Mark'd to Die

Chapter 2

Silence in the Tortured Soul

What he does isn't stupid, it's natural.

He spends the two days gathering intel; finds out that she's in the basement brig again, kept in the same cell she was last time. It's not all that helpful though because the etchings on the doors—the numbers and letters—still aren't from any alphabet he knows.

Then he circles in on the weak links. Despite how strong the military would like to think it is, every operation has officers that have bad habits—or bad records—and he secures information using the almost all access pass he was given back when he was just the perfect poster boy for the United States Air Force and the Stargate Program.

The PR people said he had a grin and a demeanor that people trusted—they weren't wrong because with a bit of sweet talking, and just a bit of blackmailing, he's able to not only find the door he's looking for but has an all-access pass to it upgraded on his ID card.

The door hisses and he doesn't know what to expect because last time she was brought to him, chained across from him at that interrogation table—forced to interact with him because it was what he wanted. He didn't get to see where they were keeping her, didn't get to see the environment, but he knows he didn't expect this.

It's small, closet small with a toilet, a sink and a bed all crammed in like old Christmas decorations or family movies in the crawlspace of an attic. The temperature has to be below freezing, doesn't know if this was done on purpose, if it's a bad electrical connection, or if it just has something to do with being this far underground.

The lights on in the room at 0200 are ridiculous, almost blinding because everything is white. White tiled walls, white tiled floors, the bed is almost as white as her skin. There are no sheets or blankets, and her dark hair and orange jumpsuit, make her stand out like a sore thumb.

Her back is to him, and she's huddle on her side, shivering, trying to keep warm.

The doors hiss closed behind him, and he grins, because he can smell her from here, over what he assumes is a chemical used to sterilize the room that smells like rubbing alcohol and hand sanitizer. He can smell the faint scent of earth against her skin, the kind he tangled in bed with for so long.

"Vala," it's a harsh whisper as he takes a step forward. She's a light sleeper, but when she's woken up suddenly she gets defensive, tends to lash out as he found out the hard way. With another step forward, and only one more to get to her, he calls to her again, "Vala?"

Her shoulders tense, and her breathing slows until he can't see the ride and fall of her chest any longer, knows that she's awake, that she'd playing dead, trying to figure out who he is. "Honey, it's okay it's just—"

But when he takes another step forward, he's stands almost next to the bed, looking down on her, the goosebumps over her skin, her toes curl into her feet, the hair clumping around her face, a slight blush in her cheeks, and—

"Vala, wake up!"

The hesitancy disappears from his touch as he shoots a hand forward to her shoulder, shaking her once, then again until she flinches, yanking her arm away from him and scrambling back into the corner where the mattress meets the wall.

"Cameron?" Her eyes are bleary and only half-open. Her skin is blotchy. Her blinks are uncoordinated by sunken eyes that can't focus on him. He's seen her tired before, exhausted, dehydrated, and infected.

None of that is this.

It's so concerning, that for a minute, he forgets the reason why he woke her up so violently, the fear and shock that blended within him to make him ignore her comfort and his own—now nearly resting his whole body into his cane. Make him abandon the notion of a storybook romantic reunion, where they laughed and held each other because that's all they wanted.

Where they restated how all they needed was each other.

Forgot all of it because her stomach is flat.

"Vala, where's the baby?"

He shifts his cane, leaning forward, crouching down as much as he can with the pain shooting through his lower back, hip, and thigh.

Just ignores it because it doesn't matter anymore.

Tries to soften his voice, keep the jittering out of it, but his mind is racing through all the scenarios he can think of and somehow the best is still violently the worst.

Her one eye closes as she angles her head to the side trying to understand his words. Her hair isn't as long as it was the last time he saw her, and barely tumbles off her shoulder with her tilt. The other eye blinks, slowly, staying closed for a long time. She has no expression. No emotion. She's blank and she hums at him as an answer.

"Vala." Digs his elbows into the stiff mattress, his hand reaching out and touching her ankle, icy and so white that it clashes against her stark orange pants. She doesn't react to his touch at first, but then she giggles—not something he's heard her do very often, and somehow it's the most terrifying thing she could have done.

"Where's the baby, Vala?"

She reaches down, her fingers tickling over each one of his wrapped around her, and her brows crease in thought, in translation, as she tries to work out what's happening. The sway of her arm isn't right, it moves lazily, like she has on weights or restraints, and when she turns her arm a specific way, there's a disfiguring bruise on the opposite side of her elbow, red in the middle and purple to black radiating out.

They've been drugging her.

"Fuck."

He needs answers, and the only one he trusts is doped out of her mind.

Somewhere in her stupor, she knows that he came for her because she reaches out a hand, cold fingers fluttering at the bottom of his chin tilting his head up to view her.

He knows the strong woman he loves, he adores, has fought for, would die for, is in there somewhere. Knows that she went down kicking and screaming because they took something that didn't belong to them.

They took someone he loves.

Maybe, two people he loves.

"Cameron?" Slants her head again, viewing him at an angle seems to help because she can't keep her equilibrium, can't sit up without slouching, without toppling over to one side or another. But she must recognize him, because she brings on of her fingers up to trace over the bridge of his nose where it broke against the console two years ago, down the tip and over his top lip.

He kisses the pad of her finger gently, trying to quell the fear, the unbridled rage surging through him that makes him feel like he could punch his way out of this cell. He tugs her towards him, to fall against his chest and she giggles again, sort of a snort, a hidden laugh about something he doesn't understand because he has no idea what she's been through.

What they've done to her.

"Vala." He nudges her hair away from her ear so he can speak with her privately, like he could coax out the real her from underneath the blanket of drugs, from all the vines of trauma wrapping around and digging into her body.

"Yes?" Her head lolls against his shoulder before rolling to rest the side of her face against his. He strokes her back, feeling ribs and skin through the thin material on her shirt.

In a whisper, like it's a secret between them, like they're playing a game, he brushes his nose to her ear again, making sure his voice doesn't stutter with all the unknowns, "where's the baby?"

"Wha—?" Her eyes are droopy and unfocused again, but she still has that grin planted on her lips.

He reaches his hand to her stomach, flat and recoiling under the shirt fabric. "Our baby."

"Our—" Her eyes narrow, her body shaking as she uses her hands pressing into the mattress to stay stable. He can see her try to navigate through the haze surrounding her mind and her hand drops to her stomach, flitting around, as if searching for evidence.

Her eyes scroll back up to meet his, pupils dilated, irises shifting around wildly, searching for him even though she's staring directly at him.

He nods waiting for her to elaborate as tears well in her eyes because she's uncovered the memory. "Where are they, Vala?"

"They took her—" The first tear catches on her lashes as she trembles in front of him, digging her hands onto his shoulders for balance.

"Her?" He laughs, sniffling, not realizing he's already shed tears. "We have a daughter?"

In a voice full of malice, dripping with bitterness—a cringing tone he's never heard from her before—she adds, "they killed her."


A/N: Chapter title borrowed from Shakespeare's Richard II