Disclaimer: I don't owner Stargate Atlantis or any of the characters. But they do need to be regularly exercised, so I'm letting them out for a bit of play time again.

oooOOOooo

Best Served Cold

A man who desires revenge should dig two graves – source unknown.

Chapter 1

Sheppard gasped for air as he resurfaced from the comforting embrace of unconsciousness to the lonely confinement of his stone cell. He'd passed out again, a few moments of blissful nothingness in the midst of the torture he had endured for who-knew-how-long now. He didn't know why they were doing it…heck, he didn't even know who his tormentors were. They hadn't said a single word to him from the moment they'd made their move, just used him as a punchbag when the mood took them without so much as a 'By your leave'. It made no sense. What was any of this meant to achieve?

Streaks of sweat burned their way down his torso, stinging each and every cut and abrasion like acid as they trickled over them. This wasn't a good sign. The cell was cold and damp, he was close-as-damn-it naked, and yet he was sweating like a workhorse. He feared he was getting sick, and he needed that like he needed a hole in the head considering his current predicament. It seemed unlikely his health insurance counted for much out here.

He twisted a little from his bindings, metal gouging into his raw wrists, his toes barely reaching the floor as he desperately tried to alleviate the deep burning sensation in his shoulders. He'd been manacled this way – arms hauled above his head– for the entirety of his abduction. Except for the few, brief minutes of pummelling he'd taken while resisting the whole restraints thing. Fat lot of good that had done him. He was pretty sure they'd stamped on him and cracked a rib or two for good measure while they were at it, but to be honest, everything hurt so much now it was hard to be sure what his worst injuries were. Keller was going to have a field day patching him up once he got home. Bed rest, that was what she'd insist on, and right now he couldn't think of single more perfect idea. Things were definitely bad if an infirmary stay seemed that appealing. Right now, he was considering chewing his own arms off just to get some relief from the pain and the shortness of breath.

There were no clues he'd been able to discern so far that told him where he was or who had kidnapped him. The walls of his cell were made of coarse grey stone, rough-hewn as if cut away by hand, so probably not an industrialised civilisation. Not that that narrowed things down much at all. Most of the peoples they stumbled across in the Pegasus galaxy were pre-industrial, or 'primitive' as Rodney preferred to label them in his inimitably arrogant way. Sheppard's mind idled briefly to thoughts of McKay and the rest of his team before he tried to pull them back on track, to examine, as he had done what felt like a thousand times already, the modest surroundings of his current abode. The air felt cool and damp, and there was an earthy, somewhat musty odour that gave him the sense he might be underground. The thick timber framework that laced the walls and ceiling, a part of which his chains were suspended from, suggested a mine of some kind, so perhaps a mining community? That was something to go on…although he couldn't think of such a community he or any other team had run into, so it was really no help at all. And just because they were in what felt like a mine, it didn't mean these people had actually created it. Most likely they were using it as a hideout…which didn't bode well. So far no one had cut out his subcutaneous transmitter, but if they were far enough down underground, or obscured by natural deposits that provided shielding of some kind that scrambled transmissions, it could block his signal and make it harder for a rescue team to find him. And right now, he couldn't see any way he was getting out of this without help. He needed to be visible.

Footsteps echoed through the stifling silence, sending his stomach on a nauseating lurch. Footsteps always signalled bad things were coming and he wasn't sure how much more of this he could physically take. He tried to take deep breaths to steel himself, but it was hard, and he came up lacking. The awkward position of his arms constricted his lungs and limited his ability to suck in enough air to satisfy his needs. Maybe primitive was a good word to describe these people, because their torture techniques were positively barbaric from his experiences so far.

It had started off slowly. At first there had been the general scuffle to subdue and cuff him, followed by a lengthy period of solitude, which hadn't bothered him back then. When he'd next seen his captors, they'd used some kind of cattle prod on him, the charge forcing him to jerk against his restraints as he'd convulsed and cut his wrists to ribbons, a side-effect they were no doubt proud of, though they didn't show it. After that the beatings had started, first with fists, then with implements like metal bars and wooden bats. They didn't do it hard enough to break bones or rupture organs. That apparently wasn't their intention. Not that he claimed to understand their intent at all. It was what is was – brutal and relentless. They were apparently in this for the long-haul and severe injuries would only cut it short.

The door to his dingy cell groaned open and the heavies who had been working him over for the past few days returned. He'd lost count now of how many times they'd gone through this little routine, never uttering a single word. Sheppard refused to acknowledge them as they entered. It was the only control he could exert over his situation. If they wouldn't talk to him, then he wouldn't talk to them. He wouldn't barter, wouldn't beg, wouldn't cry out, wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing how much this silence was crushing him, little by little. He was a military man; danger and risk of injury were all part of the job description. He supposed that made him some kind of masochist, and perhaps he was getting his just desserts. Except, when he was deployed there was a mission, and if you got caught it was because you were deemed the enemy. That gave the violence some meaning, helped to keep you grounded in why you did what you did, and why the enemy did what they did. These guys…these guys didn't seem to care about him one way or another. If he had to choose one word to describe their attitude toward him, it would be 'indifferent'. They derived no apparent pleasure out of what they were doing. They didn't smile, laugh or taunt him as they pounded on him. Yet, just like clockwork every couple of hours or so they filed in, beat the crap out of him, then filed out again. Like it was a regular shift at the factory.

Job done.

A portrait in efficiency.

All without a damn word to break the suffocating quiet.

He had to wonder why the silence was getting to him so much. But he knew the answer. It was because he hated not knowing anything about his captors. Without information, how was he supposed to talk his way out of this? What could he use as threats or leverage or bribery if he didn't know what made these people tick? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Which was why he'd opted to give them the silent treatment, too. With no other obvious motivation for their cruelty, he could only guess they needed him to suffer for some as yet unknown reason. Well, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of any feedback that might suggest they'd been successful.

After a few seconds had passed, he cast the trio the subtlest of glances to get the measure of what punishment he was in for. No weapons this time, only food and water. Great, so it was force-feeding time again, huh? God forbid he starve before they'd finished turning him into kebab meat. That certainly wouldn't do.

As he had done each and every time they'd attempted this, Sheppard clenched his jaw tight shut as the three of them ambushed him at once. And just as they had before, one of them grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back so far he thought for sure his neck would snap, ending his hopes of resistance. Another of the thugs then pinched his nose shut, forcing him to open up just to get some air. At that point a funnel was inserted in his mouth and what felt like a whole bucketful of water was tipped down his throat without thought for giving him time to swallow or breathe. He gagged and struggled, but on it went, a seemingly endless stream of water he reflexively swallowed down as and when he could, but mostly just choked on. It was invasive and dehumanising, a form of torture as and of itself. But the worst was yet to come. Bucket emptied, they shoved a slim hose into the funnel and began pumping a vile, liquid gruel straight down his oesophagus, leaving him bucking and gagging fit to spew while his cuffs gouged deep into his already ragged flesh. Yet somehow the slop kept going down. The whole process made him think he wasn't the first poor bastard these guys had unleashed their twisted hospitality on. There was a proficiency to their methods that suggested practice…and lots of it. They had it down to an artform.

As tears of strain and frustration burned down his temples, he found himself wondering, as he always did, whether his team were enduring the same treatment. He prayed they weren't – hoped that he had been singled out as their leader to be made an example of, and the others were just sitting it out, waiting for release. Or perhaps they were being forced to watch, a real-life horror show playing out for their benefit. That was a new thought for him, one that invigorated him with a new surge of defiance. If they could see this, he had to stay strong for them. He couldn't show how much this was breaking him down, degree by agonising degree.

What he really hoped, he pondered as the foul-tasting gunge slithered down his gullet, was that they'd evaded capture and had no idea of the sufferings being inflicted on him. That would be best. Maybe they were back on Atlantis right now preparing to launch a rescue mission. Yeah…or maybe not. He doubted they had been that lucky.

When the gruel was gone, the tube and funnel were savagely ripped back out, leaving him sputtering enough to bring half of what had gone in back out in a sticky puddle on the floor. Best thing he could do with the crap anyway, he figured. He was only sorry the rest of it hadn't come along for the return visit.

As he regained his breath, the bulky trio stood back, impassive, as if thoughtfully giving him time to regain his composure. But this was merely the calm before the storm. He knew how this went down now. They would avoid any blows to his stomach because whoever was in charge wanted enough food and water in him to prevent him from dying. They would limit the beating to his arms, legs or back. It was a pattern they'd followed for the past few days and he doubted they would vary it now.

True to form, thug number one at his rear kicked the backs of his knees, buckling his legs from under him. They folded, leaving him completely suspended buy his wrists. The bite of the metal digging into his torn skin drew a hiss, but no more. That had been more than he'd wanted to give up to them and he was determined to give them no more. He regained his footing, minimal as it was, hearing what sounded distinctly like the rattle of a belt buckle being loosened. Okay, that was new…and ominous…

He had to wonder how low his life had sunk when the smack of the buckle against his back brought a sense of immense relief along with it. The belt's removal could have signified something so much worse than another beating that his mistreatment seemed trivial in comparison. The leather snapped again, and the buckle thumped against his skin, the pin gouging its way into his flesh. Sheppard pressed his lips together to hold back both a cry and the flurry of obscenities coursing through his brain. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction no matter how good it would feel to give them a piece of his mind. The process was repeated over and over until his back felt as though someone had poured a can of gasoline over it and tossed in a match. The result was that the individual blows all merged into one long, searing pain. Warm rivulets of blood ran down to the waist band of his boxers, the only piece of clothing he'd been allowed to keep, warning him that the belt was cutting deep.

And then, just like that, it was over.

One by one the thugs left the room taking everything from the feeding session with them.

Silent

Impassive.

Maddeningly indifferent.

The echo of the door bolt sliding home seemed to carry on for an age.

That was when the real pain set in. It was as if the constant blows had somehow distracted his brain from allowing all the messages through while it was happening, but now every single nerve ending in his back screamed out in protest at their abuse.

The only saving grace he could focus on was that the meal meant the day was nearing its end. That was the final beating for today. Now he had a few hours to recover before the whole routine started afresh tomorrow.

He prayed for rescue as his pain and exhaustion succumbed to darkness…

oooOOOOooo

Against all the odds, Sheppard realised he had slept as the sound of the bolt on his cell door drawing back jerked him into reluctant wakefulness. His rest had been littered with nightmares, no doubt fuelled by the pain still lingering in his shredded back. The only thought that consciously formed as he woke was that he hoped no one took off their belt this time.

Thankfully they didn't, and he peered up long enough to see that the three men were, instead, building a fire in a small brazier they'd brought along with them. He somehow doubted the fire was for his benefit and he was honestly warm enough without it. Sheppard wiped sweat from his eyes on his biceps to clear his vision, but his thinking was duller than yesterday. He really didn't like the way he felt. A little voice in his head was screaming the dreaded 'i' word, but he doubted a jab of antibiotics was on today's to-do list.

The heat from the fire was slow to build, but eventually it began to permeate the damp cell, making it uncomfortably warm and so much harder to breath. One of the heavies began to stoke the flames, prodding and poking at the logs until it got fully burning and the flames licked higher. He set the poker down and left the end of it resting in the flames. The action wasn't lost on Sheppard. He guessed he could figure out what today's fun activity would be.

His brain screamed out insults and questions his mouth refused to voice. If he spoke, they would know they were getting to him. He would keep up the selective mutism for as long as they did. He stubbornly refused to be the first to break, especially since he doubted talking would get him out of this anyway.

The three of them stood back against the walls and faced him, hands behind their backs, waiting for something.

But for what?

Footsteps…

He'd been here at least three days by his reckoning and in all that time he'd only seen these same three men. Now someone else was on the way. Someone these three men reported to if their body language was anything to judge by. This could be a sign that things were about to escalate, which was just what this situation didn't need. Heart pounding, he fought to contain his rising panic, determined to keep his dignity in the face of whatever was to come.

The footfalls were slow, steady, not heavy, but not light either. He judged it to be someone of his weight, perhaps older judging from the speed of movement, although it was possible that the pace was simply to add dramatic effect. Honestly, he'd had just about as much drama as he could take over the past few days. His frayed nerves could barely take the suspense.

The footsteps came to a halt outside the cell door, and at that point brute number two pulled something from his pocket and stepped forward, tugging a thick, air-stealing cloth sack down over Shepard's head. Just when he'd thought breathing was hard enough...

The sound of the door swinging open took on a more ominous pitch through his hood, muffled and echoey, as if heard through an eerie fog. The footsteps started up once more, coming closer, though how close was uncertain. Then he heard it again – the sound of the poker clanging against the brazier as it stoked up the fire. Was that the new arrival, or was one of the three stooges following some unspoken instruction?

Who it was really paled into insignificance as the hot metal brushed his loin on the right side, making him jolt and writhe and suck in a sharp breath through his tightly clenched teeth. His skin stung, crying out for a soothing compress. He doubted anyone here was about to help him out with that.

The next stroke traced the back of his left thigh, the smell of burning hair penetrating the sackcloth as his leg buckled beneath him. The agony in his wrists and shoulders momentarily took his mind off his scorched skin, but only momentarily, as the pain in his fresh burns began to build incrementally with every passing, silent second.

The next contact, somewhat predictably, came dead centre of his back, cauterising an area of torn flesh over his lower spine. That one dragged a scream from him despite his determination to give them no such reaction.

The poker pulled away. It did not make contact again.

'So, you do feel pain,' a mechanically distorted voice stated, as if they hadn't truly been certain. Someone was going to great lengths to conceal their identity. 'Which means that thus far you have either been incredibly brave…or incredibly stupid.'

A compliment, although one rescinded as soon as it was handed out. Yet another attempt to demean him.

'I'd just like…to point out that…those two things…don't have to be…mutually exclusive,' he panted through his pain, diffusing any intended insult. But even though the sack made his voice sound oddly muffled to his ears, he doubted the others had missed the slight edge of panic he'd been trying to contain.

'He said you were an intelligent man…a worthy adversary. I think he was even a little afraid of you…not that he would thank me for saying that,' the newcomer told him.

He? He who? Sheppard listened intently, hoping for clues as to the identity of this stranger. The only thing he could glean from what had been said so far was that they didn't know each other personally, rather they shared an acquaintance — a male who wasn't too fond of him. He could think of a few.

'I, however, am not afraid of you.'

The distorted, static-laden voice did nothing to dull the implied threat of those words. Sheppard gulped down the knot of anxiety rising in his craw, thankful that the sack smothering his head would hide his actions from view.

Fingers now grasped his chin through the coarse cloth, gripping his jaw firmly and forcing it up from his chest where his head had sagged. The faintest hint of light filtered in to him, an orange glow from the fire, but he could make out nothing of the person presumably standing in front of him. They were a silhouette…a shadow.

'I confess, I was expecting you to be older.'

That seemed like an odd comment. Out of place. Why would he think that?

'I never expected him to be afraid of a relative youngster.'

An older male? That narrowed it down some. But he'd offended a few people in his years in Pegasus so he didn't want to jump to conclusions.

'Flattery won't get you anywhere,' he quipped.

A fist to his left kidney warned him that his jokes weren't appreciated. It doubled him up, wrenching his shoulders and wrists again. He groaned, swinging sideways and then doing his best to regain his tentative balance.

'The great Colonel Sheppard brought low,' the voice taunted. 'Where is your arrogance now? You wreak of filth and sweat. I can barely stand to be near you.'

'Yeah…well…the facilities here are somewhat lacking,' he drawled, tensing as he waited for another blow.

Instead, his captor let go of his face and reluctantly huffed out a laugh. 'Then you'll be delighted to hear that you've outstayed your welcome.'

Delighted wasn't exactly the word he would have chosen. The blood turned to ice in Sheppard's veins. That statement had the ominous air of a death threat, and while he'd wished for such a release numerous times over these past few days, now he was faced with the reality of his mortality, he realised he wanted to live. But more than that, he had to maintain his self-respect. If they were going to kill him, there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop them. So, he wouldn't try. And he absolutely wouldn't show fear.

Sheppard lifted his chin of his own accord, staring at the silhouette he could see through the sacking. 'That's okay. I was getting pretty sick of this place anyway.'

'Get rid of him,' the voice barked.

The shadow in front of him disappeared in an instant. Sheppard's body began to tremble involuntarily in anticipation of his impending demise. Many times in his life he had looked death square in the eyes and challenged it to come get him, and by some miracle he had always come out of it alive. But this time he was not in control. He couldn't do anything to save himself. And no one was coming for him.

Someone started tugging at his manacles, and in a couple of seconds they came loose. Sheppard didn't have time to ready himself, spilling to his knees, his arms hanging limp and useless at his sides. Oh, God, they hurt so much. Not that it mattered much he realised, as he felt the muzzle of a gun nudge the nape of his neck.

'Don't move and this will all be over quickly,' a gruff voice told him. He vaguely wondered which of the three of them that was, then it dawned on him through the haze of his thundering heart and the blood rushing in his ears that the weapon about to obliterate him had three barrels.

Of course it would be the Genii.

Then, just as he thought the shots would rip through his skull and end it all, a needle pierced the skin in his neck and his brain went on a welcome, if unscheduled, vacation.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. This will be a three chapter story, with the rest of them being posted by the end of the week once my edits are done.