APOLOGIES TO THOSE WHO HAVE ME ON ALERT: I have just had fun and games getting my new fic uploaded, so you may have received several emails about this. HUGE apologies. Fingers crossed this is the last time…

Thank you all so very much for the fantastic responses I received for 'Reflection'. I'm well chuffed! :) there were many comments, which I hope I have answered satisfactorily, and many questions that I have been somewhat evasive about. This story will begin answering some of those.

This story begins after the aliens have picked him up; he's captive, but as yet has no clue as to what is going on

As forewarned, there is a considerable amount of swearing (this is Rush, after all), and I hope I've done ok in capturing his personality, bearing in mind that at the moment he's groggy and confused. Any suggestions, tips or ideas would be greatly appreciated, as is any critique, comments, merits and chocolate. Especially the last. I have much of the story loosely planned out, so, fingers crossed, there will be fairly regular updates.

If ya should spot any spelling, feel free to slap me with them, just bear in mind that I'm a UK'er, and we have different English to American English! :-p

Here's to you, my wonderful readers. Chapter One. Kudos to the plot bunny!

Oh, and not mine. Nope, I checked. It's not :(

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That truly was the oddest sensation, and yet, strangely unsettling in it's familiarity. Forcing open gritty eyes didn't help alleviate his sense of disorientation; rather, 'sight' bought with it an unaccustomed well of panic; he couldn't see.

Not happening

Closing his eyes again, he fought to calm his breathing, and as he concentrated on his 'self' he became aware of a myriad of distant aches that swelled instantly into pain as he unwillingly focused on them. Like a sore tooth, one couldn't help but wiggle it.

Now there's an analogy. What do we do when people start needing dental work? Pliers? String and doors?

The self distraction was enough to take the edge off, make it bearable enough to begin a mental inspection, starting with the fact that his face seemed to be stuck to the floor and he had some serious cramping going on in his shoulders. A physical attempt to relieve said cramps made the muscles scream; instant, instinctive tensing triggered a domino effect as he arched, drawing his legs close, contracting abdominal and pectoral muscles as he desperately tried to alleviate the growing agony, tried to flinch away from the pain, unavoidably succeeding only in making things worse.

Too much worse.

Consciousness returned some time later, the mutinous, treacherous ache drawing him like an anti-siren from the blissful oblivion he had fallen into.

Stupid pillock

He wouldn't be doing that again. God, even his hair hurt. He'd always thought that was just an expression made up by people without the intelligence to create a suitable comparative verbalisation for their physical predicament. Apparently, he'd been wrong. I guess it has to happen every now and again.

His hands were tightly bound behind his back. Obviously. Any more bright ideas, genius? Sudden relief flooded him, drowning out all else; he could see, it had simply been too dark to make much sense of his surroundings. His convulsive movements had done some good; he had shifted enough that he could now see a dull, sickly green strip light embedded in the wall, picking out in darker shadow what appeared to be a door frame.

So, a room? Congrats, Sherlock, A* for stating the bloody obvious. A room (ignoring the condescending voice, which bizarrely enough sounded a lot like Colonel Young- That man is not being the voice of my conscience. Maybe it's the petulance that's so reminiscent…), small, apparently cuboid. A peculiar odour hung in the air, stagnant, sulphuric, tingling his nasal passage as he inhaled. It was damp and a little on the cold side for his liking, but then he was laying on a metal floor. Speaking of… he frowned. They'd taken his desert jacket. He'd liked that jacket. And his boots. Bastards. There was no chance his cap was around anywhere, and what about his equipment? Both Earth and Ancient tech, not to mention the alien devices he'd repaired. Actually, probably best not to mention that. A shiver turned into another full body contraction, and he struggled to remain conscious. It passed. If they had his Ancient tech… admittedly, it only amounted to a couple of scanners and the real life version of the sonic screwdriver (Dr Who, eat ye heart out), but they were undoubtedly more advanced than their own technology. The tools he'd salvaged from the wrecked craft were testimony to that. This could be bad, and the potential fallout made his blood run cold, adrenaline flooding his veins like ice water.

Not good.

The sensation –vibration- was scratching at the corners of this thoughts again, pushing his fears aside in its irritating insistence; suddenly his mind put two and two together, and he knew what it reminded him of, no; what it was. They were all so used to it now, it had become such a part of their lives, that no one noticed anymore, except in unusual circumstances, like when one happened to be leaning against an external bulkhead. Or lying on the floor.

Oh God

The thrum of power through a ship's hull.

Finally, firing on all cylinders, Nicky? Took ye long enough...

Shut it.

Which of course beggared the questions: where the hell in the galaxy was he, where were they going, and, more importantly, what did they want with him? Shit.

He suddenly felt so tired. He'd been so close...

As the 'fight or flight' mindset fled, he became aware of something else. With no way to burn it off, the final effect of the adrenaline quickly made itself known; his stomach clenched beyond his ability to prevent and he heaved, dryly, bringing up nothing but bile. And carrots. Without fail, there's always carrots...

He drifted a while, body definitely not appreciating having extra abuse hurled upon it, hazy mind flitting here and there, constantly circling back to his current predicament. He'd nearly made it off-world. Another day, and none of this would have happened; he'd have been travelling a swift path through the Stargate network, in hot pursuit of Destiny.

One more damn day! Jesus Christ, was it too much to ask??

Yes, apparently. And he'd so been looking forward to scaring the shit out of Young.

They hadn't been happy to find him in the wreck of the downed vessel. Understatement. Honest to God, he had actually expected to die, there and then. When one fired, he truly thought he had. Obviously, he'd been wrong about that, too. Better not be setting a precedent here, Nick.

Like hell

Not bothering to try shifting to a more comfortable position, knowing there wasn't one, he settled with moving his head in an attempt to relieve his stiff neck. Well, that was the plan. It took less than a flash of thought for him to realise that the reason he was still (and given his little fit earlier, that in itself was pretty surprising) stuck to the floor was because the side of his face was covered in dried (and freshly dried) blood. It certainly explained why his left eye felt particularly crusty, and why his head itched something fierce. (where it didn't throb, anyway)

So, what? You shoot me and wallop me one? Seriously, overkill, anyone? Good grief, but that was just plain ridiculous.

Tossers.

Taller than the average human, broad at the shoulder, the body seemed bisected below the lower limbs, the general appearance suggestive of an insectoid race. Head, thorax, abdomen. The six limbs helped that theory along quite nicely. Four arms, two set below and slightly behind the others, and two legs, hinged slightly differently to normal bi-ped's; they reminded him of powerstriders. They exuded the sense of incredible speed. No outrunning, then?

He couldn't be entirely sure what they were, though, until he had chance to see one without the armour which seemed to be moulded to their form in a full body suit. The head itself was entirely encased by an opaque dome-like hood, reaching nearly from shoulder to shoulder. Buzz Lightyear to Woody.

Eli would appreciate that...

He swallowed, pushed aside bleak thoughts. Focus. Stay alive. Plan.

The entire physique was extremely intimidating, he thought sourly. Not that they needed the physical show; their attitude was more than enough. External motion sensors had picked up their approach, the faint beeping had roused him from a troubled sleep. He didn't know how they'd arrived, just knew they were there. Gingerly reaching past a corpse (fortunately, the armour kept even the smell inside, which was just as well, 'cause it was too damn cold to sleep outside at night), he'd switched it off, and gone to the hatch to catch a glimpse of them. Same species. That had been a relief. Still, he'd been nervous; he'd not moved the dead, in case their race took offence to such acts (he was belligerent, not stupid) and initiated some impressive repairs (if he might say so himself. Which he did). Had assumed they would be pleased. Wrong again. Damn it! Their very stance was anger made manifest. He hadn't needed to know a single word in their language in order to recognise the tone which, added to the posture, was downright terrifying.

Having calmly dropped to his knees before their raised weapons and vocal demands, he'd lifted his hands in a placatory manner, refusing to show just how scared he was. He'd done nothing.

Shoot first, question later.

Bollox. And he was stuck with them.

Maybe it was too soon to judge, but they seemed to be a race that placed great importance in military strength and show of force. Of course, his opinion could be somewhat biased. Impressive weaponry, both personal and what he'd discovered attached to the ship. Lethal. Plasma tech, if he was any judge. Indubitably equally impressive armament, again, both what they wore and what the vessel was equipped with. Mutli phasic shielding, from all appearances; a tad melodramatic for what was surely only a sub-orbital runner. He wouldn't want to run up against a carrier, no mistake. They weren't big on aesthetics; the wrecked craft's design was minimalistic, though efficient, uniform in internal colour, and conservative on space. Really, if that didn't scream 'military' nothing did. This was a race that really invested in their offensive and defensive technologies.

With a sigh, he wondered what the time was, wishing he could see his watch. Actually, he'd settle for just feeling it. With a frown, he carefully rubbed his wrists together; gone. His gut twisted in horror as he realised that wasn't the only thing missing. They'd taken his ring. Sickened, his temper flared misty red.

He wasn't aware that he was screaming vile curses at the impassive door until his throat grew sore and his voice raspy, broken. Trembling, he fell back, choking down air in short, desperate gasps.

Futile. They did not deign to answer.

Spent, exhausted, he lay limp, shivering, shocked.

There was nothing to do but wait.