The floor he was lying on face down was cold and unyielding. He could feel the bite from it through his skin all the way to his bones. So, not the wooden platform then. Orange light filtered through his closed eyelids. Back in the cell, maybe? He flickered one eye open, and peeked through his eyelashes. He didn't want his captors to know he was fully awake. At least not until he had fully assessed his predicament. It was hard not to squirm, especially as he was still bound, and he fought to not take in a sharp breath, though he might have let a small whimper escape his lips.

He'd been stripped down to his boxers. By the way his chest and belly itched and stung, chances were he'd been dragged along and away from the court room like some old Hoover after losing his tee and not before. He sure as hell didn't remember walking. More injuries. More lost time. Great. He was outside the cell, and hadn't remembered arriving there. So, why wasn't he inside? Maybe they wanted him awake to fully appreciate the effect of being shoved through the gate. Maybe there was to be no respite.

John allowed his thoughts to drift morbidly towards the brazier and those accompanying red hot pokers. He recalled the whips coiled decoratively either side of the red drapes in a funky retro dungeon chic sort of way. He decided to play possum a while longer. It was then that his captors decided playing possum was not an option.

"He's awake."

Now, how come he heard a hint of glee in that voice? Which one was it? Judging by their exuberance at his capture, it - could be any single one of 'em.

"Come now, John. You still expect to fool me? You - still believe me to be that stupid." Sarayah affected an injured sniff. "Again you wound me. And you forget I know every inch of you inside and out."

No, Sarayah. You wound me! Inside and out, he wanted to say, but he thought better of it. He reminded himself that by 'inside', she meant mentally. Metaphorically. Nothing else. He shuddered. Sarayah chuckled. Always with the innuendos. Bitch.

"Lift him." Sora.

Here it comes. The Bad-Ass Shove.

John snapped his eyes open as he was hauled upright by two of the goons. The third was opening the gate. No, he was locking it. What gives? The two goons answered his mental plea by untying the… what? Ah, yeah. Rope. From around his wrists. He instinctively wanted to rub his wrists, rub away the pain and discomfort, but they yanked his arms in front of him, and slapped on manacles linked by a short chain. They then lifted him up by his arms - and hooked his spanking new chains over the spikes of the gate. Shit. That left John dangling, facing the gate and the gloom of the cell, and feeling the heat of the brazier on his exposed back. He scrabbled to find purchase for his bare feet. There was a cross bar at the bottom of the gate, and he rested his feet on it, taking the weight off his arms. Thankfully, they didn't kick his feet out from under him. Seems they were prepared to allow him that much. Which ultimately meant they ultimately meant business.

"You are now fully aware of who we are."

"Lemme think. The knights who say, 'Ni!'?" John raised an eyebrow.

"John Sheppard, you and the other filthy Atlantian usurpers faced several charges, but were sadly acquitted."

"Yeah, well, lady, y'see, here's the thing - that's how legal trials work." He could mentally feel his restrained hand jab twice towards her.

"Subterfuge! My weaker male colleagues were duped!"

"Double jeopardy."

"What?"

"Can't be charged with the same crime twice." He grinned. His grin was destined to be short-lived.

"Another of your… oh so superior concepts?"

"No." John chewed his lower lip. She wasn't buying it. He tried again. "It's a valid concept, tried and true."

John tried to turn to face Shiana, offering his best whipped puppy look, only to have his face slammed against the bars. John groaned. He could feel the blood already matted and dessicated in his bangs begin to flake off, and he watched, wide-eyed, as it flurried in slo mo to the stone floor.

"Your wiles will not work against us! You will look upon us when we give you permission to do so. And when we order you to do so."

"What's with… the royal 'we'?" His breath hitched. Damn! He was giving away too much; that he feared them.

Double, double, toil and trouble…

"We are three, as you well know. And you have been found guilty by all three of us. The decision this time was thankfully unanimous. Your punishment will be at each of our hands over the course of three days and as each of us sees fit, but no single punishment will be sufficient to kill you. You will be permitted to recover in between."

Somehow John wasn't expecting girlie slaps. He was grateful his team had made it. Rodney couldn't even handle splinters, and Teyla had Torren to be whole for. Ronon could handle anything John could, but still, he didn't want Ronon hurt any more in his young life. Ronon was like a little brother to him as much as a buddy, and he felt the need to protect him from further abuse. Ronon had lost seven years, the bulk of his fucking twenties. When he should have been studying and partying then partying some more, not running from scary monsters.

"We shall each state our grievances against you, whereafter you will take your punishment, and thereafter be left alone to ponder upon your crimes, collective and individual. Sora will begin. Open the gate."

One goon held the gate as another unlocked it. As the gate swung back, John fully expected to body-slam into the stone wall. Instead he discovered where the third goon was. Right behind him. Against the wall. That goon grabbed his hair, and shoved his face between the bars.

"John Sheppard, you now have our permission to look upon Sora of the Genii."

Sora strode up to him, planted her tiny hands firmly on her slim hips, and spat in his face. The woman was clearly wired, but damn, she was cute.

"I was repatriated, Sheppard. Yet Cowan deemed me compromised, and with my father no longer alive to vouch for me, I had no advocate." She sneered, then snarled, then gave a sharp intake of breath, much like a kitten having its first hissyfit, and shocking even itself at its own propensity for ire.

John must've inadvertently shot one of his annoying lop-sided grins, as Sora reached through the bars, grabbed both his ears, and yanked his head forward. John gasped. Between the goon and her and those bars, his head wasn't going anywhere. At least it was still on his neck. For now.

"You and that… that Athosian bitch! - were instrumental in my father's death, and you… you personally caused the death of sixty innocent Genii - "

"Fifty-five. And not so innocent." John ground out. He returned her expression, sneer for sneer.

Sora made a piffing sound. " - and later, the demise of Commander Kolya." She practically hopped on the spot.

"You know… what happened. You Genii… you brought it on yourselves." He nearly called them all dumb.

"Just as you bring this on yourself. Sixty strikes of the cane." Sora took in a sharp intake of breath. Like she was about to perform, and needed to gather herself. She rubbed her hands together. He guessed she was reticent, despite the fact she was effectively going for gold.

"You forgot the chalk powder."

"Close the gate."

Aw, crap. Here we go… he thought as he swung back into place.

The gate clunked shut, and he heard the lock click. John braced himself. He couldn't see what was coming, but he was certain it would -

- hurt like a bitch! Ow! That struck the small of his back. Sixty? She had to be kid-

Umph! That whack across his right shoulder blade slammed him into the gate. The fucking thing rattled on its hinges, and the ensuing vibration jangled through him like a tuning fork.

The next strike landed on his thighs. Both at once. Whuh? Was this going to be random? How could he possibly brace hims-

"Ow!" Shut the hell up, John!

That strike caught him on the nape of his neck. He felt a burning sensation radiate outwards from each strike, and as the strikes continued to fall in rapid succession - against his flanks, his arms, even his ass - they began to meld into one huge throbbing sting.

Sora whalloped the back of his head, and he felt sure that blow had taken a swath of skin away along with a clump of hair. He wasn't vain per se, but he hoped that wasn't a cowlick she'd taken out. Those things were part of his individuality. Part of who he was. His identity.

Her relentless assault wasn't systematic by any means. He had no clue where the next strike would fall, and that made it hurt all the more. He knew he'd be bruised and welted from head to toe after this. He began to tremble, and struggled not to make a sound by sucking in his lips. Pretty soon, he thought he might not be able help himself as the pain ramped up as the strikes began to overlap. This fucking hurt! It fucking hurt! Yeah, he had a high threshold for pain, but this - this took the… the… thhh...

He had passed out. Way to go, John! Wuss!

Wuss!

"Wuss!" Had he said that out loud?

He realized he was writhing and twisting and squirming. His clue was the blood crawling in a mucoid, lazy caterpillar fashion down his arms from those manacles. Now he could add abraded wrists to the list of injuries. At least his feet were still unscathed, and he thanked his lucky stars that he was even still on his feet. Then - it stopped. The abuse stopped. John's entire back half was ablaze. That brazier wasn't helping.

"Do you have anything to say, John Sheppard?"

"Go. To. Hell."

"Feet."

"Wh-whuh?"

Enough with the mind-reading, already! John tried to turn his head. Oh, god, no. Surely they wouldn't beat the soles of his feet! That was just plain sick and wrong. He didn't deserve any of this! He had to concede his whipped puppy look was no longer fake.

A Marine-like goon gripped his right ankle, and wrenched his foot from between the bars, bringing his leg up behind him and shoving it almost to his right butt cheek. John knew what was coming, and decided this might be really a good time to pass out again. He scrunched his eyes shut, hoping for oblivion. Then he heard a swishing sound as Sora brought the cane down hard. Again and again and again.

And again and again and again and again.

Until all he knew was he somehow dwelt somewhere even further south of his belt than he'd ever before considered.

"Nngaah!" Holy… f-

John tried to pull away, only succeeding in tearing more skin from his wrists. It hurt, but that was nothing compared to the agony building up in his other extremities. She struck his foot ten times. His head was swimming from the pain, and it was all he could manage to withhold a scream. Then the goon dropped his leg. He couldn't risk bringing his damaged foot back up to rest on the bar, and so John hung off-kilter as his right leg swung listlessly, and his left arm bore the brunt of his weight.

He wasn't about to beg for mercy, but his left arm was being yanked from its socket. To even out or divide and conquer the discomfort, he considered bringing his left foot off the crossbar. The decision was made for him when another goon or maybe the same one grabbed his left ankle, manipulated his foot up and behind him, and John screamed as much as in agony as in anticipation of the next bout of torture. There were some ten strikes coming to him on the sole of his left foot. Instead, Sora tickled him. Whuh? She zig-zagged the tip of the damn cane lightly over his sole from his heel to his big toe, making him twitch and jerk as badly as if she'd beaten him.

Torture in the Pegasus Galaxy was pretty much like torture in the Milky Way. He'd seen the aftermath of badly beaten feet, and it had made him vomit his last meal. He couldn't face burgers for at least a month after that enlightening little piece of video doc designed as a wake-up call as to what they might come across in special ops. They were all told to suck it up, which was easier said than done.

Right now, he wished he could turn to face his tormentor, and puke all over her. As it was, there was nothing much in his stomach beyond rinsewater and bile, so the effect wouldn't be quite so messagey as minestrone all over her pristine strawberry blonde curls. Thing is, his stomach got the message all right. John barfed all over one of the goons, which earned him a kidney punch. And twenty-plus strikes on the sole of his left foot. At least, he thought it might have been twenty. At fifteen, he finally passed out, only to have a pail of freezing cold water thrown over him, which shocked him into wretched awareness. The water cascaded down his body, and reached his right foot. It was soothing. It was bliss. Conversely, he felt the water drip from his bent left knee bypassing his foot, and straight to the fucking floor.

"Fifty down, ten to go."

Ten. He couldn't handle ten. No way. He had no idea where she would hit him next. Every inch of him hurt. There was no spot of unabused skin left on him. He didn't dare think about his groin area. But he did. Damn! He felt like a Ghostbusters extra who'd just chosen the form of the Destructor.

He did the math. No groin injury... no groin injury... no groin injury... equals fucking groin injury!

Still they were only abusing his back and not his front. Li'l Shep was out front. Along with the Boys. John heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ah, Sheppard. You believe me done? Another twenty to go and then we are done."

No! He'd miscounted? Shit! They were deliberately confusing him! Which presenting part of him wasn't injured? Oh, holy Mother of -

"Gho-o-odddh!"

"You invoke… a deity? Like you deserve one to intervene on your behalf? John Sheppard, as I wield this cane for the last time, I tell you now that the god of gods, the god of the Genii and its illustrious allies, is on our side!"

Shut the hell up, Sora! You're beginning to sound just like Shiana.

That was when John lost it. He'd heard enough crap in his lifetime. Been dealt enough crap. He was burning and aching and throbbing from head to toe. It wasn't so much that it hurt, it was more that it was impossible to switch off from the pain. It was invasive. All-pervasive. All-encompassing. It denied him coherent thought. The only way out was oblivion, and that just wasn't his way. He wanted to stay alive. To live. Pain told him he was still alive, but life was to be lived. To its fullest. And constant invasive pain only offered existence.

Time to hitch a ride outta here.

John felt himself slowly cease to exist from his arms and legs inwards towards the pit of his stomach. Almost as if he had once blazed with the vitality of a newborn star, only to collapse in upon himself, exhausted, spent - a black hole. And become a singularity. Yet even then, he was a precious spark of creation, an immutable soul with self-awareness, self-determination, self-purpose at its core - all of which was being ripped from his increasingly damaged body by a waning star in some eternal dance of give and take, yin and yang, black and white, good and evil. All in a countdown from - Ten… Nine… Eight…

As the final blows - the death throes, the birth pangs - delivered an incongruous orgasmic paroxysm of both ecstasy and agony, 'I' shifted, and regathered stardust, and its molecules came together slowly over the millennia. At the same time and in an instant - 'I' returned to the core of its old, dying body, only to be incarcerated therein. All he knew of was the here and now, and right now, he was the absolute embodiment of pain. It - he - whatever he was - uttered words.

If his soul couldn't escape his current predicament, then perhaps his words could if nothing else. He opened his mouth, and let the words flow intermittently like partially with-held urine down his legs.

"S-Sixty? You… coulda rounded 'em… down… instead of… up."

John woke up sometime later under the stone bench. His 'comfy chair'. Hah. He must've crawled there for some pathetic semblance of shelter or comfort. He fell into sentimental musings to take himself away from the here and now…

Johnny remembered picking out a cute, fluffy, white kitty from the local Humane Society when he was almost seven and three-quarters and Davey pretty much nine and a half. Snowflake was huddled under some plastic chair, possibly hoping not to be eaten like some TV dinner. He and Davey nearly didn't pick her, as at first they honestly didn't care to disturb her. She was recovering from some kind of operation. They had no idea what 'spayed' meant, and by unspoken mutual consent punctuated by shared wide-eyed, grim-faced looks and knowing nods, for some reason they didn't dare ask the grown-ups - and in any case they'd come for a dog. But disturb her they did. And she turned out to be affectionate beyond belief. Endlessly grateful for her rescue. It was almost as if Snowflake had swallowed a Disney pill. They took home a scruffy lab/wolf hound mix called Casey several weeks later, and their lives revolved around rescue mutts and thoroughbred horses from there on out. Snowflake, a 'domestic' (mutt) medium-hair, had been their one and only cat. And to think they'd nearly walked by her in favor of a showy Siamese.

But that was precisely what he must've hoped his captors would do while he was in some incoherent, incognizant state. He conceded he was already pretty pathetic. Like some surrendered pet. He ruefully imagined his own adoption papers. 'Medium-hair Shepherd/Irish setter mix, approx 40 years old, answers to the unimaginative name of Shep.'

Still, it was one down, two to go. He wondered what Shiana might want to do to him. She'd lost her husband and children. Her family. Her legacy. He guessed she'd never remarried. Thoughts of how maybe a damn good humping would readjust her attitude came unbidden into his dirty mind. The other side of him, the clean side, prayed 'children' meant just two, for her sake as much as his. His punishment at her hands would be a minimum of three… three… somethings. What was she planning? All he had that came in a threesome was Li'l Shep and the Boys. If they were her target of choice, then he stood no fucking chance of not dying on the spot if she took a shot at them before Sarayah decided to take them out.

John crawled slowly back out from under the bench in search of food and water. He looked about him in the light of that ominous brazier to see - nothing. He gingerly checked the topside of the bench. Paydirt! A chunk of dry bread, and hallefuckingluyah - a bowl of water. It looked clean, too. He sniffed it. It smelled sweet. Untainted. John put his face to the bowl rather than the other way around. He didn't trust his hands not to shake and spill the precious fluid. He knelt beside the bench, braced his hands on it, bent his head, and lapped the water like a dog. He almost spared some to dab on his abused body, but he kept going back to the bowl for just one more drop until he was more likely to leave saliva in the bowl if he insisted on licking it dry. He broke bread, and shoved it in his mouth, wishing he had more water to wash it down with.

Feeling a little more refreshed, he gingerly ran his fingers over his injuries. The ones on his back had calmed down a tad, but not so his feet. There was no way he could stand up. It would be like walking on bloody stumps. Gah... Shit! He sat slumped over on his still sore ass, brought his legs towards his body, and lifted his right foot onto his left knee. It was red-raw and swollen. His left foot was even worse. It looked more like tenderized meat. It was then that tears filled his eyes. He knew from cruel, but this? Sora. She did this to him. And he still had to face his so-called punishment from Shiana and - holy fuck! - Sarayah. Had he technically recovered sufficiently for them to come for him? Take their grievances out on him some more?

The tears spilled down his cheeks, and he scrubbed them away with the back of his hand. He tried to think of all the people who cared about him, who wouldn't hurt him. Who loved and respected him. That in turn hurt in a different way. John realized he was already a mess both inside and out - which made him think of Sarayah. His stomach did a flip flop, but he managed to keep the bread and water down. John lay low on the stone floor, and somehow resisted the urge to crawl back under a stone to lick his wounds like the beaten cur he was.

oooOOOooo