Chapter Text
The ringing in his head wouldn't stop, growing louder with each second and echoing in his temples with unbearable pain. A bitter nausea welled up in his throat, making his stomach clench convulsively. Sheppard cautiously stirred and immediately regretted it—the world around him seemed to sway, threatening to completely plunge him into a dizzying abyss. He tried to collect his thoughts, to remember what exactly had led him to this terrible state, but vague, fragmented images eluded him, refusing to form a clear picture. Only chaotic flashes of light and shadow flickered before his inner eye.
With immense effort, John pried open his eyelids. For the first few seconds, blurry outlines revealed nothing, but gradually his vision focused, and he was surprised to find himself in completely unfamiliar surroundings. A dim, diffused light filtered in from somewhere above, picking out the silhouette of dirty gray walls from the gloom. He tried to move again, but his numb body wouldn't obey, as if it were a stranger's, heavy with lead. Every attempt to move a limb brought dull pain. He closed his eyes, and a sticky, viscous darkness instantly swallowed him, carrying him into oblivion.
When he regained consciousness for the second time, he didn't feel as broken as before. The headache had receded, leaving only a muffled echo, and the nausea had subsided. Carefully lifting his heavy head, John looked around. He lay on the cold stone floor in a dark room. The only small window was high near the ceiling, and a massive, metal-clad door was unsettling. It smelled of sweat and mold. None of this boded well.
John cautiously got onto his hands and knees, then slowly stood up. Swaying, he moved toward the window, but it was too high to see anything outside. His memory was still a blur. He tried desperately to remember what had happened, but only bright light and agitated shouts flickered before his eyes. His last clear memories were sparring with Teyla and a briefing in Elizabeth's office. After that—complete emptiness.
He was in his standard black uniform, but unarmed. His holster was gone, as were his watch. What the hell happened? A failed mission? If so, where were the other team members? Did they manage to escape, or were they separated into different cells? He still hoped for the former. That would mean his people were safe, and he would have a better chance of getting out of this… whatever it was.
Hearing approaching footsteps, Sheppard moved to the far wall and straightened up, trying to appear as undeterred as possible. He braced himself for the encounter. The door creaked open, and two large, armed men entered the room.
Following the guards, another man entered the cell. He was dressed in an elegant dark uniform of obviously expensive fabric that fit perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and slender build. Some insignia gleamed on his chest. He contemptuously surveyed Sheppard from head to toe, as if he were a dirty stain on a spotless floor, before asking:
"Who are you?"
"I'd like to know the same thing," Sheppard shrugged, scrutinizing the man. He clearly hadn't seen him before, and this uniform was unfamiliar.
From an unexpected, powerful blow to the jaw, John was sent flying into the wall, collapsing limply to the floor. His head immediately filled with a deafening clang, echoing in his temples. The world before his eyes swayed, threatening to plunge him back into sticky darkness. Sharp pain shot through his jaw, radiating with a dull throbbing throughout his head. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.
"Who are you?" the man insisted, repeating the question.
"John Sheppard," John croaked, spitting out blood and deciding that defiance was not an option right now. "It seems there's been some misunderstanding. I think we should sort this out."
"How did you get here?" the man asked, completely ignoring Sheppard's words and keeping his intense gaze fixed on him.
"I'd like to know that myself," Sheppard scoffed, trying to hide his escalating pain.
One of the burly guards approached and, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, yanked him to his feet. The room swayed, and Sheppard wasn't sure he could remain standing for long, feeling weakness in his knees and growing dizziness.
"Answer the question," the man grimaced, his voice growing sharper.
"I already did," John replied stubbornly, doing his best to stay on his feet while the brute held him by the collar. "I want to know what's happening here just as much as you do."
The man thoughtfully chewed his lip, his gaze sweeping over Sheppard's bruised face. He was about to open his mouth to ask another question, but he was distracted. Someone standing by the entrance caught the man's attention and signaled, and the man, shooting John an angry look—a look that clearly conveyed the conversation wasn't over—hastily exited with the guards, leaving him alone in the cell.
It was the strangest interrogation he had ever been part of. John's bewilderment grew by the minute. He didn't understand what was happening, who these people were, or what they wanted from him. The man had asked strange questions, to which he apparently didn't know the answers himself. Sheppard still couldn't grasp what the man wanted. He was in trouble again, and by all accounts, he was in deep.
He struggled to his feet. He swayed, and felt terrible: his whole body ached, his head throbbed. John tried to look out the window again. Jumping, he hooked his hands onto the narrow sill and tried to pull himself up, but his fingers slipped, and he crashed down, hitting his elbow on the hard floor. He made a few more desperate, but unsuccessful attempts, and finally gave up. Nothing was visible from the window anyway.
He settled back on the floor, resting his hands on his bent knees. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and he desperately wanted to drink. John couldn't even remember the last time he ate, but by the feel of it—it had been a long time.
Pushing thoughts of food aside, John began frantically sifting through all possible scenarios of how he could have ended up here. But most of all, he was worried about where this place was and why he remembered nothing. This had never happened before. His memory had always been flawless, especially when it came to critical situations. This frightened him much more than the pain and hunger.
The cell began to darken, twilight was falling, and it grew noticeably colder. John curled into a ball, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in his body, but the biting cold still pierced him to the bone. He was almost asleep when he heard heavy footsteps approaching his cell. The door burst open with a clang, and a man stepped inside with a tray in his hands.
"Hey," John called out, getting to his feet. "Maybe you could call someone I can talk to?"
The guard silently placed the tray on the floor, grumbled something angry that John couldn't make out, and left, slamming the door behind him.
"Guess not," John shrugged. They clearly weren't going to explain anything to him.
Glancing at the contents of the tray, John grimaced slightly. Of course, it could have been worse, but that hideous bluish mess in the bowl could hardly be called appetizing. Taking the water flask from the tray, he took several greedy gulps, feeling the life-giving liquid soothe his parched throat. Looking at the contents of the bowl again, he decided that he wasn't hungry enough to eat it right now.
At least they weren't going to starve him—that was a good sign. Perhaps next time he could find out more information about this place. Or, even better, escape.
For most of the night, John tossed and turned, shivering from the cold. The stone floor offered no warmth, and his thin uniform provided little insulation. He got up and began pacing back and forth in the room, stretching his legs and shoulders to try and warm himself up.
When the guards entered the cell, John was almost glad to see them, despite his apprehension. These were completely different people, not the ones who had come last time, and in a different uniform. He tried to say something, but they told him to shut up. As a morning greeting, one of them pinned him against the wall, held a weapon to his head, and thoroughly searched him, as if a weapon could have grown in his pockets overnight. Then he was dragged out of the cell, held firmly by both shoulders, and pulled down the corridor, forced to keep his head down.
They passed several corridors, then a couple of flights of stairs, and finally emerged outside. John eagerly looked around, glad to finally have a chance to survey his surroundings and understand where he was, but a sharp rifle butt to his temple convinced him not to. The world swayed again, and sharp pain flared in his head.
While John was trying to regain his composure and maintain consciousness, he was grabbed by the arms and roughly shoved into the back of a van. Inside, it was dark, hard, and uncomfortable, smelling of engine oil and dust. He tried to find a more or less comfortable position, but as soon as the van lurched forward, he was thrown sideways and hit the back of his head hard against the metal wall. The van bounced and swayed the whole way, and John started to feel nauseous again. Fortunately, the journey didn't last long, and soon he was dragged out of the dark van into the bright light.
Sheppard squinted, finding himself outside. The bright sunlight after the darkness of the van and the cell stung his eyes. A guard pushed him forward, directing him towards the flimsy barracks at the edge of a massive sand quarry where dozens of people were working.
Now he had a chance to look around, and the first thing he noticed was that the quarry and barracks were well-guarded. Armed security personnel swarmed everywhere, carefully watching the workers as if they were prisoners. What were they mining here? Some valuable resource? Something told John that he would soon learn the answer to that question in full detail. Around the quarry were sheer cliffs, with only sparse clumps of stunted trees. The terrain was open, and there was absolutely nowhere to hide in case of an emergency.
The guards handed him over to two others. These were taller, sturdier, and armed with large pistols and long sticks. Sheppard tensed, carefully examining the weapons. It was Genii weaponry.
"You guys aren't going to explain anything to me, are you?" John asked, already knowing the answer.
"Shut up!" the guard roared and pushed him forward.
John rolled his eyes. He hadn't expected any other answer.
He was roughly dragged to the barracks. It was a squat, unsightly structure made of roughly hewn wood and corrugated metal, with a crooked door and tiny, almost glassless windows through which light barely penetrated. It reeked of stale dampness, dust, and sweat.
Then he was shoved into one of the rooms. Inside, it was no better. The single dim bulb on the ceiling barely dispelled the gloom, casting long, distorted shadows. The walls, paneled with darkened wooden boards, were in places covered with ingrained dirt, and the floor was packed earth. In the center stood a crudely built wooden table, and next to it—a couple of equally clumsy stools. The air was heavy, permeated with the smell of dust, sweat, and something acrid, metallic.
The guards followed, standing on either side of him like living pillars, blocking any escape. John looked up, and at that instant, he tensed, his fists involuntarily clenching. In the back of the room, behind the simple wooden table, sat Kolya, with his usual arrogance on his pockmarked face.
"Long time no see, Colonel Sheppard," Kolya said with a smirk. "I was informed you arrived at the camp last night. How was your accommodation? Comfortable?"
John struggled to suppress the burning urge to lunge at him and strangle him with his bare hands. However, realizing he had no chance against armed guards, he forced a smirk in return and looked Kolya directly in the face, trying not to betray his unease.
"Not bad," John grunted, the taste of blood in his mouth intensifying his irritation. "Just a shame I didn't get to see the sights."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," Kolya said, stepping closer. The guards immediately gripped Sheppard's shoulders, holding him in place with a death grip, preventing him from moving. "Especially considering that's the least of your problems."
John remained silent, staring intently at Kolya. He wasn't wearing the usual Genii clothing. He was wearing an elegant dark uniform with gold chevrons, which John had seen on the man who had subjected him to the strange interrogation.
"What do you want?" John finally asked, trying to conceal his rising tension.
"I want you," Kolya replied, his gaze sharp and piercing. "And if you behave, nothing bad will happen."
"I don't like making empty promises," John scoffed.
"Yes, I know. I'd be surprised if you did. Last time, you took my Wraith and killed some of my men. You're a real pain in the ass, and I'm struggling to restrain myself from putting a bullet in your head. But, it seems to me, I've found a good way to keep you in line."
Kolya signaled, and a guard handed him an object. It took John a few seconds to realize what it was, and he felt a chill. It was Rodney's tablet, which McKay never parted with. But maybe he just lost it? No, McKay never loses equipment; it's the first thing he grabs when he needs to run.
"A fascinating little device," Kolya mumbled, poking the thick tablet with his finger, turning it on, and then turning the screen towards John.
John felt everything inside him turn cold. He had hoped his team was safe, that he was stuck in this damn place alone. But from the tablet screen, McKay's frightened face, with a significant black eye, stared back at him.
"You're a bad influence on Dr. McKay, Colonel," Kolya scoffed. "He's become too stubborn and has even started resisting."
"Where is he?!" John roared, feeling the guards grip his shoulders even tighter.
"Safe, as long as you don't cause problems," Kolya sneered, clearly enjoying the game.
"What about the others?" Sheppard asked, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
"Mr. Dex and the charming Miss Emmagan were not part of my plans," Kolya said, shaking his head, not a muscle on his face twitching, expressing complete indifference. "Their fate is unknown to me. And, to tell the truth, I'm not particularly interested."
Kolya smoothly rose from his chair, his eyes fixed on Sheppard, and slowly, deliberately, approached John.
"Be a good boy, Sheppard," Kolya said calmly, even insidiously, stopping directly in front of him. "Don't struggle, don't cause trouble, and do as you're told. And then Dr. McKay won't get hurt. As for you, I'm not so sure. You're useful to me alive. Unfortunately. But," he added, "not unharmed."
The blow to his ribs was sudden and brutal. All the air was knocked out of his lungs at once, and John crumpled to the floor with a groan, coughing and gasping for breath. Every inhale was a struggle; his chest burned with fire. His vision blurred, and it took him several agonizing seconds to regain some composure. The guards, grabbing him by the arms, roughly yanked and forced him to stand.
"Take him away," Kolya waved his hand, turning away. "Find him a suitable task and don't let him out of your sight."
"I need to make sure he's alive!" Sheppard demanded, resisting the guards who were trying to drag him away. "I need to make sure you're not bluffing."
"You'll have to take my word for it, Colonel," Kolya smirked. "Or you can risk it and find out for yourself by getting a small piece of Dr. McKay as proof. Keep in mind, I have eyes everywhere. Whatever you plan, I'll know about it. Dr. McKay will be responsible for all your actions. I'll make sure you find out about it."
John reluctantly allowed himself to be led away. His already dire situation had just gotten worse.