This chapter is... a little weird, I'll admit and has suggested content that is probably not suitable for readers under 17. If you don't want to read it, skip ahead. It won't affect the 'flow' of the story!

Reviews would be appreciated, I want to know if this is weird:powerful or weird:freakish.

He crooned to himself in the dark, his voice almost worn away to nothing by his screams. He wasn't sure when he had started singing to keep himself sane. Hell, he wasn't sure about anything nowadays. His memory was in worse shape than his physical shell.

Initially they had been little things, insignificant details that had drifted away. He'd had more pressing concerns than perfect recall of the pizza delivery place's telephone number at that time.

Then larger things, names and numbers that he felt were important to him.

And then, huge gaping holes in his memory that sent jolting waves of panic through his ruined body if he dared to even let his mind touch on them.

Like the names of the days of the week.

His own middle name.

His address.

Large parts of the day would filter in and out of his consciousness, mingling with dreams, imaginings and enforced hallucinations.

It was, he mused, as if in an effort to prevent his captors from gaining access to the important data that nestled in his brain it was locking down and preventing anyone from looking. Even himself.

But he'd found singing songs under his breath helped him hold onto the important memories that remained.

Any songs, even stupid jingles from adverts. Abba songs, which he'd always hated but somehow knew all the lyrics to. Happy Birthday was a good one, it was simple and so ingrained in his consciousness he never stumbled over the words and became frightened.

He could hear footsteps in the corridor and became quiet, lying perfectly still. The door to his cell opened. At another time, after a visit to the sarcophagus, then he might have the strength to try and attack the Jaffa who was framed in the door lintel. Not now. He lay still and wished for the Jaffa to go away.

It did not.

"Get up."

He remained lying on the floor, passive resistance being better than none at all. He would not let them see how broken he had become.

"Get up!"

He did not.

The Jaffa walked over to him, sneering in disgust. It kicked him in the back. He rolled across the floor, tears forcing themselves from his eyes but he refused to scream. A strong hand grabbed his hair, filthily long and matter locks, and pulled him onto his feet.

He broke, the pain in his scalp excruciating. He lashed out with his hands, humiliation complete as the Jaffa laughed at his pathetic retaliation.

"You are weak now, human. You will break."

He would not. He would endure.

For her.

For the one memory no amount of unimaginable torture could ever erase.

For Carter.

Kev'nar lounged, one leg dangling over the arm of his throne-chair, smiling thinly. He turned O'Neill's dog-tag over and over, never breaking eye-contact.

Kev'nar was a master of interrogation and brutal punishment; a sadist even by the poor standards of the Goa'uld. He was infamous for being able to extract information from even the hardiest of prisoners: infamous because even the Goa'uld recognised the repugnance of a being who took enjoyment in the pain of others to a ridiculous level. Hated and despised by his own species, his existence was tolerated simply because he got results and he got them fast.

O'Neill did not know it, but he had set a new record for prisoner endurance. Kev'nar had, unthinkably, grown weary of the constant and unfathomable resistance of this particular Tau'ri. His boredom wrestling with a twisted professional pride, he had offered O'Neill in trade to the System Lords and yet still felt the desperate need to extract the information that nestled within O'Neill's brain before the trade occurred.

At first Kev'nar had experimented with the more traditional methods of punishment: knives, acids, pain-sticks, sarcophagus-induced revival and repetition of the same deadly torments. O'Neill had not crumbled and Kev'nar had advanced to the next level of his sadistic program of extraction; starvation, sleep deprivation, the use of a red hot poker inserted into bodily orifices; using the sarcophagus only as O'Neill approached death. He had used hallucinogenic drugs, memory recall and manipulation devices. O'Neill had surpassed even the hardiest Tok'ra in outwitting the programs, refusing to talk as he watched his son die again and again, murdered by the hands of his friends, lovers, even his wife. He had sent him slowly blind by pinning his eyelids to his face, grown splinters of a plant which bore a hideous similarity to bamboo under his fingernails and into his fingers, and through the muscles webs of his arms and legs. He had forced O'Neill to drink water until he began drowning in his own bodily fluids, broken every bone in his body.

And whilst the man would scream, and babble incoherently, answering ever irrelevant question, telling Kev'nar there were 'however many damn thrones he wanted' when asked to repeat the lie of 'there are two thrones'.... and yet remained obstinately, maddeningly silent when asked, for example, the 'gate address to the Alpha Site.

Kev'nar stood up and O'Neill whimpered pathetically. "You will tell me, Tau'ri, everything I want to know."

There was silence, silence Kev'nar had come to despise.

Then-

"Bite me."

-O'Neill spat, his blood stained sputum landing pathetically short of the Goa'uld and lying, glistening on the floor, a testament to his refusal to co-operate.

He wasn't even sure why he was refusing any-more. He couldn't remember enough of who or what he was to know why it was crucial not to speak.

He just knew that if he did break then whatever he was would be lost, irretrievably.

So he sung 'Killer Queen' in his mind as he watched Charlie die, all over again.