Rain was pounding the material of the rain slicker he was wearing. Above him, on the plateau, they were wrapping the bodies up, making a list of who was there, sending them back through the Gate. Another cheery, fun-filled day in the life of Jack O'Neill. The raingear was doing no good. His face was streaming with water blown in by a god-awful wind, and it was dripping down the back. Mud sloshed into his boots, making every step he took squash weirdly. But he didn't notice.
God, Danny, don't let the next name they tell me be yours. Be alive, be safe--hell, you don't even have to be safe. Just be alive. The radio crackled out another name. Someone he was going to play poker with that Saturday. Damn. He kicked at a large rock in frustration. An hour. He'd been looking around the base of this damn hill an hour, and hadn't found anything. Carter was on one side, Teal'C on another, and he was over here. They'd started looking along the slopes, and now were working their way out. But in the rain, there wasn't a chance in hell they'd be able to find anything. He kicked the rock again.
Realization dawned on him. It wasn't a rock. He knelt in the thick mud, and picked it up. SGC-issued backpack. His hands trembled. Daniel, God knows you've probably used up your nine lives by now, but tell me you've managed to find another one somewhere in you… He reached in and pulled out the first object his hands closed on. A travel-pack of tissues. He almost laughed when he saw them, and lifted his radio. "Carter, Teal'C, I found something…"
* * * * *
Ah, the good old feel of shackles on my wrists. Haven't had this done in, what's it been, a week? God, my brain is starting to sound like Jack… Daniel didn't move. He didn't feel like doing it. He didn't remember getting his arms chained above his head. Hell, all he remembered was walking down the hallway--possibly. That had happened, hadn't it? Did it matter?
First things first, Daniel…Can you even pick up your head? He forced himself to do so, but at the same time being unhappy about having to do it. Okay, good. Got that done. Not that it's helping any, but… The room was carved out of stone, but it was larger than the cell he'd been in. He was chained to a wall (Oh, *that's* a new one), and before him was a stone table, only a few feet away. A lovely stone table full of interesting prizes. Tell him what he's won, Johnny! He tried to keep himself from wondering when his mind had taken on the voice of Jack O'Neill, and stared at the instruments. Okay, those are definitely torture instruments. Painful, painful torture…things.
Footsteps. They were coming nearer. He then noticed that there was a doorway in the wall--open, and it seemed as though there was nothing to close it. The footsteps were echoing through the cavernous stone hallways. He tried his best to blend in with the wall; to disappear into the shadows of the torch-lit room. Deciding after a few seconds that it just wasn't going to happen, he dropped his head again, and tried his best to look unconscious.
They came into the room in silence. All but one person stopped, and their footsteps--lighter than the others', but quicker--approached him. They stopped in front of him, between him and the table. A hand reached forward, cupping his chin with warm fingers, lifting his face upwards. He couldn't manage to keep his eyes shut forever, and now he opened them, and stared at his enemy.
She was gorgeous. Dark hair drawn back away from fair white skin. She was clad in white, flowing robes, and was graceful in her poise and movements. But he edged away from her hand. It was her eyes that caught him. Deep, dark, disturbingly cold and emotionless. Beauty spoiled by--by what? Hatred? Power? Evilness? He looked away from those eyes--fearing being caught in them like a fly in a spider's web. Behind her, flanking either side of the doorway, were two guards. Large, muscular, and holding tightly to weapons very much like those he had seen on the hill.
Uh-oh…she just…asked me something. He looked back at her. She stared at him expectantly, looking quite ready to sic her guards on him at the drop of a hat. And not only did he not know what she had asked him, but he didn't even know what language she had asked it in. He'd been too busy zoned out and staring at the weapons. Marvelous. Start with the basics. "I'm Daniel Jackson. Daniel." This would be *so* much easier if I could point to myself…or would it? Does it matter if I point to myself if she has no idea what I'm saying anyway? He snapped himself back to the moment when she demanded something of him in her native tongue. One which he couldn't figure out at the spur of the moment. Maybe if he were in top condition, sure. But considering he'd just been attacked, had fallen down a hill, been chased through a forest, captured, and chained to a wall, with plenty of injuries to show for all of it, he couldn't manage to find even a good source for the beginning of his translations.
War. Okay, she just said--oh, damn. She thinks I'm starting war. "No--no war. *No* *war*." Oh, good, Daniel. Overpronunciate everything. Now I'm sure she knows exactly what you're saying. "No…esewl…?" He cringed, awaiting her reaction.
She stared at him in cold silence for a moment, her head raised, eyes locked on his, emotionless pools of dark. He let go of a breath he'd been holding. Okay, so maybe that *was* the right w--Her hand caught around his throat, fingernails digging into his skin, cutting off his airway. He struggled, trying to find a way--any way--out of the situation. But his mind froze and his blood ran cold when his gaze caught hers once again.
Her eyes glowed.
