He didn't want to open his eyes. Because maybe, just maybe, if he kept them closed this would all be nothing more than some horrific nightmare. Then, eventually, he would wake up in his room on Atlantis. Or, worst case scenario, in the infirmary. Which, given the sickening throbbing ache in his head, wouldn't have surprised John all that much. But he knew it wasn't a dream. And keeping his eyes closed was worse than keeping them open. When his eyes were closed he could see, all too clearly, the bloodstained corpses of Ford and Teyla.
So John opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his box. There were no tiles or holes or even cracks to count. Nothing to distract him from this terrible reality. He didn't move because the floor beneath him was just cold enough to make his body feel almost numb. Almost. But he did flinch when he sensed the door opening.
Slowly, painfully, John sat up, swallowing hard against the bile that pooled in his throat. He pushed himself back till he hit the wall, then he drew his knees up to his chest and pressed his palms against the floor as he watched the door swing all the way open.
A guard he didn't recognize stepped in with a cup of what John knew would be water. He watched him set it on the floor, the translucent face expressionless. "Why are you doing this?" John asked. Because maybe this creature would answer him, where the woman would not.
Other than to stiffen, the guard remained silent, but he did stare at John. John stared back. "I'm going to kill you," he whispered, but he knew the guard heard him by the way the pale eyes flickered. And that was when John launched himself forward, because he knew it would not be expected of him. He slammed into the guard's torso, riding him down to the floor, the jarring motion of impact sending waves up pain welling up his body to crash in his head. But John fought the dizziness and he managed to wrap his fingers around the guard's throat. He squeezed for all he was worth. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?" he shouted, although his voice was more raspy than sharp. Still, he was pretty sure he got his point across, as the pale eyes bulged in the pale face.
And suddenly he didn't even want an answer. All John wanted was to squeeze the life out of the guard. He couldn't reach the man in the robe, the being that had butchered Ford and Teyla, but he could kill this pale bastard and, by god, he would do just that.
But even this little victory was to be denied him. John was so focused on the guard thrashing in his grip that he didn't even hear two more enter the room. Steel hands grabbed him, hauling him away, and he turned on them, becoming something feral and wild and vicious, but he wasn't strong enough to last long or inflict enough damage and suddenly he found himself flung across the room. John felt the impact his body made against the wall, then he saw a bright flash of light, which turned into molten pain that rippled across his ribcage, and he crumpled to the floor and curled up into a ball. Maybe this was okay. Maybe if they broke him they would leave McKay alone.
Time must have slipped past him, although he didn't remember blacking out, but suddenly soft hands were touching his face, smoothing back his sweat-dampened hair, and wetness touched his lips and John sucked in a mouthful of water. It tasted sweet and pure and almost ached going down his throat. Then he felt coolness on his face and he blinked hard and a pale face came into focus. A woman he hadn't seen before. Like the others she was expressionless, her pale eyes wide as they stared at him. John didn't stare back. He simply closed his eyes as she continued her ministrations. Cooling him and cleaning him and he drifted into shadowy darkness where only the silhouettes of dead bodies danced behind his eyelids.
He didn't hear her leave, but he heard footsteps approaching and opened his eyes and the guards were there. John didn't move. He let himself be dragged to his feet. He waited for them to bind his wrists, but they didn't do that this time and that sent a spike of cold fear shooting up from the pit of his stomach.
Not surprisingly they returned to the room with the window and the woman was there. He waited for her to ask her question. Where is Earth? John waited and waited and had to bite his lip hard, tasting blood, so that he wouldn't scream at her. She was psyching him out and it was working. So he turned away, turned to look out the window, and he wasn't surprised that the room was clean and sparkling white again. Nor was he surprised to see Rodney strapped down on the table.
John felt a shudder ripple through him and he crossed his arms over his aching ribs and didn't look at the woman as he whispered, "I won't tell you where Earth is." He would do anything else though. Anything to save Rodney from whatever horrific fate awaited him. They could do worse than they had already done. John had seen worse. Worse done to strangers, not friends.
The woman said nothing.
The door in the chamber opened and the man in the robe stepped inside. John stared at his hands. In one he held what looked like a shish kabob skewer. In the other he held the same stiletto blade he had used on Teyla. John felt his stomach coil into knots. He watched as another robed figure entered the room, moving to stand at Rodney's head. He reached up pressed one hand to Rodney's forehead, the other gripped Rodney's chin and forced his jaw open. John felt his own jaw tighten when the butcher boy reached into Rodney's mouth and pulled on his tongue. He didn't want to look but he couldn't close his eyes fast enough as the stiletto blade sliced through Rodney's tongue.
The hoarse, guttural, cry that erupted from Rodney shattered something inside of John. He was glad his hands were free so that he could cover his ears. But the cries didn't last long before the blood began to choke Rodney. But the choking didn't last long because the robed man had poked the sharp end of the thin skewer into Rodney's left temple. John watched in detached fascination, as the end soon poked out the other side. Rodney fell silent abruptly.
John closed his eyes now and sent up a little prayer that Rodney was already dead. Just the thought of him living with brain damage, even for a moment, shook John to his core. Another thing shook him as well. The silence. This time there was nothing but silence. He opened his eyes and the woman was staring at him. Waiting for him to answer her question, John knew. But instead he began to laugh. It made his ribs ache and pain throb in his temples but he didn't care. "You killed them all," he told her. "There's no one left." Except for himself. But John stopped laughing and looked into her pale eyes and he knew that she would not kill him. Maybe because, in this moment, he wanted it so very much. "Fuck you..." John said, but without any real anger behind it. He was too numb to be angry. But not numb enough.
He stared as she stared back and then she turned and walked out of the room. John watched her go until the guards came and escorted him back to his box. He walked into it on his own and didn't care when they locked him in. He paced the room from corner to corner, each footstep making his head pound. But he welcomed the pain. It kept him focused.
But it couldn't keep the image of Rodney, strapped down on the table, blood pooling from his mouth, his blue eyes wide open, frozen and vacant and John's stomach twisted then. There was a bucket in the corner and he ran to it, fell onto his knees and puked until he brought up nothing but blood-tinged bile. Next to the bucket were a soft cloth and a cup of water. John rinsed his mouth then wiped his face then he crawled into the farthest corner.
He watched the door open and someone new came in and took the bucket. They said nothing. John had nothing left to say. He watched them go then curled up into a ball and wondered if he might die in his sleep.