He was strung up, his wrists in cuffs suspended on chains, his toes barely brushing the floor. He could feel the stuffy air all over him. A ribbon of heat lashed across his naked back as he heard the crack of a whip. It took everything in him not to cry out at the sudden pain and subsequent stinging sensation. He hadn't been prepared to be thrown into the middle of this memory, hadn't had time to steel himself. But he knew, instantly, that any noise he made would be used against him. That much was deeply ingrained in him.
The whip cracked again and another flare of pain erupted across his lower back and around his hip. He resisted the urge to turn his body away and curl in on himself as much as possible from his suspended position. The whip cracked again and again until he could feel the blood dripping down his back. His tormentors weren't happy until he bled – from whatever they were doing to him.
He forced himself to relax to prepare for the next blow but it never came. He concentrated on the sounds around him and was able to locate the Iraqi man behind him, and a little to his left, breathing heavily from exertion and pleasure. The man stepped up behind Jack and Jack flinched even though he knew better. He could feel the man's breath on the back of his neck, waited to feel the fingers on his back as they trailed through the blood. Yes, there they were.
The man said something, Jack still only understood about a third of what his captors said, but it was better than a lot of the guys Jack had encountered who were also prisoners. At least he usually had some idea of what was going on around him. Maybe, one day, that information would be useful to someone. He just had to hold on until someone arrived.
It felt as if it had been weeks, weeks up on weeks, since he'd been taken captive by the Iraqis and his body and mind had been put through all manner of hell. He didn't even want to think about the things that had been done to him, the things that were still coming. The Jack of the here and now, who was only reliving this hell, couldn't even fathom which beating this was, if he was even able to separate them out in his mind after all this time. He had no idea what was coming, but sometimes it was a beating, sometimes it was torment, sometimes it was a whip to the chest or legs or ass, sometimes it was sodomy. He shuddered while he waited, the Iraqi's breath still hot on the back of his neck.
The fingers that had trailed through the blood reached around and grasped at his waist turning him to face the torturer. The men all had the same face after all this time; brown, bearded, and dark-eyed. Without warning the man sucker punched Jack in the soft part of his abdomen to the side of his diaphragm. Jack coughed and wheezed as the pain blossomed up through his lungs and into his chest, spreading from the point of impact out and around his battered body.
Another blow came, and another. Jack forced his body to stay soft and pliant, in the end, it would hurt less. A beating it was, then. Though Jack was glad. It wasn't as bad as some of the things that could be done, but it was worse than some of the others.
He found himself at loose ends while he endured the beating. When it had actually happened he'd thought about going home to his wife and son. Now, though, with the intervention of time, he didn't have those things. It made the memory worse than the actual act. And then his brain, his sweet, sweet brain, conjured up the image of Carter. All big blue eyes and a soft, pink smile and it startled him, for a moment. Then he felt his mind float, up and away from beating – a blow to the kidney – and right to her. Her golden hair. The slope of her shoulders, the curve of her waist.
Her eyes were worried but kind and he focused on them as one blow came, and then another, and he realized all he had to endure were these things and he could get home, take that worry out of her eyes. It became the mantra in his head as the bruises began to form even while new blows fell. Get through it, get home, make Carter's eyes smile. Get through it, get home, make Carter's eyes smile. Get through it, get home, make Carter's eyes smile.
The blows stopped and Jack couldn't help a relieved sigh. The man spoke to him, but Jack didn't understand any word except military. The man walked out of sight. When he reappeared, Jack noticed that he held the whip again. This time, he would watch as the lashes were placed handily across his chest. He'd already learned not to close his eyes.
A crack, a lash placed across his collar bones. Another across the soft skin of his belly. Another cutting from one shoulder to hip. It went on and on until Jack couldn't tell exactly where each lash landed because the pain had spilled over onto all the nerve endings. The tip of the whip caught him near his naked groin and he flinched, he couldn't help it. It earned him lashes across his thighs to his knees, the whip coming near and near again the tender skin of his groin, until he learned to stand still. They were tough lessons, but he did, eventually, learn them.
The man dropped the whip and Jack could feel himself sweating. He wondered what would come next. It still wasn't enough information to tell Jack which session this was, it had happened so many, many times. The Jack who knew this was memory wanted to be pissed, to be angry, but just like at that time the pain was so intense it left no room for other emotions. His skin was on fire, his organs throbbed, all the tissues in between felt like they were tearing with each breath.
The man sneered and then was gone, leaving Jack to his own devices. He wouldn't cry, had already learned that if he was found with tear tracks on his face it would be worse. He allowed himself the release of a low moan of pain, quiet enough that he wouldn't be heard, loud enough that it was some measure of relief. He wondered how long it would be until they were back, wondered if he'd be taken down from his suspended position to allow the next beating to come from heavy black boots – the fists were easier, they hurt less, though they were more precise.
He felt himself tumble over backwards in his mind through time and other beatings, a sickening somersault of remembrances too alike to be separated. It was one moment but it was all the moments and knowing it was memory gave him no clarity, and there was no reprieve from the pain. He hung there, in silence, knowing he was far away from this place, yet present.
He waited for the edges of the memory to blur, to fade away so he would wake up in his little bed, but it didn't happen. For a very long time, it didn't happen. Long enough that the man returned and returned again before Jack ever had a chance to take a long, deep breath, outside that prison cell and yet within another.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Sam watched as a Tok'ra stepped through the event horizon. It had been a week since they'd turned the SGC down and so it took a moment for Sam to see past the clothing and into her father's eyes. "Dad?" she questioned, surprised to see him, happy to see him.
"Hi, Sam," he said giving her a warm hug. As he held her he said, "I hear Jack's gotten himself into a little trouble."
Sam pulled away and looked at her watch to verify the hour so she could say, "Fifteen days stranded on a planet the Tok'ra indicated might not be as friendly as we originally thought." Yes, she'd glommed on to that little nugget since that meeting and had been torturing herself with what ifs.
"Selmak is concerned, too," Jacob said. "She's familiar with the planet, the people, and their use of some of Sokar's less-pleasant substances."
"You don't mean..."
"The Blood of Sokar," Jacob confirmed.
"Oh, God..." Sam said lowly.
"There's no guarantee that he's been given the drug, Sam," Daniel tried to soothe.
"But if he has..."
"I know," Daniel said, apparently remembering his own run-in with the Blood.
"Let's take this up to the briefing room," General Hammond suggested.
On the way up the stairs, Sam's father touched her arm to get her attention. "You look like you haven't been sleeping."
"I'm fine," she said, by rote.
"You're lying to your father now, not one of your coworkers."
"I'm not lying to anyone, I'm fine." They'd reached the briefing room then so her father had to stop questioning her. She was grateful. Because he was right, she was lying to her father. She wasn't fine. She was tired and sick with worry about the things that might be happening to the colonel. And she couldn't even show the depth of it. She had to trap it down deep inside of herself.
She'd barely been home, but she did go there occasionally as it was the only place she could feel all her emotions openly. Where she could get angry or scared or cry out her frustration and it wouldn't matter. Not that she found herself driven to tears, often, but it was usually when she was overtired. Which was pretty much all the time lately.
She tried to sleep, especially now that she wasn't working 'round the clock on ways to get the colonel home. But sleep didn't come easily. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Astarte subjecting the colonel to various forms of torture. Sam wondered what kind of treatment the colonel was being subjected to. Was the abuse mental? Physical? Sexual? Some combination thereof? When they got the colonel back, would they be getting back the man they left behind? The colonel was a strong man, so Sam held out hope that he'd be able to withstand whatever Astarte put him through. Of course, it was all speculation, but Sam had a tough time believing everything was going to be fine after hearing the Tok'ra's concerns.
Sam took her seat at the briefing table and was startled when her father sat in the colonel's chair. It took everything she had not to tell him to move. But she knew that wouldn't go over well and would also be fairly telling. So she kept her tired mouth shut.
"To what end would O'Neill be subjected to the Blood of Sokar?" Teal'c continued their conversation from the gateroom.
"There's no telling. Though there's some intel that says the matriarch of the society is known to take slaves." Jacob said.
"We never saw any slaves," Daniel pointed out.
"We might not have if they were trying to put their best foot forward," Sam said.
"Astarte did take quite an interest in Jack..." Daniel said.
"Do you think she wanted to make him a slave, Doctor Jackson?" General Hammond asked.
"Of one kind or another," Daniel muttered.
"Like hell," Sam said, drawing the attention of all the men, but she didn't care. She had other things on her mind. Would the woman really have resorted to drugging the colonel in order to... what? How would the drug relate to making him a slave? Making him remember things he'd rather not remember, or hallucinate horrible things that hadn't happened might, what? Break him down? Make it easier to turn him into a willing slave?
"I'm here to tell you I'm going to get him," Jacob said laying a hand on his daughter's shoulder.
"You are?" Sam said, incredulously. Surely her father knew better than to undertake such a rescue mission alone.
"The Tok'ra were pretty clear about being unable to spare the resources," General Hammond said.
"My mission was completed early. Ushad is the one who told me about your request. It was tacit approval to take on Jack's recovery mission. So I'll go get him and bring him home."
"You'll take SG-1 with you, Jacob," General Hammond decided quickly and to Sam's great relief. If Astarte had done what they'd now speculated she'd done, Sam wanted to be the one to put the woman down.
"When can we leave?" Sam asked.
"After we've had a chance to talk to Jacob about what we might be facing, Major."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, chagrinned, because she'd been ready to gear up and go through the gate to the ship. She took a deep breath and attempted to screw her head on straight. She needed to approach this with caution, not abandon.
"Is there a plan, Jacob?" General Hammond asked as they all bellied up to the table.
"We don't know exactly where he is, what his condition is, whether or not he's easily accessible, and whether or not there are going to be forces protecting him," Jacob said. "So right now the plan is to get there and do some recon."
"We were welcome in the town before, chances are we would be again," Daniel said.
"Even if Astarte's done something to the colonel?" Sam asked.
"We won't know until we get there," Daniel conceded.
"I don't like the idea that we're walking in blind," General Hammond said.
"Neither do I," Jacob agreed, "but unless you want me to take the time to go scout it out, this is the best way. It's a two week trip to the planet."
"Two weeks?" asked Sam, aghast. She tried to school her features to not match her voice. She needed to pull it together. Ever since she'd heard that the colonel may be in danger she'd felt her tenuous grasp on her professionalism begin to slip. It was time to fully admit, if only to herself, that whether or not she was hurt or angry, her feelings for him were too strong to be drowned out.
Daniel shot her a sharp look at her outburst, but his countenance turned sympathetic almost immediately. He turned his eyes to Sam's father and asked, "Two weeks?"
"The hyperdrive on my ship is damaged," Jacob said apologetically.
"Cannot Major Carter repair the damage while we make the journey?"
"I'm afraid not, Teal'c. It's a matter of not having the proper crystals."
"Can't you just grow what you need? Or get them from off-world?" Daniel asked.
"We can grow them. But while I have tacit permission to take this mission, the Tok'ra haven't agreed to share further... resources. And between here and Astarte's planet there are no planets with gates that are considered both safe and poachable. So the trip will be a long one."
"But if Jack's in the danger you think he's in-"
Jacob dipped his head and when he looked up, it was Selmak who answered Daniel. "Doctor Jackson, while I do believe that your Colonel O'Neill could be in a compromised position, it is unlikely that he is coming to physical harm. That is not a hallmark of the society he's a captive of."
"Then what is?"
"It is likely that the Blood of Sokar is being used to break him down mentally to create a better, more willing slave."
"Mental abuse is still harmful," Daniel pointed out hotly.
"Jacob and I have permission to help," Selmak said, "but that is all."
Daniel made a frustrated sound as Sam reiterated, "So it'll take two weeks to get there, and once we're there we'll have to find and rescue the Colonel."
Selmak allowed Jacob to answer, "That's right."
Sam turned towards the General. "When can we leave?"
"As soon as Jacob is ready to take you," General Hammond assured.
"We'll go as soon as you're geared up and ready for a month long journey," he said.
"We'll need some things for the colonel," Sam said, already standing.
"You're dismissed, Major," General Hammond said with a small smile playing around his mouth.
Sam looked at him sheepishly. "Thank you, sir."
It wasn't a well planned mission, that was for sure, and it smarted leaving the colonel in Asarte's clutches for another two weeks, but it was all they had. So she squared her shoulders and strode out of the room to make the best preparations she could.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Jack came to slowly, fighting his way up through the muddle of the drug. When he peeled his eyes open, he found himself staring at the ceiling of his cell. His entire body ached as if what he'd just experienced had been real. He could feel the tears in his flesh and the bruising as clearly as he had when he'd been in Iraq. Cautiously, he trailed his hands down his body but found himself dressed, clothing intact, and reassured himself that it had only been a vivid recollection.
He groaned and sat up, his body tired of everything but mostly of lying down. His head felt heavy like it always did after the horse-pill pain killers that Janet would give him. He leaned back against the wall of bars that made of one side of his cell and let two bars cradle his head between them. He blinked blearily a few times to clear his vision. When he finally did he noticed, to his extreme disappointment, that nothing had changed.
He was still alone in the room of cells. But better alone than with someone else who was being tortured, he supposed. He'd been one of many before and it was a different kind of painful to watch someone else go through the agony of torment.
For the first time in his wakefulness he felt a gaping hole inside of him where the healed parts of him used to be. The memories, the hallucinations, it was all getting to be more than he could handle. He felt tender around the edges, felt skittish, felt edgy, felt the things he'd felt before he'd been put back together after each of the events he'd already lived through once or had nightmares about. Seeing Scotty's death had pissed him off, but watching Daniel and Sam get tortured while the stronger and more stalwart members of the team were shackled to a wall had been a special kind of hell.
He had even once hallucinated Sam actually being married to that megalomaniac, Hanson, and the things he might have done to her if it had ever gotten that far. Had hallucinated that he, himself, had been the one she'd run to when she needed a safe place to go, and how even he had been unable to protect her.
He'd had the part hallucination part memory of his father's death. Later he'd gotten to watch as his mother fell apart and there was nothing he could do about it. It had ripped at his heart to watch his mother fracture the way she had, and it didn't seem to help that he knew it was a hallucination. It never seemed to help that he knew. Because it always seemed so real.
Like the most recent reliving of his time in Iraq. It was just one day of many that were stamped indelibly on his memory. So complete were the memories that they could be recollected in full to be lived out again under Astarte's brand of torture.
Jack took a moment to be glad that Astarte had set her sights on him rather than some other member of his team, and that he'd been the one left behind, because he wouldn't wish this treatment on anyone. And he wondered how much longer it would be before he'd be broken down enough to wish one of them were there in his place.
He felt a wave of anger wash over him. Not just for the brief moment when he realized he'd been driven to the idea of possibly wishing it was someone else in his place, but also because it simply pissed him off that he was in this position to begin with. He had anger towards himself, even. If only he'd accepted Astarte's proposal, he'd be living the good life right now. And who knows how much more of this he was going to have to endure before she considered him broken enough to retrain?
He wondered how many more memories or fears his brain had to give up and he could think of one more, just one more that would have the ability to take him down to rubble. And he hoped he wouldn't be made to last out that long. He was thankful his brain had protected him from that so far, and wondered at the strength of his own mind that he'd been spared the horrifically detailed memory of the worst event of his life.
The sound of a door opening forced his head to turn in the direction of the staircase. It was a sound he was used to, one that came regularly. It was the delivery of food and drink, enough to keep him reasonably strong and fit, but not strong enough or fit enough to fight against the drug or the women who administered it. No, he still felt as weak and wobbly as a newborn foal.
As he knew he was meant to, he pushed himself up off his bed and shakily made his way to the cell door where he took the tray from a woman who gave him a shy sort of smile. She was the same woman who came to bathe him gently with soft cloths and warm water in the moments after a drugging when he was still pliable and weak willed, when he was broken down and aching.
The bathings pissed him off, too, because they were always given at a time when he was too weak to fend off the hands that reached for the waistband of his trousers. He always felt exposed and violated, even in the floaty space between the drug and clarity. He wanted for the times when he was allowed to awaken slowly and fully clothed and dry, like he had this time. The anger was still present, whether he woke up to warm water or not.
He took the tray of food back to his bed, careful not to spill it. It was meats and cheeses – the same food he'd eaten on this planet as a free visitor. Aside from the druggings and being kept in a cell, he'd admit he was kept well – clean and fed – and he wondered, again, what Astarte had planned for him once she'd broken him down to her desired level of complacency. He hoped she'd get on with it already – he wasn't sure how much more of the memories he could take.
Author's Note: It pains me to say this a little, but for the next little while I'll only be updating once a week on Wednesdays. I had a bout of block and you guys have almost caught up to me. As soon as I get the buffer I like back, I'll resume my twice-a-week posting schedule.