Chapter 4

John woke up sometime in the middle of the night, stiff and sore. The room outside the cage was dark, but there was a light on in one corner and a rhythmic tapping sound that seemed to be coming from it. He crawled forward cautiously, acutely aware of the bruises covering his body, and pressed his head against the bars. He could just see the lamp sitting on the edge of a desk. Someone was tapping a pen against it, but he couldn't see who. He got an occasional glimpse of a hand moving, then the soft sound of a pen hitting a hard surface.

He crawled back to his corner. He'd woken up for a very pressing reason and wished now that he hadn't drank the entire bowl of water. He eyed the box in the other corner of the room, wondering if that was what it was for.

"Ah, screw it," he mumbled. He crawled toward the box, noting that it was filled with gravelly sand.

A litter box. They gave me a damn litter box. His face flushed in anger and humiliation, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down. He moved back to the front of the cage, double checking that the pen tapper was still at his desk. He was, so John quietly scooted back toward the box. Thankfully, the room was mostly dark, and he could almost convince himself that he had some privacy in the shadows.

Keeping a careful ear on the tapping from the desk, John stood as far back in the corner as he could and took care of business. The last thing he wanted was an audience. He sighed in relief as he finished up and the pen tapper at the desk didn't notice. He crawled back to the other corner and lowered himself gently to the floor, wrapping the thin blanket over his shoulders.

John went from dead asleep to wide awake. He opened his eyes to a bright room, the ceiling of the cage white and bare over his head. He turned his head at a sound off to his left and realized it had been his cage door opening that had woken him up.

He sat up quickly, stifling a groan at the achy stiffness throughout his body. The black-haired alien—his friend from the day before—came at him quickly with the electric cattle prod before he had a chance do anything else. The alien jammed the thing in his side without hesitation, and John screamed at the sudden pain that consumed him.

"Go to hell, Pavlov," he rasped, bucking away from the prod. The being looked down at him, tilting his head slightly as if trying to understand the sounds John was making. John glared back at him and caught the gleam of satisfaction in the alien's eyes as he deliberately jammed the prod into John's leg.

Anger surged through John's body, almost as strong as the pain. He screamed again, jerking toward the wall and kicking his legs away from the cattle prod. Pavlov pulled the prod away, and John used the momentary respite to flip onto his knees. Before he could move any further, the alien jabbed him again in the side.

John collapsed on the floor, screaming again. Tears streamed down his face, but he grit his teeth. Anger was good; he could use anger. His body was shaking, but as soon as Pavlov pulled his toy away, John pushed himself up to his knees and launched himself at the alien.

He had no plan, other than to get that electric prod away from the alien's hands. Pavlov stumbled backward, surprised at John's sudden attack, dropping the electric prod at his feet. John, seeing the cause of his misery now at his captor's feet, changed direction, making a lunge for the bar. He could hear the aliens yelling around him, but he zoned them out and focused on getting his hand on the weapon.

His fingers had just brushed the metal of the prod when Pavlov seemed to figure out what John was trying to do. John was strong and quick, but the alien was stronger and had the advantage of size. He half-shoved, half-picked John up and threw him away from the electric prod.

John hit the wall and slid to the floor in a dazed shock. His head was ringing and he gasped as he tried to catch his breath. Pavlov had grabbed the cattle prod and was heading toward him again, his large body moving awkwardly in the small space but still looking intimidating. John rolled to his hands and knees getting ready to fight again and bracing himself for the jolt of electricity.

Except it never came. He glanced up at Pavlov just as the alien swung the bar down across John's back. John grunted, too shocked to scream, and fell to the ground. The pain exploded through his back, and for a moment he thought he was going to throw up. The bowl of raw meat had tipped over near his head, and the blood that had pooled in the bottom of the bowl was now running into his face. The meat was rotting, and the stench made John's stomach clench. He lifted his head to get away from the smell, but Pavlov, apparently, interpreted his movement as something else entirely. Not convinced that John was no longer a danger, he smacked the smaller man hard with the bar two more times.

John's back went from agonizingly painful to numb in half a second, and his breath caught in his throat. Through the haze, one thought broke through—He broke my back. That bastard broke my back. His chest was burning as well, and he realized he'd been holding his breath. He gasped, and Pavlov yanked on John's arm, almost pulling it out of its socket.

The movement, however, woke up the pain in his back, and John screamed as he was dragged out of the cage. The aliens were yelling again, and more feet pounded into the room, but the only thing John could focus on was the pain—waves and waves of pain, as if every bone in his back had been crushed.

Either Pavlov got tired of John's screaming or enraged by the argument he was now having with the brown-haired alien and an older looking alien who had been sitting at the desk. Through the noise and chaos, John heard a whish of air as something was whipped downward, and then his back exploded into more pain than he would have thought possible. His screams turned to gagging as his stomach bucked, and the last thing he saw was Pavlov's strong, thin hands grabbing him by the armpits and jerking him upward.

John opened his eyes slowly. His head was throbbing, his throat felt raw, and he was having trouble focusing. There was a light far away over his head. The sun? He squinted at it, wondering where he was. It coalesced slowly, and after a few more blinks, he recognized it as a round lamp.

So he was inside. He took a deep breath and tried to turn his head, but nothing happened. Through the headache he could feel something pressing against his forehead, holding it in place. He tried to lift his hands to feel it, but those too were immobile. Straps pulled at his wrists. He was tied down.

John's heartbeat quickened. He tried to kick his legs, but straps around his ankles and across his thighs prevented any movement. There was another strap across his chest, and the harder he breathed, the tighter the strap felt. He squirmed and pulled at the bindings, but whoever had him tied down had obviously known what they were doing.

After a few minutes, he gave up. The straps, if anything, felt tighter, not looser, and his back—pressed against the hard surface of the table—throbbed. He felt like he had shards of glass just under his skin grating against raw nerves. He tried to look around the room as much as possible without moving his head, and he recognized the lab he had been in before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a distant movement, and wondered if it was the doctor, Jane. If it was Pavlov, he was dead.

He breathed deeply, focusing on bringing his heart rate down. At some point, they'd have to untie him, and he needed to be ready for it. He looked around the room as best as he could, locating the door. Counters lined the walls, and he was reminded vaguely of McKay's lab. The scale was about twice as big in every dimension as he was used to, though. It was almost surreal.

More movement out of the corner of his eye indicated that whoever had been in the corner was coming toward him. John shifted a little bit, grimacing at the pain in his back. He forced his muscles to relax and his eyes to close halfway. If they still thought he was either unconscious or only semi-conscious, they could get lax, giving him an opportunity to escape.

Through half-open eyes, he saw Jane walk up to the table. She peered down at him a moment before running her fingers over his throat and pressing into the muscles around his neck. He forced himself to not tense up at her examination, but when she pried his eyes open and flashed a light in them, he couldn't help but flinch. Her fingers moved to the side of his face, brushing the skin lightly. John tensed again, then recognized she was trying to soothe him. Actually, she was petting him, but he forced himself to concentrate on escaping.

Jane pried his mouth open next, running her fingers along his teeth. It was all he could do not to bite her. When she stuck her finger partway down his throat, however, he gagged then coughed, clenching his jaw. Jane yelped, pulling her hand back quickly. John watched her rub her finger where he'd bitten down, and part of him wished he'd bitten harder. The nerves in his throat were on fire.

Jane moved back to the far end of the room where she'd been standing before, almost out of sight. John caught a glimpse of her moving, as if she was collecting things strewn across the countertop, and then she returned, pushing a cart on wheels toward him. The top of it was filled with unidentifiable instruments, and John's heart thudded in his chest.

Jane seemed ignorant of his distress. She spoke softly to herself in her own language as she arranged things on the cart. She lifted something that looked like a piece of paper or heavy cloth material covered in slime, shook it slightly as stuff dripped into the bucket then laid it over John's stomach. His shirt was instantly soaked through with the slimy, viscous liquid, and it seeped quickly to his skin. He shivered—the slime was icy cold.

Jane petted him again, brushing the hair back from his head, and continued to talk. John wondered if she was talking to him, saying things to calm him down. The slime covered material on his stomach was heavy. Jane was digging through the materials on her cart, and pulled out a piece of equipment connected by wires to something behind John's head. She pressed the machine in her hand into his slime covered stomach but studied whatever it was connected to behind him.

"I'm not pregnant—" John started to say, but the attempt reignited the fire in his throat and only a raspy, unintelligible sound came out. Jane paused, looking down at him curiously, then continued with her ministrations.

She pressed a button, and John heard a popping sound. He sucked in at the sudden sensation of being hit with a spurt of air, but relaxed when it didn't hurt. Jane moved her handheld device and pressed the button again, shooting another puff of air at his stomach. She hardly looked at John but continued almost rhythmically in the same pattern across his stomach. She then moved the slimy cloth up to his chest and started over again.

It took hours as Jane repeated the procedure on every part of his body. John was half asleep for most of it, worn out after his fight with Pavlov and lulled by Jane's gentle touch. He hardly noticed when she left, taking the cart of equipment with her. It wasn't until he was hit with a face full of warm water that he jerked awake. Jane stood over him with the hose again, washing the slime off his clothes and skin.

He twisted as much as he could, but the straps around his body still had him pinned down. Jane moved quickly, using a cloth to scrub him. She undid the straps and John immediately rolled away from her, but hands grabbed at his arms and pinned him in place. A jet of warm hair hit him in the back, and he felt Jane scrubbing at his t-shirt.

A soft gasp above his head had him twisting around to look up at Jane. She rolled him back onto the table and ran her hands across his chest and stomach in wonder.

"What the hell?" he grunted.

Jane's hand wrapped around the fabric of his shirt and pulled it up, revealing his pale, bruised stomach. He pulled at the shirt, trying to pry the fabric out of Jane's hands, but Jane was consumed with curiosity. She flipped him onto his stomach, and John cried out in pain at the sudden movement. With all her gentleness, he'd forgotten how strong she actually was.

She pulled at his shirt, finally ripping it, and then probed his bare skin with her fingertips. John struggled, twisting away from her as much as she could, but Jane quickly peeled his t-shirt off. She lifted the fabric, now torn to shreds, and studied it in wonder. John rolled away again, just reaching the edge of the table when Jane noticed him and yanked him back.

So they hadn't known about the clothing. John was soaking wet, but his shivering was caused by something else entirely. Jane began pulling at the fabric of his pants. She must have realized that the fabric was strong, because she turned away from John and began digging through a nearby drawer.

John sat up, grimacing at the pain this reawakened in his muscles. He'd managed to ignore his back, but squirming on the table had caused the bruises to start throbbing again and sitting up had made it ten times worse. He could feel bile rising in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

He slid toward the end of the table and had his legs hanging over the edge when Jane turned around. She squawked and lunged at him, a knife in one hand. John tried to jump to the ground, but Jane caught his arm and flipped back onto the table. He landed hard on his back and screamed in pain.

Before he even realized what had happened, Jane had slit one of his pant legs and was carefully prodding the skin underneath. He grabbed at her hands, but she lifted him up and pulled the remains of his pants off. John switched tactics, and instead of swinging his fist toward Jane, he made a desperate grab for his boxers. There was no way he was letting her take those, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he wondered how much of a fight he would be able to put up. His body was shaking from exhaustion.

Jane was examining the pants and John looked toward the open lab door and the hallway outside. He was hungry and thirsty, and now he'd been stripped of almost all his clothes. He curled up into a ball as he began shaking harder. He held onto the elastic band of his boxers with all of his remaining strength.

Jane eventually pulled at his boxers, but John squirmed and whimpered and kicked and shook and yelled and curled tighter into himself, and in the end, she threw her hands in the air and turned away. She set his torn up clothing on the counter, then began rummaging through the cupboards.

What was she doing? he thought. His body was screaming with pain and exhaustion and all he wanted to do was sink into oblivion. Jane returned moments later holding a large needle. John turned pleading eyes to her and whimpered when she turned the pointy end toward him, but even if he'd been able to communicate with her, he doubted he could have gotten any sound out of his aching throat.

Please let this not be real. Please let me wake up.

Jane jabbed him in the leg with the needle, and John arched his back against the sharp stinging pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse, agonizing rush of air. Immediately, his vision began to swim, the lights above his head swirling around Jane's face. As the muscles in his body loosened, he waited for her to uncurl him and finally rip off his boxers—his last remaining dignity.

And yet she didn't, but John was too dazed to contemplate why. He was vaguely aware of being lifted into Jane's arms. He had no control over any of his muscles. His vision grayed at the edges, and John waited for darkness to overtake him, but it didn't. His eyes wouldn't close, and he stared at the blurry walls that passed by as Jane carried him through the facility. He could feel that his mouth was slightly open, and water from his hair dripped across his face and onto his dry, chapped lips.

His body felt numb and paralyzed, the aches and pains muted save for the spot on his leg where she'd injected him. That spot burned enough to make John want to squirm and wiggle in Jane's arms.

He could see a little bit of the hallway behind him, so was the first to notice Pavlov and his friend coming toward them. He tried to move or yell, but managed only to swallow. He stared at Pavlov's wide, flat alien face, the eyebrows scrunched together in a frown. Pavlov was moving his mouth, but the voice sounded distant and muffled to John, like he was underwater. Whatever he was saying, however, caught Jane's attention, and she spun around quickly.

If John could have tensed he would have. All he could do, however, was wait for whatever Pavlov inflicted on him this time. He could hear Jane talking back, and from the tenseness in her arms as she squeezed John to her body, they were obviously arguing.

Maybe she's angry about that cattle prod, John thought. Jane spun back around, walking briskly down the hallway and leaving Pavlov and the other alien standing in the hallway behind them. She shifted her arms, lifting John up so that his head rested on her shoulder. His arms were crossed in front of him, and his legs dangled under Jane's arms. She was carrying him like a baby or a small child, and he felt his face burn red with humiliation.

TBC…