Part Two
How long it went on for Jack was never to know, the horror overwhelming him, every sound magnified a hundred fold. On the edge of his awareness he heard the happy mutterings, the small sighs as the people were allowed a closer view, their cruelty an almost concrete presence in the room, the keeper's jolly tones urging them to approach the platform, money once again exchanging hands. But the closest sounds were the ones that caught him up and held him, the loud rumbles of pleasure, the lapping and licking, the brittle noise of skin crisp and broken and chewed.
Intermingled with the sounds were the feelings, every nerve tingling with awareness. Wet tongues sweeping across him, finding the sweat, the blood, and lapping it up, nibbling at him, grabbing in sharp teeth and ripping, ever so delicately at the places perfectly cooked for their enjoyment. The slow peeling of flesh, eaten away bit by bit, the claws digging in and holding him down, pressing hard on rawness. When one of them found the blood around his eye, there was a tussle for possession, claws scrabbling across his body, snarls of defiance, until the larger won out, its dry tongue savouring the taste as Jack cringed back, feeling the teeth across the injury, fearing for his sight if the creature slipped. The smaller of the two grabbed a mouthful of flesh as if in protest, chewing and ripping it from his chest, pulling a long strip down his stomach until, somewhere below his pelvis, it snagged and refused to let go. A jerk of its head saw it release its tentative grip on his body, coming away accompanied by his scream. A few gulps and it was gone, a part of him no longer.
He wished for anything to end the pain, and finally slipped into shocked oblivion to the disappointed catcalls of the crowd, even the hardest slaps unable to rouse him. He didn't hear the footsteps leave the room, the growls as the creatures were pulled from their meal or see the torches extinguished.
He woke to darkness and hands upon him once again, but this time gentle touches releasing his restraints. A cup at his mouth, a few sips of water and he was pulled upright and thrown across broad shoulders. Out the door, and the night air made him moan, a hand clenched over his mouth smothering his cries. His body was moved frequently, different bodies, different hands on his skin, they blurred together into a mass of pain. He didn't know how long it took, but it seemed hours of cold air, hours of purgatory as his abused body was jolted with every movement, and the tang of other people's sweat mingled with that of his own blood. Suddenly he was still, a solid surface beneath him. A brief warmth appeared as a blanket was firmly wrapped around him, a piece of bread placed in his hand, and they were gone. All he could imagine was that the local version of the animal liberation movement had released him back into the wild to sink or swim as he could.
He would have been thankful if he had been capable of coherent thought.
He shivered and shook, reaction setting in, vomiting the meagre contents of his stomach onto the grass beside him, and then crawling a few feet away, tugging the blanket after him. Dawn saw him huddled under it, the urge to tightly wrap it around himself in conflict with the harshness of rough fabric on raw and bleeding skin. He couldn't have hidden if he had tried, his total concentration taken up by sensory overload, and he quivered and jerked hour after hour, the tenseness fighting with his exhaustion, until finally the exhaustion won and he slept.
Rain beat hard on his bare body, each drop a gunshot, reawakening the burns, causing them to sizzle deep under what little remained of his skin. His leg was the worst, the burn on the upper thigh almost meeting the one extending down his front, only a thin strip of untouched flesh dividing them. He couldn't feel his hands, the uninjured one seemingly going out in sympathy for its partner, but he knew he would have to use them soon.
He couldn't stay here. There was no protection from the relentless fall of water, or the chill wind that tossed the branches above him, releasing showers of icy needles even in those brief moments when the drizzle eased. He was alone here, miles from the town, that much he remembered from the night before, so he let his misery out, knowing there was no one to hear. The groans were loud, wrenched from the core of his soul, embarrassing in their sound, but he felt the better for them, despite the toll they took on his energy. Finally he subsided into whimpers, the ache down and into his hips sapping his strength along with the steady oozing of blood that dripped and burnt across his thighs.
Time passed, and with it his grip on awareness. One thought remained, however, he couldn't stay here.
He couldn't stay here. The piece of bread lay forgotten by his hand, now a soggy mass, slowly washing away into the soil. No whimpers now, just harsh breaths, struggling their way out, sometimes choked back before they escaped.
He couldn't stay here. He knew that.
His body might have been battered into submission, but his spirit wasn't. Crawling like the wounded animal he was, he edged his way towards the rock wall a few feet from him, seeking its meagre protection instinctively. There he stayed, until the rain stopped.
He came back to himself as the sun came out, his natural anger winning out over the desire to just stop and give in. Those bastards weren't going to beat him. He was not some mindless creature in a zoo, to be used however they wanted. Not once, from the time he had been caught, separated from his team in the confusion of the battle, had they shown the smallest iota of compassion. Thrown into some sort of medieval cross between a zoo and a circus, he had been treated as an object of amusement, used and humiliated in the worst possible ways – ways that even his fertile mind had never imagined. If he could have, he would have burnt the town behind him, wiped out all vestiges of their sick and putrid society.
Jack was as close to hatred as he had ever come. Normally some tiny spark within him understood his enemies, even the Goa'uld, knew their motivations and kept him focused on the fight. This time, the hatred overtook everything. His rage brought him the strength to survive. He huddled against the cold rock, his eyes black with fury.
He was miles from the gate, any possibility of making his way there without help the dream of a fool, and he was never that. His only hope was his team, the last glimpse he had of them was their retreat into the forest across the clearing from him. He knew they had escaped, because they must. They would be looking for him now, Teal'c tracking, Daniel worrying, and Carter watching their backs.
He could hold out until they got here.
Jack sat, his back against the cliff, the blanket covering his legs, the raging thirst competing with the hot wounds for his attention. He had already checked his injuries as best he could, taken a mental inventory, and knew he hadn't much time. The burns were crusting over, puss oozing in places as infection set in, the thick substance coating his body in a eerie sheen of dirty yellow mixed nauseatingly with red and black. He had been light headed before, the lack of food and water taking its toll on his abused body, but now he was sinking slowly, his systems shutting down. With glazed eyes he looked at his blackened fingers, curling in on themselves. Above them his arm looked like skinned road kill, as if some demented hunter had taken only the best parts and discarded the rest.
There was nothing he could do, except stay awake. He stubbornly refused to give in to the weakness, and when he could hold his eyes open no longer, he continued to listen to the noises around him, alert for any sign of company, friendly or hostile.
Hours wound down into night, as Jack slipped in unconsciousness, slumping over until he came to rest on the damp ground, a lonely forgotten figure, waiting for nature to reclaim him.
His own coughing woke him, shaking him and leaving him gasping like a fish out of water. Each movement telegraphed pain to his nerves, and he cried out, the sound sending birds aloft from the surrounding trees. Instinctively he pushed himself upright, only to have his hand collapse, throwing him back to the ground with a force that sent him spinning back into the dark.
The next time he surfaced it was to chaos. The trees seemed to reach their branches towards him, although he could not feel the gales that must be moving them. For a minute the last shreds of logic tried to find a reason behind the irrational and found none. His vision tunnelled and wove, dancing colours sweeping across from the edges, making him start in surprise and cringe back. He watched as they formed rainbows, crazy lava lamp blobs and swirls and he giggled, his parched throat making croaking noises that seemed the finest of songs. If he had been able, he would have followed the waltzing lights off into the forest, but try though he might, he couldn't get to his feet, his feeble efforts only rubbing dirt into the wounds to mix with the fluid he was losing by the minute. The blanket, blood stained now, was crumpled under him, and he pulled at it, sniggering at the thought of nudist colonies and volleyball games, his fingers cracking.
The sight of his fingernails fascinated him and he stared with some dazed amazement at them. The sight sent him into paroxysms of laughter, his body shaking with the pain they caused. Some of the nails were gone already, and the one or two that remained, hanging by a thread, he rubbed off across the ground. Then he watched them, lying there, and waited for them to move, to grow, to turn into soldiers like dragon's teeth.
Itching. Sharp and raw. Unable to ignore it, he scratched at his chest, rivulets of red and yellow sweeping over him with every movement of his hand. Nothing stopped the itching. It became unbearable, all consuming. He dug deeper, wishing his dragon nails back, crying in frustration. An edge caught and pulled, a thin strip of blackened skin stripped off.
And the itch stopped. Just in that spot. Just where the hand had scratched.
A grin lighting up his haggard face, Jack lay on the ground and gouged pieces of himself off, continuing the job the creatures had begun.
His laughter echoed among the trees.
How long it went on for Jack was never to know, the horror overwhelming him, every sound magnified a hundred fold. On the edge of his awareness he heard the happy mutterings, the small sighs as the people were allowed a closer view, their cruelty an almost concrete presence in the room, the keeper's jolly tones urging them to approach the platform, money once again exchanging hands. But the closest sounds were the ones that caught him up and held him, the loud rumbles of pleasure, the lapping and licking, the brittle noise of skin crisp and broken and chewed.
Intermingled with the sounds were the feelings, every nerve tingling with awareness. Wet tongues sweeping across him, finding the sweat, the blood, and lapping it up, nibbling at him, grabbing in sharp teeth and ripping, ever so delicately at the places perfectly cooked for their enjoyment. The slow peeling of flesh, eaten away bit by bit, the claws digging in and holding him down, pressing hard on rawness. When one of them found the blood around his eye, there was a tussle for possession, claws scrabbling across his body, snarls of defiance, until the larger won out, its dry tongue savouring the taste as Jack cringed back, feeling the teeth across the injury, fearing for his sight if the creature slipped. The smaller of the two grabbed a mouthful of flesh as if in protest, chewing and ripping it from his chest, pulling a long strip down his stomach until, somewhere below his pelvis, it snagged and refused to let go. A jerk of its head saw it release its tentative grip on his body, coming away accompanied by his scream. A few gulps and it was gone, a part of him no longer.
He wished for anything to end the pain, and finally slipped into shocked oblivion to the disappointed catcalls of the crowd, even the hardest slaps unable to rouse him. He didn't hear the footsteps leave the room, the growls as the creatures were pulled from their meal or see the torches extinguished.
He woke to darkness and hands upon him once again, but this time gentle touches releasing his restraints. A cup at his mouth, a few sips of water and he was pulled upright and thrown across broad shoulders. Out the door, and the night air made him moan, a hand clenched over his mouth smothering his cries. His body was moved frequently, different bodies, different hands on his skin, they blurred together into a mass of pain. He didn't know how long it took, but it seemed hours of cold air, hours of purgatory as his abused body was jolted with every movement, and the tang of other people's sweat mingled with that of his own blood. Suddenly he was still, a solid surface beneath him. A brief warmth appeared as a blanket was firmly wrapped around him, a piece of bread placed in his hand, and they were gone. All he could imagine was that the local version of the animal liberation movement had released him back into the wild to sink or swim as he could.
He would have been thankful if he had been capable of coherent thought.
He shivered and shook, reaction setting in, vomiting the meagre contents of his stomach onto the grass beside him, and then crawling a few feet away, tugging the blanket after him. Dawn saw him huddled under it, the urge to tightly wrap it around himself in conflict with the harshness of rough fabric on raw and bleeding skin. He couldn't have hidden if he had tried, his total concentration taken up by sensory overload, and he quivered and jerked hour after hour, the tenseness fighting with his exhaustion, until finally the exhaustion won and he slept.
Rain beat hard on his bare body, each drop a gunshot, reawakening the burns, causing them to sizzle deep under what little remained of his skin. His leg was the worst, the burn on the upper thigh almost meeting the one extending down his front, only a thin strip of untouched flesh dividing them. He couldn't feel his hands, the uninjured one seemingly going out in sympathy for its partner, but he knew he would have to use them soon.
He couldn't stay here. There was no protection from the relentless fall of water, or the chill wind that tossed the branches above him, releasing showers of icy needles even in those brief moments when the drizzle eased. He was alone here, miles from the town, that much he remembered from the night before, so he let his misery out, knowing there was no one to hear. The groans were loud, wrenched from the core of his soul, embarrassing in their sound, but he felt the better for them, despite the toll they took on his energy. Finally he subsided into whimpers, the ache down and into his hips sapping his strength along with the steady oozing of blood that dripped and burnt across his thighs.
Time passed, and with it his grip on awareness. One thought remained, however, he couldn't stay here.
He couldn't stay here. The piece of bread lay forgotten by his hand, now a soggy mass, slowly washing away into the soil. No whimpers now, just harsh breaths, struggling their way out, sometimes choked back before they escaped.
He couldn't stay here. He knew that.
His body might have been battered into submission, but his spirit wasn't. Crawling like the wounded animal he was, he edged his way towards the rock wall a few feet from him, seeking its meagre protection instinctively. There he stayed, until the rain stopped.
He came back to himself as the sun came out, his natural anger winning out over the desire to just stop and give in. Those bastards weren't going to beat him. He was not some mindless creature in a zoo, to be used however they wanted. Not once, from the time he had been caught, separated from his team in the confusion of the battle, had they shown the smallest iota of compassion. Thrown into some sort of medieval cross between a zoo and a circus, he had been treated as an object of amusement, used and humiliated in the worst possible ways – ways that even his fertile mind had never imagined. If he could have, he would have burnt the town behind him, wiped out all vestiges of their sick and putrid society.
Jack was as close to hatred as he had ever come. Normally some tiny spark within him understood his enemies, even the Goa'uld, knew their motivations and kept him focused on the fight. This time, the hatred overtook everything. His rage brought him the strength to survive. He huddled against the cold rock, his eyes black with fury.
He was miles from the gate, any possibility of making his way there without help the dream of a fool, and he was never that. His only hope was his team, the last glimpse he had of them was their retreat into the forest across the clearing from him. He knew they had escaped, because they must. They would be looking for him now, Teal'c tracking, Daniel worrying, and Carter watching their backs.
He could hold out until they got here.
Jack sat, his back against the cliff, the blanket covering his legs, the raging thirst competing with the hot wounds for his attention. He had already checked his injuries as best he could, taken a mental inventory, and knew he hadn't much time. The burns were crusting over, puss oozing in places as infection set in, the thick substance coating his body in a eerie sheen of dirty yellow mixed nauseatingly with red and black. He had been light headed before, the lack of food and water taking its toll on his abused body, but now he was sinking slowly, his systems shutting down. With glazed eyes he looked at his blackened fingers, curling in on themselves. Above them his arm looked like skinned road kill, as if some demented hunter had taken only the best parts and discarded the rest.
There was nothing he could do, except stay awake. He stubbornly refused to give in to the weakness, and when he could hold his eyes open no longer, he continued to listen to the noises around him, alert for any sign of company, friendly or hostile.
Hours wound down into night, as Jack slipped in unconsciousness, slumping over until he came to rest on the damp ground, a lonely forgotten figure, waiting for nature to reclaim him.
His own coughing woke him, shaking him and leaving him gasping like a fish out of water. Each movement telegraphed pain to his nerves, and he cried out, the sound sending birds aloft from the surrounding trees. Instinctively he pushed himself upright, only to have his hand collapse, throwing him back to the ground with a force that sent him spinning back into the dark.
The next time he surfaced it was to chaos. The trees seemed to reach their branches towards him, although he could not feel the gales that must be moving them. For a minute the last shreds of logic tried to find a reason behind the irrational and found none. His vision tunnelled and wove, dancing colours sweeping across from the edges, making him start in surprise and cringe back. He watched as they formed rainbows, crazy lava lamp blobs and swirls and he giggled, his parched throat making croaking noises that seemed the finest of songs. If he had been able, he would have followed the waltzing lights off into the forest, but try though he might, he couldn't get to his feet, his feeble efforts only rubbing dirt into the wounds to mix with the fluid he was losing by the minute. The blanket, blood stained now, was crumpled under him, and he pulled at it, sniggering at the thought of nudist colonies and volleyball games, his fingers cracking.
The sight of his fingernails fascinated him and he stared with some dazed amazement at them. The sight sent him into paroxysms of laughter, his body shaking with the pain they caused. Some of the nails were gone already, and the one or two that remained, hanging by a thread, he rubbed off across the ground. Then he watched them, lying there, and waited for them to move, to grow, to turn into soldiers like dragon's teeth.
Itching. Sharp and raw. Unable to ignore it, he scratched at his chest, rivulets of red and yellow sweeping over him with every movement of his hand. Nothing stopped the itching. It became unbearable, all consuming. He dug deeper, wishing his dragon nails back, crying in frustration. An edge caught and pulled, a thin strip of blackened skin stripped off.
And the itch stopped. Just in that spot. Just where the hand had scratched.
A grin lighting up his haggard face, Jack lay on the ground and gouged pieces of himself off, continuing the job the creatures had begun.
His laughter echoed among the trees.