AN: Graphic depictions of torture.

Chapter 4 - Behind Enemy Lines

Rogue Al'kesh
Over Antarctica
Earth

Sheppard managed to ring four wrecks of F-302s with life signs, including Cam's, onto the backyard of McMurdo Station before his luck truly ran out. The moment he dropped the final wreck with two life signs at the station, the transporter room behind the cockpit lit up with an incoming set of rings. He grabbed the staff lying on the seat next to him and managed to kill two Jackal Guards before the other one got him.

A Zat pulse from the third Jaffa caught him on the side of his head. He was unconscious even before his body slumped against the controls of the Al'kesh.

Then there was total and complete blackness for a long, peaceful period of time before he woke up to a fresh hell of his own making.

Somewhere Unknown

After an unknown period of Time

The only thing he had going for himself this time was that Sheppard woke up to exactly the situation he knew he would. The one time he would have really, really wished for that to change, it didn't.

He knew from experience that getting hit by Zat pulses hurt. Now he knew that catching one in the head was even worse. The pounding inside his skull kept him from opening his eyes, and he breathed as evenly as he could to keep himself from screaming. That would only aggravate the agony in his brain and nausea clogging his throat.

He had a feeling that the coppery taste in his mouth was most probably due to his face planting on the deck when he was stunned, not because of a punch to the jaw by a Jaffa while he was passed out. Except for the head, he didn't hurt anywhere else. Not badly at least. But the fact that he was already tightly restrained, with his arms and legs spread-eagled with cold, steel bands around his wrists and ankles, meant he was definitely scheduled for some pain in the near future.

Wherever he was, it was quiet. There was no telltale hum or the slight vibration that meant a spaceship in flight. That meant he was somewhere in a ground base, for the moment left to his own devices.

He opened his eyes slowly and was relieved that the room he was in, was dark. There was enough light to see around, emanating from a source behind him. The cell was a typical Jaffa construction, which he recognized easily. He had seen quite a few of them in Athena's service. It was the size of a standard bedroom, about 130 square feet with gaudy gold and brown walls. The cells were made in large sizes because the Jaffa preferred the space to walk around while they interrogated prisoners.

Plus, being the bigger-than-average man-mountains that they were, they hated to work in cramped spaces.

The room was also quite cold. He was starting to feel goosebumps breaking out all over his naked torso as he hung there. They had taken everything; his weapons, shoes, socks, his shirts and jacket, leaving him in his old, worn-out pair of jeans.

He tugged at his arms and legs experimentally, checking to see if there was any leeway. No luck there. The steel manacles and the chains that extended from them to attach into hooks on the walls on his sides were so solid they didn't even make the tiniest rattling sound.

Sheppard hung his head and closed his eyes, sighing wearily. The faint aroma of burning incense was at least not sharp enough to burn the insides of his nostrils. And it kept him from being able to smell his own blood or sweat, or fear. Small mercies, he supposed. He was well secured, disarmed and for the moment, utterly helpless. All that was left for him to do was wait until his captors showed up to begin whatever they had planned for him.

Then, the real fun would begin.

In Captivity

He started screaming in earnest - the kind that sounded more animalistic than human and left you with the feeling that you carved into your own vocal cords with a sharp knife - on the eighth day of the interrogation session.

...

At first, it hadn't been that bad. Just the insults and profanities, followed by a punch to the ribs or a slap to the face. Sheppard had borne them with his usual charm; the lazy smirks, bored expressions and occasional wisecrack that sometimes baffled his interrogators.

On the third day of his rather unfortunate situation, the bossman, U'tun, made an appearance to see the progress. He'rak's pet Jaffa had managed to survive the battle of Antarctica when Anubis fell and managed to run with a handful of damaged Ha'taks.

He snarled at Sheppard the moment he laid eyes on him and swore to make humanity pay for their defiance. Spittle flew around Sheppard's face from his furious rant about how he would take pleasure in starting that crusade with Sheppard.

It was after that passionate speech, U'tun decided Sheppard needed extra special treatment.

It was when Sheppard learned exactly how many settings the Rod of Anguish had and how effectively and in many different ways the cursed thing could be wielded in the hand of someone who knew what he was doing.

He knew his wrists were lacerated bloody messes. All the twisting, tugging and weight they had borne when he passed out made the sharp edges of those manacles cut deep into his skin. His ankles weren't any better. His upper torso was a canvas filled with a macabre abstract of cuts, bruises and bloody welts created by a sadistic artist.

Na'tok; that was the name of U'tun's expert. He took his time, building the pain up gradually, mapping out each and every sensitive and vulnerable spot on Sheppard's body, to find creative ways to inflict maximum agony. Then, when his work finally pushed Sheppard beyond his endurance, causing him to pass out, he would call upon the healer to fix up the damage with a Goa'uld healing device.

Then he would return with that sombre smile of his, the one designed to convince Sheppard that he would rather be doing anything else but torturing him, to start all over again.

...

Oss'el, the healer, left without a word as usual, leaving Sheppard to slump forward like a rag doll. His abused shoulders burned like fire in protest of the strain, but he had no strength left to hold his head up or keep his spine straight.

Na'tok returned sometime after Oss'el's departure.

Sheppard stiffened when he felt fingers grab his hair roughly to lift his head. He blinked at the hazy face of Na'tok, trying to figure out what was going through the sadistic bastard's mind right then.

"Oss'el assures me I do not have to stop for the day just yet," he said, conversationally, letting go of him to go retrieve the Goa'uld cattle prod from where it hung on the wall.

"You should fire him," Sheppard slurred, spitting out a glob of bloody phlegm. He had done it once to Na'tok's face. The resulting punishment had been rather unpleasant. Sheppard had twitched for what felt like hours until a sharp pain in his chest finally made him black out. He didn't make the same mistake again. "I feel terrible."

"Ah, you can hear me, understand me and talk back to me," the torturer observed. The Rod came to life with a cheerful hum and a slight buzzing. "That is all I need you to be able to do. Let us begin."

Sheppard had a moment to silently cuss himself when the two sharp prongs of the torture device made contact at the base of his spine, causing his entire body to jerk forward. The usual questions about his work for Athena, for the SGC and numerous other things, floated around him, intermittent and fluctuating against the static-like buzz in his ears. Every question was punctuated with either an electrical shock or a searing burn of the Rod in one of Na'tok's favourite spots; in other words, Sheppard's spine, collar bone, hip bone or the edge of his skull at the back of his ears.

Sheppard screamed, groaned and whimpered through most of them and breathed out nonsensical words when Na'tok got in his face.

That was how this duet of blood and agony between them worked.

Before the bastard could work on Sheppard until he passed out, choking on his own blood and spit, like he usually did, U'tun made a surprise visit. Sheppard could hardly see through his tear-filled eyes by then. His voice was gone and he couldn't hear a thing through his left ear. But, what was left of his paltry senses all flared when his fuzzy gaze locked onto what the sneering Jaffa had in his hand.

It was a cylindrical container, about an inch in diameter, made of thick, transparent alloy and filled with a clear liquid. The container itself was harmless. But the slimy, snake-like creature he could see wriggling inside the container made his already abused body and mind go cold and numb with fear.

U'tun noticed his reaction and bared his teeth in a grin of satisfaction.

"John Sheppard," the Jaffa stuck the Goa'uld container right under his nose, declaring, "meet you new master, lord Svith." Then he turned to the torturer. "Na'tok, my friend, I know you enjoyed your sessions with this prisoner, but lord Kletan grows tired of waiting. He needs to know what this man knows before we end his life."

Kletan was another minor Goa'uld that had managed to survive the massacre in Antarctica. Most of Anubis' fanatical loyal Jaffa were now gathered under Kletan's dubious leadership.

"But, U'tun–"

"Time is of the essence, Na'tak," the Jaffa snapped. "I'm afraid we shall have to find someone else for you to play with," with that he moved away from Sheppard and gestured to Na'tak. "Now, please, make him still."

"N-no," Sheppard mumbled, trying to move. This was the most hated setting of the Rod he had endured. It froze all his limbs in a rigid sort of paralysis. He couldn't move a fraction or even blink when all his muscles and bones were looked into place by whatever neurotoxin the thing injected into his bloodstream. Na'tak sometimes liked to freeze him in position when he felt like poking and prodding at his still raw and bleeding handy work, while Sheppard could do nothing but scream and rage inside his mind.

"As you wish."

The words were muttered from behind him just before the Jaffa pressed the prod to the back of his neck, paralysing him. He felt the sharp, cold tip of a dagger run down vertically on his back, just below the neck along his spine. Red hot pain followed the sensation of warm blood gushing out of the fresh cut.

He knew the container was open when a hissing sound of a seal being pulled was heard. A weird twittering noise preceded an agonising pain that made everything he had been enduring for the past few days feel like a spa treatment.

There were no inhuman wails of excruciating pain. There wasn't even a twitch. His body was too frozen by the paralytic. But his pulse did skyrocket and his entire torso was drenched in fresh sweat in seconds. His mind had nothing but white static clouding it. It was a blessed moment of numb disconnect when his mind sort of shut down, unable to process that much sensory overload and pain.

Through all of it, he could feel the snake burrowing into his spine. A million pinpricks of fire travelled along his vertebrae as the thing slithered inside, burrowing its wicked, little thorns into his spine and the nerves within. Once the Goa'uld was fully inside, the agony intensified tenfold, just as it sank its teeth into Sheppard's brain stem.

The toxin that held him paralysed dissolved from his system the moment the alien bit into him. His body unlocked and a piercing howl tore out of his throat, loud enough to echo inside the walls like something out of a horror movie. It went on and on and on, and he couldn't stop, even when he felt blood and saliva dripping out of the corners of his mouth.

Against everything he believed and held dear, there was a moment he wished the Goa'uld would take over, erase him to oblivion and finally free him of this agony.

Which was what was supposed to happen.

What was not supposed to happen was the thing to slide out of his spine with an eardrum-shattering screech of its own, and fall to the ground in a bloody, squishy, pink mess right next to Sheppard's right foot.

He stared at it for a long confused moment, blinking to clear his blurred vision before his body finally shut down, plunging him towards darkness.

The White House
Washington DC

Two Weeks after the Battle of Antarctica

Brigadier General Jack O'Neill was not a happy man when he strode down the hallway that led to the Oval office. A secret service agent opened the door to let him in and when he saw who was waiting for him in there with the president, his mood plummeted even further.

After a round of cursory handshakes, Hayes made them all sit down at the lounge, on the comfy sofas.

"Jack," said the president. "How is the search going?"

"It's going," he bit out, firmly ignoring the man in a suit sitting on the sofa to his left. "It would go even better if I didn't get called out of the field every time someone had a question."

"So the search isn't going anywhere at all," the squirrely bastard sneered. His name was Frank Holden or something, O'Neill didn't care enough to remember.

"The latest intel from an off-world mission, received by SG-9, suggested that there were rumours about a band of Jaffa moving around in their previously abandoned worlds," O'Neill addressed the president. "Tok'ra have already offered their services in searching those ground bases. There's a good chance they took our man to the ground with them."

"It's been two weeks already, sir," Holden whined. "We haven't even yet been informed of the operative's name. We need the intel the General claims he has to start planning a counter before the Trust goes to the ground here on Earth too if they already haven't."

"I'm not releasing a thing until I find him alive or bring his body back home," O'Neill finally turned to the asshole and snarled. "He invoked 'Sanctuary Protocol' before he went undercover. He delivered more intel than any of us ever even hoped. He's legally entitled to full protection the protocol entails."

"How do you know for certain his intel was of any value–"

"I do know." O'Neill cut him off, taking Hayes' silence as permission to tear the whiny bastard a new one. "I've been receiving reports, reports that saved a lot of headaches you would have had over the past year. And, what he did during the battle of Antarctica, at the cost to himself, was nothing short of damn heroic."

"You need to release–"

The idiot had the audacity to imagine he could order him around! "I need to do nothing but get back and help with the search for my goddamn soldier," he snapped. Hayes shrugged, not even bothering to wipe his smirk. "Mr President, why am I here wasting my time with these people?"

"So they could hear from you," Hayes said, glancing pointedly at Holden. "NID thinks I've been keeping secrets from them. I assure you, Halliday, this operation is being conducted according to Air Force laws and ethics, not just SGC mandate. There is no other agenda here–"

Halliday, not Holden, looked like he sucked a lemon. Hayes stood up, signalling the end of the meeting. Halliday reluctantly followed suit and left the room after a curt 'thank you' mumbled under his breath.

Hayes stopped him when O'Neill was about to leave the office as well.

"Now tell me, really, how is the search going?" This time, the look he received from the president was serious.

"Bad, sir," he admitted with a sigh. "We haven't found him yet. It's been two weeks. You know what that means."

"I don't want to imagine," the president muttered. "Can the Tok'ra help?"

"They have more reach than us," O'Neill replied. "They can get to places we can't. Any help is welcome at this point."

Hayes nodded somberly, adding, "let's hope our boy would hold out until then."

"Yeah."

Control Room
SGC

A few hours later.

A message came from the Tok'ra homeworld with the IDC of the Tok'ra named Allush.

"Jack O'Neill, you must make your way to planet Nasya at your earliest convenience." The tall, blond-haired, green-eyed Tok'ra stared at the camera and said in a grave tone

"Tell me you have some good news for me, Allush."

"There is news. Whether it is good or not, is yet to be seen."

"Are you planning a raid?"

"A team of warriors have received confirmation that a number of Jaffa had been seen moving and out of this planet frequently. They believe they may have found the place they are keeping the Tau'ri prisoner."

"Forward us the Gate address, Allush," he said, turning to make eye contact with Dr Weir who had been listening to the conversation silently. She inclined her head, knowing what he was about to say and agreeing to it. "I'll be there with a team in an hour."

Planet Nasya

An hour later

Sheppard didn't know how long he had been floating in a limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness. It was usually quiet in that place, and the abuse on his battered and broken body hardly made any complaints when he was there.

What disturbed his disconnected slumber was noise; loud banging and exploding noises that made the walls shake around him.

He had no idea what was causing the ruckus. The sounds of explosions, the staff weapons and the distinct beeping of the Zats started to echo painfully inside his brain, waking him up to even more pain.

He really just wanted to go back to sleep… and not feel for a little while.

It was possible that he may have drifted, despite the loud chaos happening outside the building of his cell. He was wrenched back from his dozing again, this time by shouts from people.

"Fire in a hole," somebody cried.

"Contact left," another one snapped.

It took him a while to remember that those clipped tones and the terms were specific to Earth soldiers; more to the point, SGC soldiers.

After a short burst from what Sheppard thought was a P90, another Marine announced loudly, "Clear."

"Moving on."

"Wait!" that voice was very close. Sheppard struggled to open his eyes. They sounded like they were just outside his cell.

"Found something. This one is locked."

"Allow me."

Sheppard finally managed to open his eyes and blinked. The first thing that came to his blurry view was his own carved, bloody mess of a chest. It seemed that Oss'el hadn't been summoned to heal him in a while. There were a lot of stains on the floor too, dark and dried up. He wondered whether they were puddles of his own blood or the three or four dead, shrivelled snake-like things scattered around his feet.

There were gasps. Someone called out for someone else to enter the room. Sheppard didn't have the energy to even raise his head to face his visitors. He hoped they were there as his rescuers.

"John Sheppard," a gentle voice said. A pair of leather boots came into his view. He must have made a noise because two warm tips of fingers gently lifted his head by pushing his chin up.

He didn't know the man he was staring at. But he wasn't an enraged Jaffa. He didn't have anything in his hands that looked like a weapon he would use to hurt him more. That was good enough for Sheppard.

"Sheppard…" Another voice called out. Now, that one, he knew. "Jesus! Is he–"

"Yes, he breathes, O'Neill," the one still holding his face, whispered.

"Will he keep breathing?" the Colonel sounded worried.

"With a lot of care and healing, possibly," the man said, his voice already fading as Sheppard's eyes started to droop close again. "If he is strong enough…"

The Colonel was here. Sheppard trusted the man since he had met him the first time. That hadn't changed for any reason for the past year. He felt his tenuous grip on consciousness waver and he let go with a sigh, secure in the knowledge that the hard part of his ordeal was finally over.