Transcript from the logs of Dr. Elizabeth Weir, July 7
…To wrap up the science division notes, Dr. McKay informs me that the team working on researching the underwater power station mentioned in the Ancient database is about ready to launch a mission to locate it and hopefully bring it online. The extra power would be a welcome addition to our single remaining ZPM. I have scheduled a tentative mission date for 6 weeks from now, barring any other emergencies or projects that might come up.
In other very good news, Dr. Beckett reports from the infirmary that he has isolated the virus and developed a treatment for our men who have been suffering from the Pegasus Galaxy's bizarre version of malaria. The men will soon be able to return to duty, and all expedition members who have been to S1B-254 will be vaccinated. Since the disease is spread through the sting of an insect very similar to a mosquito, Beckett does not believe that anyone else will develop the symptoms through simple contact, but he is recommending the vaccinations anyway. Certainly, anyone returning to 254 will require the inoculation.
And lastly on a related note, Colonel Sheppard is still unaccounted for after more than 24 hours. As documented in yesterday's log, he has not been seen since he left the security training mission with the Gellans to pursue a group he believes to be from the terrorist organization that has been regularly attacking the Gellan and Gemman civilizations. 10 hours ago, we received a radio transmission from Sheppard through the Stargate, reporting that he was continuing to trail the terrorists and hoped to follow them to their base of operations. He left no 'gate address and no information for how to contact him. Considering his covert situation that is unsurprising, however frustrating.
McKay, Ronon and Teyla have been working with the Gellans to track Sheppard's path and Rodney believes he and the group he's trailing went to Gemman first, then to a small village both colonies often trade with. For some reason, the villagers are reluctant to speak with us and have avoided answering any of our questions so we are currently analyzing the last fifty 'gate addresses that were dialed from the village. We all know how slow that tends to go. Regardless, we will continue our efforts to find Colonel Sheppard and provide backup, should he indeed be tracking terrorists.
Elizabeth's Personal Log, July 7
Damn John and his stubborn independence! I can have no formal complaint about his decision to pursue this military threat – however reckless, the decision is his alone. But the bottom line is we're all worried sick about him while he's off chasing rainbows and bad guys. So what else is new. When he gets back,, I really won't know whether to hug him or confine him to the infirmary for a week out of pure spite.
WHEN he gets back..
Dammit, John. You'd better be OK…
They reached the examination room bruised and bloodied, and in John's case, practically unconscious. The guard who held the club around his throat sniffled through a swelling, bloody nose and squeezed a bit tighter with each annoyed snort. John began to gasp and splutter, sagging limply into the guard's grip. He felt his legs lifted roughly onto a firm but not hard surface, and he coughed violently as the pressure against his windpipe was suddenly released and he was sprawled onto the examination table.
Bright lights glared into his face, and he lay dazedly blinking as his arms were held and tight bands were wrapped around the wrists.
"You were not supposed to injure him!"
John recognized the stern, clipped voice of the woman doctor.
"Sorry ma'am, the bastard fights like a woodboar." The guard sniffed loudly again, and apparently earned some sympathy because the woman's next words were softer.
"We'll sedate him before moving him, next time," she sighed.
"Like hell you will…" John rasped. But the woman didn't bother to respond. Instead, she took his head between her hands, and turned his face to peer intently into his groggy eyes, then probed his bruised windpipe gently with her thumbs. He coughed and gagged at the touch and she tsk tsked at him.
"Serves you right," she muttered.
He coughed again and glared while she continued her exam, moving next to take his pulse, then his temperature and blood pressure. He followed her every move, studying her as he had his cell. She was slim, in a bony, underfed kind of way, and her narrow features were not at all enhanced by the severe bun her obviously long, straight black hair was pulled tightly into. In John's opinion, she looked like every "lady-scientist" stereotype he'd ever encountered, and felt a wicked kind of not-sympathy for her. "Serves you right," he muttered lowly to himself, earning him a stern, puzzled glance.
She moved around his table for a moment, and he heard drawers opening, and rustling. For a moment, he just closed his eyes, concentrating on recovering from his scuffle with the guards. Ironically, he felt anxiety closing in on him even faster as the lack of an obstacle, i.e. some satisfyingly stupid guards to fight, only heightened his sensation of helplessness. Strapped to a damn table he couldn't even pace to bleed off some of the extra tension that was beginning to vibrate again through his body.
Growing agitated, he raised his head to move his face out of the glare of the lights above him and tried to look around the room. He caught a glimpse of more white walls, lots of cabinets and equipment, and one of his burly friends at the single door out of the room. There were no windows, no other exits.
His head was pressed down by a firm hand on his forehead, and the woman was back, dragging a clattering tray with her to push next to his table.
The sound of unseen objects bouncing against the metal tray suddenly brought to mind absurd images of mad scientist horror movies he'd watched as a kid and the anxiety shot into pure panic. He gasped, and felt his heart racing with uncontrollable terror. His arms and legs were tightly bound to the table, but he reared up on his elbows, twisting at the cuffs on his wrists with painful jerks, and leaning away from the startled doctor.
"What…what are you doing," he growled, then twisted his arms again in fury at his inability to get himself under control. He was losing it. He hated being confined, he hated not knowing what was going to happen. His heart pounded in his ears. He was breathing heavily as he writhed and twisted, trying to pull away from and learn more about what the doctor was doing at the same time.
John caught a glimpse of the tray and the image was no less frightening than that of his fear-charged imagination. Needles and vials of god knew what kind of drugs lay spread across its gleaming surface. "What are you going to do," he yelled again, bucking his knees and jerking his ankles too.
Suddenly, the guard was leaning against his chest and the woman was shouting clipped orders to hold John down. Growling in anger, he fought against the enormous guard's downward pressure until the physics of the situation won out and he was forced against the table again. He held his elbow tightly against his side and barked a harsh laugh as he heard the woman curse in frustration as she tried to turn his arm.
The guard made a quick jump and bounced against John's torso, knocking the wind out of him in a great whuf of surprise and a sharp crack of pain. The distraction was long enough for the doctor to twist his arm and jab a needle into the crook of his elbow. She was good, too, thought John as he almost immediately felt the effects of the sedative dulling his senses and relaxing taut muscles -- She'd hit the vein on the first try.
The guard remained pressing him down for a few moments longer, then slowly backed off as John melted, still panting, into the table. He twisted feebly at the restraints on his wrists, and tried to curl into the ache that still lingered in his side. The woman held his head again to peer into his unfocused eyes, and he realized she was also checking his pulse. Nice of her to be so concerned, he thought with a dull, sarcastic snicker.
"There now," she spoke at last. "Do you feel better now, Colonel?"
"Aside from the broken ribs, you mean?" John huffed in reply, shifting again against the ache.
The woman frowned severely, then, seeming to decide that he wasn't kidding, she crisply jerked up his shirt and palpitated the tender side. When she reached the aching spot, John yelped and lurched, despite the sedatives. The woman sighed a deep, exasperated sigh. "You are a singularly frustrating man, Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard."
"I…haven't….worked up to….frustrating…yet," John gasped as she continued to probe the sore area.
She chose not to respond, tugged his shirt back into place, and simply went back to her tray. "I don't think any ribs are broken. One may be cracked," she said at last. John felt an IV port slide into his arm, and heard the zip of medical tape being pulled and torn. But John was, for the moment, past thinking or caring. He drifted in semi-consciousness as the sedative pulled him further into its drowsy warmth, turning the anxiety into aching exhaustion. He was so tired, he could sleep for a week. And his throat and his side hurt.
In the end, he must have slept some, because the next time he opened bleary eyes, the woman was gone and he was alone except for his rib-cracking friend at the door, and at least a couple bags of IVs snaking into his arm. The drowsy thickness of a sedative still hung heavy over his mind, and he was drifting away again when a quiet conversation from the direction of the door held him for a moment longer.
"All quiet, Julan?" It was the woman's voice.
"Yes, ma'am. The woodboar's been out since you left. Sleepin' like a baby."
"Good, carry on then. I'll be back when it's time for his next injection. The sedatives should keep him cooperative until then."
"Yes, ma'am…and ma'am? I'm sorry I got too rough on the stranger. He just kind of got under my skin you know?"
"He's a feisty one, all right."
"Yeah, but I know how touchy your job can be, finding the right drugs and all, and Director Niklas said he's no good to us crazy or dead."
There was a slight pause, then, "He's of some use to us alive?" The surprised amusement in the woman's voice twisted John's guts into a knot of fear. He was disposable, nothing more than entertainment, or an experiment perhaps. He was suddenly grateful that Julan the rib-cracker had mentioned he was "useful" to someone at least.
John squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply for several long minutes, fighting down another panic attack with sheer willpower. Feeling the sedative in his system gently tugging on his consciousness, he at last drifted away again, wondering what was in those bags and how useful he actually needed to be for them to keep him alive.