Gloom

Resting on his side, head on his bicep, Rodney fingered strands of hair, comforted by its familiar softness. The other hand was tucked under his chin feeling the stubble scratch his skin. He was hungry, weakening by the minute, breathing uneasily, but at least the pain had receded. He wished for sleep but couldn't indulge, not until he knew where he was and why he was here.

He knew he was on the right track, closer to making sense of this incarceration. It was that man, Lord Limployd. He had been touching his thigh and…and…leering. Yes, leering and leaning. A whole lot of leaning had been going on. He had called two guards, atrociously big guards and Rodney had been taken. No…they hadn't taken him, it wasn't them. The Lord, all wide smile and lascivious eyes, had suggested he follow them. No taking, plenty of following.

Sheppard had asked for Ronon to accompany him, explaining that it was a safety precaution, usual procedure. The Lord considered the request a personal insult. It was him, stupid genius that he was, who had said it would be alright, he would go; research facilities had to be better than negotiations any day. So he had left with a last look at a very unhappy Colonel and a seemingly worried Teyla. Ronon had twitched, his natural protectiveness urging him to follow. The guards had accompanied him across town where they'd entered a rectangular shaped building, the only one of a normal shape. A woman was introduced as the guide for the research facilities. She had a name of course but it was exceedingly irrelevant at this point.

Rodney shifted to his back, the surface he was laying on transferring its coldness to his body. No, that wasn't correct. His body was being robed of its warmth by stupid temperature regulation. That was how it worked, all that radiation, convection, conduction business and the constriction of blood vessels making him shiver. Rodney was always hot, his skin always on the wrong side of clammy from the heat he generated. Presumably, a life spent in six months of winter would reorganise your body so you were constantly warm. It was a pathetic private joke to him that he could, in fact, be described as a very hot man. There was no warmth to be found here though, so he shifted from one side to the other in the hopes of finding a comfortable position.

He let go of his physical discomfort to concentrate on the events preceding his confinement. If he could just find out what had happened it would give him a better chance of getting out of here, alive and well. He had no doubt it was up to him now. His team was possibly in the same predicament or they were looking for him; both instances would require him to escape. He had to get out, either to find them or to be found.

The image previously discarded wound its way back to the forefront of his mind. Afraid what he pictured was true, afraid of what it would mean he tried to push it back, forget it, knowing it would only bring him to panic.

He was right. He'd been able to distract himself so far but it all came crashing in, the threat of hypoglycaemic shock, the horror of a confined space to the claustrophobic, the torment of impending doom. His breathing quickened, as much as laboured breathing could. He broke into cold sweats, his muscles were overrun by spasms and he couldn't think of anything but his imminent death. It all came out in a rush of words, jumping from one emotion to the next; worry, anger, sorrow and hope chased each other through the sentences. Hands went flying in large graceless movements to emphasis the speech.

"I'm buried alive. Buried alive! This is it, the end of Rodney McKay. What kind of subspecies would dare bury me alive! I'll show them!" He pointed at a figurative them.

"They can't get away with this! How sick can you get! This is just…what are you? Deranged!" Running a hand through his damp hair he attempted to calm himself

"Ok, ok. Deep breaths. Focus Rodney, focus. Let's not go down this road right now. You need to keep your head, get out of here. Why would they bury you alive? You are much too useful for that. Even if you are in an impossibly hopeless situation, Sheppard and his hero complex will save you, he always does. Always always does. He can't help himself, he likes the glory and the girls!" The hands shot up again apparently linked to the speech area of his brain.

"What if he's buried alive too! What if I'm the only survivor? They're all dead from suffocation and it won't be long until my turn comes. I hope there's a hell somewhere so I can track down Sheppard and kick his ass for getting us in this mess…Oh nononononononono, don't think like that. It's fine, it's fine, you'll get out of here, you're practically Superman no matter what anyone says! You always find a way out, come on, come on, think think think!" Again, the hands calmed, resting on his chest as he took deep, purposeful breaths. Before long they were launched back.

"THINK! I'm buried alive! I can't think! I'm going to run out of air and die a horrible gasping death! Why can't I have stayed back this time! I'd be in my nice comfy lab, surrounded by idiots, sure, but I wouldn't be dying!" On and on he went, at times quiet and reassuring, at others loud and furious. He eventually faded away into nothing, his body giving him the respite he so desperately needed.

Then, they came. They sedated him to avoid any unnecessary violence should he wake unexpectedly and took him from the box that held him. He was strong, very strong. It was rare for a newly acquired specimen to stay in control so long, to analyse and hypothesise unrelentingly like he had done. The Lord would be proud, delighted at his choice. It would be very good for them. Yes, detainee number 73945 would be very beneficial to them all.

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