It was pitch black.

Wherever John Sheppard was, it was dark and smelled of something foul. His entire body seemed to ache painfully, as if he had been beaten severely recently. The most troubling thing was that he couldn't remember. The last thing he remembered was fire, the smell of burning flesh and someone screaming his name before everything fell away.

"Elizabeth," he gasped, his ribs screaming in protest as he sucked in air.

He gritted his teeth and forced one elbow underneath him. Pushing himself up slowly, he looked around as best he could, but no-one was there. He was in a cell with dark sloping walls that appeared seamless but probably were not. He stood up slowly and walked over to the walls.

"Can anyone hear me?!" he shouted pounding on the wall, "where the hell am I?"

"Peace," a voice said, "slave."

"Slave?" John demanded, "what do you mean slave?"

"Atlantis has fallen. As a member of the fallen army, you have been taken prisoner and deemed useless because of your injuries," the voice continued, "it has been further determined that because of your bravery, you have been given over to the Neutral Worlds for sport or bondage whichever is decided by your owner."

John felt his throat close up. The war had divided the universe into three sections it seemed. The Milky Way Galaxy, the Pegasus Galaxy and the Neutral Worlds in between. The Neutral Worlds were a sick place, where the incredibly rich would exploit the desperately poor for anything they wished. There were no laws, except the ones they chose to follow. There was no order, save for the desire to never follow. He was now lower than the poor, he was a slave. His face was known all over the universe, there must be some kind of mistake.

The wall opened seamlessly and two men marched in. Whether they were Wraith, human or something else, it was impossibly to tell. They wore body armor that covered them from toe to neck in dark bronze, their faces hidden by separate masks. Strapped to their backs were fighting staffs equipped to shoot electricity through whoever they chose.

They grabbed John's wrists and bound them in front of his waist, as if daring him to try and break free. They pulled him out of the cell and into a long hallway that opened up onto a market place. He was thrust out onto a long platform where a short man was standing, looking at the sea of people with hungry eyes.

"I give you for a special price, an Atlantean General," he said motioning to John, "his injuries are terrible, his mind is broken. He is nothing more than a shell of former glory," he commanded the crowd very well, "but a tiger wounded is a tiger more fierce than any other beast on earth. He would make an excellent fighter, good enough to be a champion of any noble in the arena. I will start the bidding at--"

The rest was lost on John. How much he went for, how much he was worth, he couldn't hear above the buzzing in his ears. He was only aware when his hip connected solidly with the floor of some kind of cart. Frantically he raised his hands and grabbed his face and felt like he was going to pass out. What had been the right side of his face was nothing but a mess of raised lines that missed his eye and lips by centimeters.

He felt sick, not because of the scars or whatever else was wrong with him. But because apparently Atlantis was gone and he was unrecognizable. He didn't know if Elizabeth or anyone else was safe and he apparently never would. He wouldn't be able to tell her he loved her or that he was sorry their last words were in anger. He prayed that Elizabeth knew he loved her, no matter what. He hoped Teyla, Ronon, Carson and everyone else were safe.

The arena was a fabled battle ground, a modern day gladiator game where lives were pitted against each other for sport and entertainment. He knew if he lived through one battle it would be a miracle. If he was a slave he would probably last a week, maybe. Slaves were synonymous with dead anyway. When John pictured his life, this was not how he imagined it would end, ever. His hands fell against his sides as he bowed his head, finally broken.

88

In his room, Marcus Lorne walked back and forth across the space. His rooms were not terribly small, he was, after all, a General. They felt chokingly small suddenly, as if all the air had been sucked out of them. Unable to stand it anymore he headed over for the desk and yanked it open, pulling out the necklace that was lying inside.

"What does this mean?" he hissed turning it over in his fingers.

Something in Marcus had died long ago. He hadn't felt alive since he was in Atlantis with the remains of destruction surrounding him. He had sold his soul to do his job, part of him had known that would happen but none of him had really accepted how dead he was until he felt alive again. Now he was almost possessed, desperate to know what the necklace meant.

"General Lorne?"

Marcus looked up at the door. Pushing the necklace into the desk again, he walked over to the door and pulled it open. The man on the other side of the door was not expecting it because his eyes widened. Marcus realized how he must look, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot. The fact he was in a t-shirt didn't help much either.

"Yes?" he demanded, not in the mood for kindness.

"O'Neil--"

"Tell him I'm busy," he said slamming the door and turning around.

He felt like he was losing his mind, going through some kind of with drawl. With every heartbeat he felt more and more numb. His back hit the door and his chest heaved as his heart seemed to slow. Something collected in the center of the room, something no human could ever begin to comprehend. It seemed to fill the room, pulsing through him, before it echoed out, leaving him feeling weak and cold with sweat pouring down his back. Dimly outside he heard someone yelling but the sound was lost on him.

"General Lorne open this door right now!"

"Sir, the power--something's wrong with the ship!"

"Get O'Neil, how the hell could something just be wrong?! Do we need to evacuate?"

"Negative--it seems like--sir the power just came back on full force."

"Run the scans," he said, "General Lorne!"

On the other side of his door, Marcus breathed hard. Shakily he raised a hand to his face. For a second he felt the right side of it covered in ridges but the next instantly all he felt was smooth skin that was wet. Raising his hand, he saw his palm was covered in blood, but the cut underneath was completely healed. He traced the raised scar with one finger and realized it was some kind of shape. He stumbled to his feet and pulled open his desk drawer, desperate to know the necklace was still there.

It wasn't, somehow it was looped around his neck, hanging next to his dog tags.