A/N - in which exotic alien warrior princess Francene outbids everyone else at the slave auction, beams a very groggy, badly whumped yet eternally grateful amnesiac Sheppard to her fairy tale castle, more specifically to her boudoir with en suite dungeon, and proceeds to mop his fevered brow amongst other, uhm, ministrations... *winks*
...
John had gotten himself a great night's sleep on that softly yielding mattress of springy, memory foam mushrooms with in-built cooling gel pads, and had awoken refreshed and invigorated. He downed a power bar on the run, washing it down with refreshing, ice cold, fluoridated and vitaminized spring water with natural electrolytes from his canteen. He donned his tac vest, which mercifully didn't hurt to wear any more, checked for any soldiers or passersby in the pre-dawn light, relieved himself without incident against the cliff wall, and jogged in stealth mode towards his jumper, his heart full of hope.
He could do this. Fix the jumper. Take off. Find his way home at last. Find out what had happened. It had all been some misunderstanding, some... misapprehension. He had people who cared.
We don't leave anyone behind.
Now that was a truth he could hang onto. That and staying positive.
He was in luck. The jumper had miraculously mended itself overnight, and thankfully wasn't teetering on the edge of a precipice or sinking into quicksand. Nothing was cracked, broken, dented or missing. The port drive pod only needed a quick paint job. Whoa. This was too good to be true.
John strode up the ramp, feeling the comfortable, familiar heavy thud of thick rubber on metal reverberate through his feet to his calves to his thighs all the way to his hips. His boots! When had he found those? He'd better tread more softly. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. He slid into the pilot's seat, his right hand resting on his trusty P-90, and -
"Too late, buddy."
Whuh?
John whirled around, and gasped. There right behind him in the starboard passenger seat sprawled a huge whiteface clown with a wig of bright orange dreadlocks, a sloping forehead, a red nose, and snarling, red, overdrawn lips. The clown wore a glitzy, lime green satin jumpsuit with at least seven red fist-sized buttons from his neck to his crotch, a red ruff, a tiny red Irish derby with a wilted sunflower tucked in it, and bulbous, checkered, green and orange over-sized shoes fit to trip over. Yep, they were about twice the size of his overly large head.
In the port passenger seat, arms folded, sat a pudgy, smug-looking little tramp clown with a receding hairline and thin, down-turned lips, a ruddy nose, a grubby face, and serious five-o'clock shadow. He wore a dusty, baggy, worn-out suit with a train ticket sticking out of the breast pocket, a crushed and tilted bowler hat, and spatted shoes that'd seen mold and mud and puddles alike. His grubby, gloved hands rested on a cane, which he twirled intermittently. The tramp cocked his head, leaned back, eyed him judgmentally, and let out a single 'Hm'.
Nooo...
John had to suck it up. He wasn't six-years old any more. He was an adult male. He didn't have to cow to them, beg them to let him go. Go home. Stop doing what they were doing.
"You're not real."
"Guess again, Johnny Boy," the tramp stated in a know-it-all voice.
John eyed the open hatch beyond them, and struggled not to give himself away. That he was about to make a move. He could do this. Escape. This wasn't the locked door of a circus trailer after all, the latch out of reach of desperate little six-year old hands even when he went on tippy-toes.
Then his exit was blocked by a shadow. It was feminine in shape. John froze.
In danced a petite, muscular harlequin in ballet slippers, ballooning pantaloons, and a tight blouse all matchy-matchy in broad checkered panels of a shimmering silver and gold satin. Her face was white, her contrasting black make-up sharp and pristine. She bore a single rhinestone tear below her right eye. She was twirling two matching marrottes.
Jesters on a stick.
MALP on a stick...
Please...
John raised his weaponless hands, and flashed an appeasing grin.
Hey...
The dainty harlequin raised a single eyebrow, then approached him stealthily, her brown hawk eyes fixed on him like he was her prey. She scanned his body menacingly, and - promptly smacked him around with those marrottes like she wanted to break all his limbs, his ribs. Heck, even his nuts. John staggered backwards.
This wasn't a fair fight!
He had nothing to defend himself with!
She beat him steadily with those marrottes until they fell apart, heads and bells and frills all scattered about her like she didn't give a damn, until all she held were bare sticks. Bantos rods? She waved them in his face, and raised that single eyebrow once more.
He sank in a crouch to the floor of the puddle jumper, feeling his life's blood drain from his body even as he curled up on one side, as if presenting a smaller target would deflect a blow. Boy, she was strong. Relentless. He tried to protect his head, and yeah, his nuts. He had one arm wrapped around his head, and the other over his groin. The pain became overwhelming, and John felt himself graying out to escape it. He welcomed the respite as gray and cloudy became black and starlit.
The next thing he knew, he was hanging from a pole that'd been shoved through his sleeves. It kept his arms trapped. Outstretched. He tried to draw them in, but nothing budged. His legs were tied together to another, upright pole. He struggled to rip himself off this... T-frame he'd been trussed to, but he only succeeded in jerking his head forward, and rocking the damn pole. John turned his head left and right, up and down, and scanned as far as his restraints would allow him. A cool breeze ruffled his clothing. The hull of his jumper had been somehow rendered invisible now, and he was out in the open, at night, exposed, and surrounded by tall, corn stalks backlit by a full moon. His assailant was nowhere in sight.
Take stock, take stock, take stock! Breathe!
John checked himself from head to toe, and what he now saw shocked him to his core.
"Aaagghh! Nooo!"
He wore a pair of old jeans ripped at the knees and mud-spattered at the ankles, and a big ol' roughly stitched-on purple and orange polka dot patch near his right thigh - in the shape of a holster. He also wore a tattered and faded red and blue plaid shirt with a green and yellow checkered velcro patch on the rolled-up right sleeve, and a jean vest with endless pockets.
There was something on his head. He looked up through his spiky bangs to glimpse some ratty straw hat. Worse still, there was straw sticking straight out of his sleeves and out of his jeans.
He was a scarecrow.
A clown.
Before he had time to think or even piss himself from the horror of it, the tramp clown waddled towards him brushing corn stalks aside, twirling his walking stick and humming like he hadn't a care in the world. The tramp sat down in the copilot seat like he owned it, and propped his feet up on the console. John could see holes in the soles of his shoes, and through the holes he could see they had been lined with newspaper. The tramp noticed where John was looking, glared, and promptly slammed his feet to the floor. He then pointed the stick at him.
"Bang!" he yelled. "Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!" A little white flag popped out the end of the stick with the word 'bang' written on it in bold red lettering. "Oh, and by the way - bang!"
"Whuh? Ow!"
The walking stick was a seven-shooter, and the tramp had just fired seven rounds at his right arm. It burned! John screamed, his eyes squeezed shut. He could feel the acid drizzle, sizzling, down his arm and drip onto his flanks -
Why?
He blew at his bicep. Whoa. Wrong move. Tiny sparks then tiny flames flared up, crackled, and as some of the straw turned black, the rest of his world turned black once more.
He woke up quivering and quaking, and facing the whiteface clown. This one was raging up and down, pummeling its chest. It too was angry. At him. He didn't know why. John watched in horror as it drew knives from its hair and its pockets and even from its over-sized shoes, which it threw right around him. The knives skimmed his skin bar one, which embedded in his shoulder.
He had to ask that same question of this one.
Wh-Why?
The whiteface clown threw a glance towards the harlequin and the tramp, who now both sat in a boneless, sightless squat on the floor like discarded marionettes.
Why!
Between them cowered a little gray organ grinder's monkey complete with matching vest and fez.
Now I understand.
It was about the boy. They all shrugged as they jerked back to puppet life.
"Maybe just because," they chorused in falsetto voices.
Then the whiteface clown shoved its face into his. Its eyes were neon green with reflective red slits.
"Because it never gets old," it snarled.
So not angry at him then. Just nasty. And John was his target. Their target.
The last thing he saw was the Devil himself, a grin upon his pockmarked face. Red suit, horns, tail – the works. The Devil twirled his trident like a martial arts weapon, then went behind his back. John braced himself for the imminent onslaught. He proceeded to knock the stuffing out of him, and John felt his straw flutter to the floor.
...
John woke up flat out on his front, panting. He could smell sulfur. Flames licked his body. He found he was clutching fistfuls of hay that had been strewn over the floor of what he now deduced to be a holding pen inside a vast tent. The stifling pit he'd been thrown into. He resisted the urge to cram his stuffing back into what was left of his clothing, but all he wore were his boxers. Not a smart move. He fumbled around his neck, feeling his collar, which was now attached by a chain to a bolted-down plate in the floor. John tugged at it a few times, but it refused to budge.
That had been some nightmare. He hated clowns. Yeah, he really hated clowns. Still, it was another memory even if it wasn't one he particularly wanted to dredge up.
He felt lingering imaginary pain – no, scratch that. The pain was real. John sat up, or at least as far as he could shuffle himself upright, and rested his weary bones against the bars. He scrubbed his hand across his face, wiped away the sleep from his eyes, and looked around bleary-eyed.
He was accompanied by a... swarm... a bevy... a passel... no, a carload if not shitload of tramp clowns equally restrained and slumped around the holding pen. They were all looking the worse for wear, though he suspected none looked quite as crappy as he did given the last time he took stock of himself. He looked himself over. He was a human being, albeit a wrecked one, though there was still some straw in his hair which he furiously scrubbed out. He felt like a scarecrow. Heck, he'd become one. In his nightmare. It had seemed so real, it affected him even now. He knew of old how nightmares lingered, permeating waking hours. If only he could shuck off this terrible, draining feeling of uselessness.
There was a clamor just outside the tent. He could hear oinking and squealing. So, auction time then. Seemed it was the pigs' turn. Pinzeys. He'd seen these pig-like critters hereabouts, though they were horned with a furry dinosaur ridge down their backs all the way to a long curlicue tail with a scorpion sting on the end. He knew the tails to be spring-action. These guys had had their tails docked, rendering them defenseless. It was sad, as they were intelligent so far as he could tell. Nothing and no-one deserved to be bought and sold like this.
He could hear rapid-fire bidding followed by silence, then the whinny of bindies, followed by more bidding. It didn't take a genius to work out what was in store for him and the other slaves. Sobbing clown mothers clutched their bawling children tight. Some male clowns gazed stoically into the distance, others sat in brooding silence, especially the younger ones, who glared their defiance. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Weird. He never thought he'd consider saving a clown before.
He glanced over at some tramp mother clutching a grubby, wailing newborn, also a tramp, and imagined himself rescuing them both even though he was injured. Impaled. By rebar. Where did that come from? Was it a memory?
I never gave up hope because I knew. I knew that you would come for me, John.
"Haliah! Pi Galiari Angka. K'tul?"
The tramp mother tapped her chest, indicating herself.
"Haliah right back atcha," he replied as cheerily as he could manage. "Uhm, Pi John." He tapped his own chest, and flashed a grin.
She nodded. Then added with a heavy accent, "I am not a Pinzeysow. I am an Angka. My son, Dulieri, he is not a Pinzeyboar. He is an Angka!"
"I am not a Blerrybuck," he replied, and left it at that as he sank back into his small piece of not so prime real estate. Wow. He'd just communicated with a clown. He'd even just spoken some Clownish by guesswork. Or was that Clownese?
At least she knows who she is. Unlike me.
John vowed to remember her name. And the name of her kid.
One by one, they were taken out into the open. He was next. He heard Galiari scream, heard her baby - Dulieri Angka – the clown kid had a name - wail as he was ripped from his mother's arms, and sold separately amid cries of anguish from her, and roars of laughter and contempt from the buyers. If only he could help Galiari, help her keep her son. He couldn't work out why anyone would need a baby without its mother.
M-Michael?
Who was Michael? Gah! There was nothing he could do! Nothing!
John was last. He wondered why they bothered, since he was a mess. He couldn't think what he was fit for other than being a scarecrow. A Joker yanked him up by his chain, and he shuffled out of the holding pen towards the tent flap. He could barely walk on two sprained ankles but at least he could walk, and that was better than being dragged by his wrist chains since his shoulders were so sore. At the entrance to the tent, the Joker shoved him out into dazzling sunlight, and John gasped at the sight.
Mos Eisley. This was Mos Eisley. On market day. Jeez. He was surrounded by weirdo aliens as well as clowns of every type. Holy crap! Wookiees strutted in gangs, bowling over tiny gray Roswell aliens, and snarling and snapping at just about everyone and everything. Black and white minstrels danced about in troupes jiggling their bowler hats in and twirling batons in their white-gloved hands, singing My Mammy like it was the performance of a lifetime.
The crowds were mixed. It could have been some sci-fi slash circus convention. Or he was still hallucinating. That had to be it. Strange sci fi craft landed and took off, churning up eddies of dust. Whoa.
John grimaced as the Joker ordered a bunch of Wookiees to tether him to a long crossbeam connecting two poles some six feet off the ground. Oh, God, no. Not again! John fought feebly as a Wookiee wound ropes around each chained wrist, and threw them up and over the crossbeam, then yanked on the ropes to pull his arms over his head. The Wookiee threw the dangling remainder of the ropes up and over, and pulled on them, finally to tying them securely to loops on the upright poles.
Chewbacca. Ch-Chewie?
John craned his neck to see the ropes wrap around the beam, performing a loop de loop. It made his head spin. John tugged. Nope. He wasn't going anywhere. Thankfully his feet were still flat to the ground. He didn't think his shoulders could take much more, and not dislocate. He looked around for Galiari. She was gone. As was her son. He'd - failed...
"We bring this one out last because he is a prize." There was a hint of sarcasm in that voice.
Laughter. They were laughing at him. So, he was the booby prize? Great. His self esteem was already shot to hell, but hey, rub it in, why doncha? But even as a scarecrow, he could be put to good use. John rested his head on his chest, though he glanced over at a nearby mini-copter, coveting it. A circus dwarf glared back at him, then chittered angrily in his general direction like R2D2.
"Look at this one. He is damaged," cried some C3PO wannabe. "And he does not appear to be mentally intact. He is only fit for respa bait."
More laughter.
"This one is fit for more than that, and you know it," cited the Joker auctioneer. "What am I bid?"
"Fifty drammels!"
The Joker belly laughed. Seemed like this was the same old song and dance. If it wasn't all so surreal and downright unpleasant, John might have laughed too.
"Come now. I know your tastes, Sir. As for his mental health, he took refuge in the mushroom caves."
Even more laughter.
"Show us that he suffers beautifully, and mayhaps I will bid on him," came a gruff voice.
"Ahah! Allow me to demonstrate."
John whimpered as the Joker ran his hands over his sore back, then jabbed him in his left flank with a feather duster. He grimaced and groaned, tried to breathe through the sudden pain, but the Joker held it in place until he let out an earsplitting scream, and writhed in agony. He could feel blood trickling from his wrists and down his arms. He hated rope burns. It didn't stop him from attempting pull-ups in a sorry effort to escape the agony. He wasn't going anywhere any time soon.
"Five hundred drammels!"
"Ah, at last," declared the Joker, his broad grin reaching his ears.
John struggled to even out his breathing. So, seemed there was a bidding war between C3PO and the Cowardly Lion who were both into BDSM. John kept his eyes shut. He knew if he opened them he just knew he'd see Dorothy kitted out in a tight red leather domme outfit and wielding a flogger, clicking her heels together, and declaring there was no place like a dungeon. No typical Kansas storm cellar for this one. He imagined it kitted out with chains.
"Five thousand drammels," rang an even tinnier voice, though it sounded more like two tinny voices yakking in sync.
A murmur ran through the crowd. There was a new player. Dorothy? Or a eunuch with an artificial voicebox? Or maybe even the Tin Man? He opened his eyes despite himself.
So not Dorothy then. It was a mysterious figure in a rustic, homespun grayish cape and cowl. The cape looked oddly familiar, like maybe he'd worn it once, or one like it.
C3PO and the Cowardly Lion shook their heads. They both flapped their hands dismissively at the Joker, then grinned at each other. Seemed they were willing to wait for some other poor, dirt-cheap bastard to torment like they did all this on a regular basis, like it was some game or challenge. He wondered how long the booby prizes lasted in their kinky clutches.
"Sold. To the caped one."
John was unhitched from the crossbeam, whereupon he dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He lay there in a panting heap, his limbs useless. He felt hands on him, and tugging and shoving. Someone even got in a kick.
New, thinner rope was wound around his wrist chains, so he couldn't even rub them to relieve some of the discomfort. He had a few minutes respite to gather himself maybe while some more paperwork was being done, and he lay on his sore back staring up at the sky and its erratic, alien freak show and looneytunes traffic. Yep, mid-air collisions were in somebody's future.
Oh, great. There goes Dumbo. Caught in chopper blades. It rained elephant meat for several minutes. Oops.
"Walk."
"Yeah, I get it. Gimme a minute."
John hauled himself upright with a groan, and fell in behind the caped figure. He had nowhere else to go after all. Before long, Wookiees and minstrels and clowns and munchkins and oompa loompas and other assorted weirdo movie extras slowly morphed into regular humans of all shapes and sizes and colors. Bearded ladies became bearded men.
So, the hallucinogen was beginning to wear off. Phew! Though their clothing still ran the gamut from caped to fig-leafed. He wondered about the lung cancer/emphysema patient who'd just bought him. Well, with any luck, maybe he'd outlast the bastard, find a way to escape. He'd take the first opportunity.
As luck would have it, they were headed for a busy airfield. Wow. John didn't know what to rest his eyes on first, so he just drank it all in. This place looked like an extreme air show. The aircraft were so varied, from fixed wing to helicopters to jets to drones to... darts? He wondered if he'd been bought for general maintenance of this place, or if he was about to be taken somewhere else, maybe even offworld. Like he wanted to remain on Skojo. He knew now he was a pilot. Had been. This was his chance, his one-shot. Hot-wire an aircraft, and hightail it outta here.
Yep, his chances of making it home more or less intact here were on the up and up. He vowed to come back some day, and track down Galiari Angka and her kid, Dulieri, clowns or no. They were... people.
John steeled himself, gathered the last of his waning energy, and clubbed the creepy caped alien dude across the back of its head using his tied-together fists. The alien went down and stayed down, and John made a break for the nearest cluster of funky-looking aircraft, his bare feet pounding the yellow brick road, not daring to look back.
There was no place like home. No, sirree, Bob. Just maybe it was somewhere over the rainbow, though maybe said rainbow was nothing but a sorry, dull spill of engine oil in a rain puddle.
...
"You are heavier than you look, you piece of filth!"
Ow!
He was being hauled by his wrist chains up some kind of ramp, that much he could ascertain by a distant tugging sensation and an overall sense of dead-weight heaviness; by his back, flanks and especially his hipbones bumping if not rasping against a metal washboard; by the incline, and the odor of engine oil and jet fuel. That's when he realized where he'd gone wrong.
What he should have done was wait until they'd boarded, then made his move. What he should have done was check the alien was out cold. What he should have done was kill the bastard, snap its neck. He wondered what tactical advantage he might now have, given that he was currently blindfolded, trussed and paralyzed after a blast between his shoulder blades from some kind of stunner fired by a seriously pissed alien who apparently now owned him.
Way to screw up, John!
He had no control of his body from the neck down. He could only feel pins and needles just about everywhere, and an urge to scratch every part of him from head to toe. He'd often slept wrong on that thin mattress Ettifah had given him, and had awoken to find a limb deadened, useless, and itchy as hell. He would shake that limb to allow blood to flow back into it, so the weird sensation was short-lived, and he could go right back to sleep. Unlike now.
John tried to shallow breathe. At least he could breathe. And he was oddly grateful it was a stunner and not a ballistic weapon. A full-body lack of sensation like this after being shot with a bullet would have meant the damage to his spine was most likely permanent, and he'd end up a quadriplegic with a shortened life span.
The seriously pissed alien was shoving his body around like a sack of potatoes, maybe even like a scarecrow, grunting the while, manipulating him onto his back then into a seated position against a wall. He could feel a tugging then slicing sensation at his wrists, and his arms fell to his sides, his hands smacking to the floor. He tried to lift them, but couldn't. He felt the same thing at his ankles, and his feet subsequently splayed themselves apart. So no longer trussed then. The alien clearly knew he wasn't much of a threat just now. He willed his limbs to move. Nope. Nothing doing. He was numb from head to toe.
John slowly became more and more aware of how he was positioned. He could feel a gentle breeze on the left side of his face, but nothing yet on the rest of his body bar feeling like he was encased in cotton wool laced with poison ivy.
He tried to get his bearings. Exit at nine o'clock. Pissed alien at three o'clock. If he could only move, just maybe he could crawl his way outta there.
A tingling sensation began in his extremities. Yep, the feeling was coming back. Pins and needles started up in his ass. So, definitely a hard surface then. He was desperate to wiggle his ass, shift position, but that would give away that he was regaining some control of his body.
The alien was busy fiddling with the ship's control panel, judging by all the clicking and whizzing and endless annoying ringtones. That came from his right. John turned his head towards the light and sound, to try and gain some intel.
It most likely already knew what the effects of the stunner were, so moving his head wasn't a giveaway. He thought right. A hand grasped his left ear. John startled. The alien jiggled it, making his head wobble, then the alien smacked him across his ear with an open palm, making his head spin and his ears ring. He then turned his head to the other side, and smacked him again the same way, causing his head to jangle on his neck.
"Ow!"
"You will move only when I permit it," it growled in its tinny, bi-tonal voice.
Great.
John let his sore, ringing head loll on his chest for a few moments while he gathered himself. It didn't help. He tipped his head back to rest against – a bench. Thankfully the alien let him get away with those moves.
So no sight, no feeling, and now no hearing what with this serious case of tinnitus. He could still smell oil and fuel, and as for taste, he wished he'd had some chewing gum or mouth wash. All he could taste was the dust he'd recently wanted just about everyone to eat. He decided to take - a power nap...
...
"Aaaggghhh!"
This was no longer pins and needles. This was the bends. The stunner had worn off, leaving him in unholy agony.
He was acutely aware of every part of him as he knelt there juddering, his arms pulled out stiffly to the sides. He could no longer rein in the panic, and he breathed heavily, panting and puffing. His left hand! He was going to lose his left hand to a machete. Holy-
"You are not going anywhere, filth, so quit your squirming. I'm going to give you time to think while I buy myself some provisions."
Please... don't...
"I'll be back."
Whuh?
The alien ripped off his blindfold. The next thing he saw was a club swinging at his left temple. He neither felt nor saw the blow coming at him from the right.
...
It was nearing dark when he woke up again with the headache from Hell. John had been left on his knees for what had to be several hours, but managed to rest his head on his shoulder, and slump to one side. He shuddered in the afterthroes of the stunner, and residual tingling sensations wracked his body and mind. Afterglow this wasn't. How come he wasn't slumped over? Then he tried to move his legs. Great. His legs had been braced twice. First at his ankles and second at his knees. Spread apart. He hoped that didn't mean what he thought it meant.
He needed this to end. He'd just been stunned, dragged around, clubbed, and left for what felt like forever in a stress position judging by now localized numbing especially in his groin. He'd been bought by a seriously pissed alien on a planet that still kept slaves, one who clearly already disliked him, and had some kinky plans for him. Yep, he was given time to think all right.
Before that? He'd been whipped, strapped, burned, stabbed, pummeled, waterboarded, hosed down, stretched, electrocuted, and sold. That just about summed it up. He wondered if he'd left anything out. Oh, yeah. Kidnapped. Abandoned. Betrayed. Somehow that hurt more than any physical pain he'd had to endure. John almost wished for the blindfold to be replaced so he could cry into it, bawl his head off. Let go.
Kidnapped?
Whuh?
Wait! That meant... that meant... What? That he was taken not discarded. John chuffed. It was a sorry state of affairs when being kidnapped had a positive ring to it. That and blindfolded. He'd also been fed and healed at some point.
"Why do you laugh?"
"Whuh?"
"Is this nothing but a joke to you?"
"I don't get it. Look, chief - what do you want?"
"I want you to suffer."
John snorted. Suffer. Yeah. That was so on his bucket list.
The alien threw back its hood, and unclasped its cloak, letting it slide to the floor. Whoa. It was definitely female. And how. The long, bright red dress it wore was seriously figure-hugging. It had long straight, platinum blonde hair, pale blue-gray goat eyes, neat bazoomas, and an hourglass figure. Most of that was on the plus side, though he preferred brunettes as a rule.
John's eyes went wide. On the negative side, the female was disgustingly pale and sweaty looking, its eyebrows were over-plucked and over-drawn, and its were teeth sharp and predatory, reminding him of that vampire dude on the pub sign back in Blerry Bluff. He decided to call her – her? - Vampira. That was pretty much a no-brainer.
Vampira discarded her cape, draping it over the back of the pilot's seat. So, she could fly this thing. Then she thrust out her ample cleavage, and John watched, mesmerized, as her jugs wobbled towards his face. She held her forepaws in front of her like some kind of super-sappy meerkat.
"Not into bestiality," he declared, looking away. Though he glanced back. She was actually kind of hot in a creepy kind of way. Sometimes he wondered about himself.
"When we met before, you could not keep your eyes off me," she spat. "Or your hands. I believe the view was... now what word did you use... oh, yes - impressive." She snorted. "Look at me!" she screeched as she tugged on his cowlicks to turn his head to face her. Her dangly paws then reconvened around her slim midriff like some Disney bunny rabbit.
Vampira turned into Thumper before his eyes. No, wait! She was... Jessica Rabbit! And how! Oh, boy.
"Whoever you are, lady, first off, we never met. Second, I don't remember squat. Zero, zilch, nada. About anything much before or besides... " John nodded sideways. Towards the exit. "...here."
John shrugged his shoulders, then he rolled his neck, shook out his arms, and shifted on his knees, though his movement was hindered by the array of braces. He groaned. Truth was, he was beginning to remember, but the memories that resurfaced were either Vaudeville or Disney-ish or flat out nightmarish. Little wonder he suppressed them. If he could just recall at least one great memory instead, he might fight to regain them all.
"You and your people came to my homeworld under the guise of rescue, then transplanted us all into the clutches of evil."
"My people? My people?" Please!
"I see in your eyes that you truly do not remember. In which case, I refuse to enlighten you."
It was a sorry-assed scenario when the bound victim was desperate to press the torturer into revelation. The irony of it made him smirk big time, whereupon she clubbed him on his bare shoulders, then rammed the club into his belly.
"Assassin!"
John writhed on those ropes. One quick glance at his left wrist told him he'd drawn his own blood. At least his hand was still there.
St-Stay positive, now, Johnny Boy, he thought right before he passed out, though he thought he heard the Devil cackle up close and personal, and hot, sulfuric breath down his neck.
...
He could feel the raspy breath of the space vampire bimbo-bunny against his left cheek. Who was she? What had he done? She had called him an assassin. That wasn't him. It wasn't him!
"Wh-Who... " he croaked, though his head was hung so low, it was doubtful she caught his question. He wished he could wipe away drool from his chin, though he wiped it away from the corners of his mouth against each shoulder. He could also wipe away sweat from his temples onto his shoulders, but not from his forehead.
Rodney. Rodney!
"Whom do you ask after?"
I don't remember who I am... but Rodney would know... He'd tell me.
"You. Who are you? Who were you?"
"You might remember me as a scientist, though perhaps you recall other things about me."
"Such as?"
"My ample breasts! You refused to see me as a person, and only chose to see my... accessories. And vie with another man for my attention like it was some kind of game between the pair of you. I remember it very well as being rather pathetic, especially as my people were in such dire straits at the time, though foolishly I played along at first, played hard to get. You were after all an attractive man. Back then. Now you are scarred and grizzled."
Scarred.
Grizzled.
Great.
She looked him up and down. He looked her up and down. His eyes rested on said ample breasts. She sneered.
"I am no longer capable of breastfeeding should the happy happenstance arise even after my lifelong barrenness up to and obviously including the eruption on Taranus. Yet if I were given the chance to spawn a child now, it would be a female. And she would become queen!" She shook her head haughtily, and John found himself sadly mesmerized by the rippling movement of her long blonde hair. "I shall yet save what is left of my people, of whom there are but few and none of which is human. The one you call Michael has declared it."
"M-Michael?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I am his and he is mine," she hissed.
John nodded slowly.
"The... supervolcano. The caldera. The Aurora-class warship. I remember now. But – we rallied. We saved you all, apart from a handful of... suicidal brain-dead dipshits who thought they could outrun lava." He shrugged.
"Only to thrust the survivors into worse harm's way! Which death is preferable, fast or slow, Colonel. And in case you were unaware, that was a rhetorical question. For now."
Colonel?
"Please tell me who I am," he whimpered.
"Only if you serve me well."
She moved in close enough for him to smell her. She didn't even smell like she'd spritzed herself with perfume. On the contrary, she had no smell at all. Like a reptile.
"I demand of you your genetic make-up."
John chortled somewhat. That had to be the worst pick up line anyone had ever been fed.
"It ain't happenin', missy." John rolled his eyes. Then he remembered quite how vulnerable he was. He wondered what she was considering doing to him. Maybe a cheek swab? Yeah, right.
"So now that any union might not be on your dominant male terms, you refuse me?!"
"You wanna put it that way... " He let that thought trail off. He didn't care for the way she drew herself to full height, then looked down on him. She ran a forefinger down his cheek then along his lower lip. Uh oh.
"No matter. I bought you. You, too, are mine. To toy with as I please."
Here we go again...
She squatted, and shoved her mutated face into his. She ran a long, scratchy fingernail down his cheek, then gouged it along his cheekbone.
"And I please."
She grinned ferally, then launched a furious attack upon him with her razor-sharp talons.
He remembered someone telling him about how she'd managed to keep the faith right up to the eruption, that as long as they could breathe, there was still hope, even though she and...
Ronon!
... others were breathing in toxic gases and scalding ash. The brown-eyed woman who'd beaten him with sticks. Bantos rods. The harlequin.
Teyla?
Dum spiro spero, he thought dumbly, as he felt himself being ripped apart. While I breathe, I hope.
And he'd hoped and prayed while struggling to find a way into a hangar with a handful of terrified evacuees in tow, salvation at hand.
Rodney. Rodney!?
Do you... copy...
Please...
His memory was just beyond his grasp.
...
She shredded his flesh, which caused him untold agony. He hung there on those ropes in the middle of some ship, barely able to hear or even see any more. Yep, he could feel all right. That was one sense he hadn't needed right then. She tore into him, clawing at him furiously at first, then sitting back on her haunches, and eyeing him up and down as if assessing where to claw him next. He could taste, too. Copper. Blood. His own.
She knelt before him almost in supplication, then began taking her time to run those red-painted talons over his skin, scoring him from ear to nose, along his chin to his Adam's apple, then along his collar bones to his nipples. She slowly circumvented those, then rapidly scored from his breastbone down to his navel. Worse, she was so close to him now he could even smell her fetid breath. He didn't need that sense either. He must have somehow conveyed his disgust at her proximity, because she began to growl.
"You... never hear... of personal... space, lady?"
Couldn't he have been bought by a nice, kind sexy slave owner in tight leather and high heels? One who liked to feed him? He'd gone from the nonagenerian Ettifah to the seriously Wraithified... Norena? He almost wished he'd ended up back in Larrin's clutches. At least she was hot. And then there was... Mara. He didn't remember fighting her off. Then again, he wasn't thinking with his brain at the time. Then there was Chaya, and the whole 'glowy sex' thing without the actual sex.
...
He hung there, stinging from head to toe. He couldn't even lift his head. Blood dripped even from his scalp onto the floor. It poured from his nose, even his ears. Vampira placed something cold and hard against his right earlobe. At that, he rallied, wondering what final indignity she had in store for him, though at least she hadn't violated him below the belt. Yet. He looked at her through the eyelashes of the one eye he could still open - saw her arms shake as she busied herself gathering, what, his blood?
He saw her corking several vials once they'd filled to the brim, though he couldn't tell what she did with them after that as everything became a blur. He prayed she wouldn't take any other samples of anything from him, but he was pretty sure he could remain uncooperative in that respect as he hurt too much all over. Sex was the last thing on his mind, glowy or otherwise. Then she clubbed him once more across the back of his head.
...
Vampira had dumped him. Where, he had no idea. Not that it mattered. He was bleeding out anyways. So here he was. Wherever here was. Abandoned. Again. He had issues with that.
Then it began to pour.
What, not even the weather was going to be kind to him? Still it washed his body, flushing away blood and gore. He lay there flat on his back. Yep, circling the drain. With the faucet on full blast. He was on an autopsy slab and barely alive.
Oh, God, no. No vivisection. No vivisection!
He just wished he could fill in the last piece of the puzzle before he finally checked out. At least that.
His name.
He was... what did Norena call him... a colonel. He was military. A soldier.
So, Colonel John Sh- Sh- Sh-
Shit...
Yeah, Colonel John Shit. Kissing cousin or maybe brother of Jack Shit. He remembered the name Davy. Dave. David Sh-
"John." That soft voice was all pervasive, washing over him in waves.
His eyelids flew open then slammed shut again. He didn't even have the energy to keep them open. Nor could he. The light was too bright, and it hurt his eyes, hurt his entire being. He only saw a pink blur through one eye, so he was pretty sure he had ruptured blood vessels and a detached retina.
So, not dead yet, though he was getting there. Pretty soon. He could check out any time he liked. But maybe he could never leave.
So, there was someone there with him as he lay there dying, and he expected to see an angel, though all he had left him was whatever he could conjure up in his rapidly fading mind's eye, and in his mind's eye, she was beautiful. Who was she? What was she?
"Lasss... rites?"
"I do not understand your words, John. But you are injured. Allow me heal you."
Hands feathered over his entire body. He wanted to swat her away, whoever or whatever she was; avoid more molestation, any further desecration of his corpse. Why did he still inhabit it? Surely he should have vacated the premises by now. Blown this popsicle stand.
"Go. Away."
"I must not and I will not!"
John cried into the rain.
""M'I naked? Please tell me I'm not naked." Hah. Least of his worries.
"You sport somewhat ragged underclothing," she whispered, then giggled. "Do you truly not know me?"
He would have shrugged if he could.
"I have grown since we last met, John. Changed. Even though I ascended, I did not remain a child."
John willed his good eye open. There she was in a floaty dress, all... glowy - yeah, glowy - against a night sky. And plumb grown up. She'd detangled her crazy hair, let it grow out, and it cascaded now in a long, neat, pretty braid over her shoulders all the way to her tiny waist. She even wore subtle make-up.
She performed a merry dance over him.
She played him like an instrument.
John jerked and writhed under her ministrations, yet soon felt himself reacquainting himself with his body. He was no longer on that slab. He could feel damp earth below him, and just about make out some starlit alien sky above him. With two good twenty-thirty vision eyes.
This was no longer Skojo. He'd mapped those constellations in his head whenever he'd snuck outside at night to relieve himself. That and bathe in Ettifah's bathing water barrel or in the neighbor's bindy trough after dark.
"This is the best I can do for you. The others will not permit more. I can get away with only this much because I am still young and not fully formed and seemingly not yet fully accountable."
"Your name, princess? Wait - mine?! Tell me!" He pleaded with his eyes. His two good eyes. They embodied what was left of his shredded being.
Why, you are John," she declared with a winning smile, the type that was engagingly caught between being a girl and a woman, more or less grown out of her pre-teen gawkiness with a hint of the promise to come, and he pondered on what it might be like to father and get to raise a daughter, how he'd probably need a shotgun from day one. Yeah, like he'd live that long. Did he already have a son? He had a vision of playing remote control cars, and a happy, chubby, robust baby boy kicking his legs and squealing at his antics from the safety of his mother's arms.
It was about the boy.
"That much I know," he growled. "I – "
His train of thought was cut off as she looked up and around in terror.
"I have been summoned! I cannot remain! I must abide by the law! My sister reminds me! Commands me!" she cried, her hands pressed to her cheeks, whereupon she dissolved before his eyes in a eerie glow, and her components shot up into the ether like she was being involuntarily retracted skywards. She reminded him of The Scream elongated as she ascended Jacob's ladder.
Ascended...
"No! Wait!" Please don't go... Tell me more! I'm... lost!
He reached for her, reached out for her wonderful, beautiful, incredible, pristine, precious, intact soul - everything his wasn't and could never be - but she was gone from him, most likely never to return.
The only human being who had ever healed him rather than hurt him or want something from him was...
"Heddaaa!"
But his scream was ripped away on the whipping winds of an approaching storm.