, until his nose was almost touching Michael's. He knew what he had to say, and he managed to calm himself long enough to get it out, despite fear and panic threatening to tear him down.
"So bring it on."