POKER NIGHT

A/N - Many thanks to the very gracious shepsgirl72 for allowing me to borrow her OC, Sarayah, and also for her swift beta. Mwah, poppet! Bear in mind I tweaked my humble offering endlessly since her once-over, so all remaining mistakes are mine. Srsly, treat yourselves, whumpers, and go read shepsgirl72's trilogy, Deliverance, right here on ff dot net. I promise you won't be sorry. Anyway, this is my take on Inquisition. It's effectively a tag, I guess. *shrugs* If I owned the franchise, this is totally what would have gone down. I mean, a freakin' dungeon, right? Hello? Like, freakin' duh, right? What else could possibly signal the yummy prospect of delish if not gratuitous Shep whump? All wrapped up cozy in a bit of a story line? Five chapters in total, whumpers, and I intend to post every other day. Just to keep you all on tenterhooks. Y'all are okay with that, right? Oh, by the by, you might want to line yourselves up some cold showers towards the end... XD (Nothing explicit, mind you, as I'd rather not have to up the rating.)

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Ch 1

Way to get captured, John!

He'd let himself get snagged by a freakin' Genii harpoon. Again. The odds were pretty much like being struck by lightning twice in a lifetime, and he briefly wished he'd been a betting man. Granted, he was always the last one through the gate, taking six and getting his team to safety, but this was getting old. He had done a back flip, and face-planted yet again, but this time instead of landing on soft grass, he'd smacked his forehead on a rock. And his left knee. He'd hoped he hadn't bust his ACL. Again. It sure felt like it. He lifted his head to check if his team had gotten through the gate. Luckily he didn't feel anything as his head dropped back onto the rock. It had been instant lights out.

He was currently lying on his right side, both hands tied behind his back. It felt itchy and scratchy, like coarse rope. He was blindfolded but not gagged. Thankfully. The blindfold felt tacky, like it wasn't clean. He suspected that was the least of his worries. He held his breath. There was no sound, not even of his own breathing. He was alone then. He was lying on grass, judging by the softness, dampness and smell. Huh. Then he remembered his team had gone through the gate ahead of him, and he felt instant relief.

So, what of him? His body was damp. His feet were freezing. No boots. Crap. He scrubbed one foot against the other, expecting the softly yielding feel of cotton yet finding the familiar scrape of his own rough skin - no socks either. In fact, no BDU pants. Huh. He felt for the equally familiar if not reassuring feel of his boxers, his fumbling fingers finding purchase on the elasticated waistband and inside label. Still there. He breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't feel the comforting weight of his tac vest, and he was pretty certain he'd lost his shirt, too. His arms were chilled, as were his bare legs. So, tee shirt and boxers and blindfold, oh my. He wondered if he still sported his dog tags. Without them, he would really feel naked. Heck, he'd even feel naked without his wristband and watch. He strove to sense his tags against his chest. Yep, still there, nestling against his collarbone, cold against his chilled skin. Okay, so where was he? His answer came as he was hauled upright by his elbows, and the blindfold was ripped from his face.

He was looking up at some scrawny-assed Dark Ages castle complete with turrets and arrow slits. Great. He rummaged through his own internal search engine for correct terms for castley shit, but they all eluded him for now. He almost expected some Norman knight to appear from the ramparts to taunt him a second time in an outrrrazheous French accent. Yeah, yeah, yeah. His mother was a hamster and his father smelled of elderberries. Yada yada yada. Blah blah blah. So what? Get over it. For his part, he'd seriously like to fart in someone's general direction. Right now, that was about all the ammo and firepower he had.

Looking up turned out to be a bad idea. His head was already pounding, and now his eyeballs decided to play ping pong. He seriously felt like puking. Blood was still trickling down his forehead, down the side of his nose and even into his mouth. Okay. That meant he might not have been taken through too many gates since his head injury hadn't let up. But precisely when had they stripped him down to his tee and boxers? At least his dignity was intact. He prayed his virtue was, too.

John was being pushed along by at least two goons. He didn't dare turn his head to look at them for fear of ramping up his headache, so he stared straight ahead instead. He had no idea who they were or what they wanted from him. Yet. He heard the familiar squeal of wheels, and the equally familiar sound of hooves on cobblestones. That or some dumb-fuck or other was banging coconut halves together. So, he'd arrived by horse-drawn cart. He felt like he'd arrived by tip-up truck.

They tramped across a drawbridge over some moat. Funny how people tended to march in time. John broke formation, and marched along in counterpoint. He smirked inwardly as they tried to match him stride for stride. Idiots. Well, that kind of precision marching could bring down a bridge, guys. Though maybe not a drawbridge. Still, it was fun messing with their heads. By their grumbles of protest, he knew he had them. John barely suppressed a gloating smirk. Step, shuffle, slide, stride, stagger. He really should apply to the Ministry of Silly Walks. If he ever got outta here.

They entered a courtyard as one through a portcullis gate. Oh, yeah. Dark Ages all right. Crap. Dungeons. Double crap. John tried not to let his imagination run wild, but began to think of all the torture equipment he was trying to block from his mind. Rack. Thumbscrew. Iron maiden. Oh, god. Way to be an asshole, John! Now he wished he'd never read history books or watched period movies or even Monty Python. Did they maybe take off the blindfold just to intimidate him? The answer was most likely a resounding yes.

They went through an imposing wooden door. John tried to keep track of where they were taking him, but to bottom -line it - zigging turned into zagging and vice versa, and they were headed down, down, down. Torches lit the stone corridors, to be replaced by red-hot braziers as they went further and further away from any source of natural light. Finally they came to a halt.

Aw, crap…

John's bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he was shoved into a sparse cell. He saved himself from slamming into the far wall, no thanks to the fact his hands were still tied behind his back. He thanked his natural agility and co-ordination, honed over the years via his love of surfing and skateboarding, otherwise he would have been looking at a wipe-out that might have ended in a bloody nose and two black eyes rather than a belly flop. He was already roughed up enough. He spun on one heel, and merely grazed one bare arm on the rough stone. Small mercy. He turned to face his captors, and screamed his defiance as they slammed the big-assed iron gate shut, then locked him inside.

"This is just! Not! Right!"

He still didn't know who they were. He scanned the cell, taking great care not to make any further sudden moves of his head. The cell walls swirled about him like he'd been on some drunken bender. He saw flagstone walls, a stone bench, and the iron gate, which was arched, with spikes atop the vertical bars. Beyond that, there was a single tall brazier with torches either side. There were pokers heating up in the brazier, red hot almost to the wooden handles. He spotted several arrays of shackles and manacles and - oh, god - whips? Whuh? Holy shit. He was screwed beyond belief.

John spied the red drapes. Uh oh. The cell was oddly familiar. Cell? No, dungeon. His mind filled in other occupants. His team. When his mind supplied Woolsey, he reluctantly conceded that this was where they'd all been incarcerated awaiting that dumb Coalition trial. They had been gassed into unconsciousness, accused of crimes against the peoples of the Pegasus Galaxy, and ultimately acquitted, thanks to Woolsey's willingness to play dirty. So why would he be right back here? Unless - shit! Despite being a math whiz, he hoped two plus two equaled five in this instance. Otherwise, he was in the middle of a seriously freaky replay, destined for a way nastier outcome.

For want of a better plan, John dragged his aching bones over to the stone bench, and sat down. He was tired, sore, weak, hungry and thirsty. He looked around for food or water. Nope, nothing doing. That left tired, sore and weak. He felt himself drifting off, his eyes closing against his will. Dealing with his fatigue sounded like a plan. He straddled the bench at one end, gingerly eased his already battered body down, and closed his eyes. His nausea had abated, and he reckoned he didn't have a concussion. He also didn't need to pee or take a dump. Yet. He rested a cheek against the stone. It was cooling, and soothing against - a bruise or three? He automatically tried to bring his hands up to check his face, but they were still bound behind his back. He shifted against the bench, his chest and belly scraping against the rough surface. A surfboard this wasn't. He told himself to stay positive, imagined himself on his stick, paddling out to catch a totally bitchin' breaker or even a tube, and, despite his predicament, John the surfer dude fell asleep feeling totally amped.

Cowabunga!

John the prisoner dude woke up almost in the same awkward position. He had lifted his head at some point, turned over in his sleep, and had settled on his other cheek. His shoulders were burning, and his fingers tingled from lack of circulation. His knees ached, pressed as they were either side of the bench, and his crotch was pretty much numb. Yep, Li'l Shep and the Boys had switched off. He didn't have to be a mind reader to know that pins and needles were in their future.

What really threatened to drive him nuts right now was an itch right in the middle of his cowlicks that he couldn't hope to scratch. Plus now he really did need to pee. He gave a little shimmy, easing the urge just by shifting position slightly. When were they coming for him? As if on cue, the gate creaked and groaned. John craned his neck to see who or what was causing the sound. A shadow fell across him, cast by that freakin' flaming brazier he'd rather forget existed.

"Get up."

"Make me," he muttered. Well, he did need a hand after all. What he got was a foot. The guard kicked him in the shins with booted feet.

"My pleasure. And his. And his. Now, get. Up."

Great. Three of 'em.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it," John muttered wearily. He slid off the bench onto his knees, and used an elbow to push himself upright. He must've been too slow. One of the goons thwacked the back of his thighs with something long and thin and hard, slamming him into the edge of the bench. That had to leave a bruise on his hips. Thankfully, he didn't injure his groin.

"Ow! What was that for? You can see I'm getting up, for crying out loud!"

John flinched as a baton was brought down past his ear and onto the bench. The baton didn't break, but a chip flew up from the stone, and caught him just below his right eye. He was grateful for the near miss. He locked his knees, and hoped the goons wouldn't notice quite how shaky he was on his feet. He drew himself up to full height - at least as best he could manage - turned to face his tormentors, and acknowledged their dour presence with an upward nod and his best shit-kickin' grin.

"Approach the gate. Now!

John limped over to the gate. His knee still hurt, but at least he hadn't done any serious damage to it. Seems any inflammation had calmed down overnight, maybe due to the prolongued contact with cold stone.

"All right, already," he added with as strong a voice as he could muster. He felt reticent to step through the open gate, almost as if it might be a portal to somewhere less forgiving. Not that the dungeon was like a room in a resort, but still - crossing this particular threshold held bitter memories of relatively false accusations, though ultimately without repercussions. The whole sorry scenario culminated in a welcome victory cigar on the balcony, courtesy of Woolsey, though in the first place he had found himself on that balcony wondering about his own part in screwing up the galaxy.

He willed himself right back on the balcony, pretty much forgiving himself and the entire expedition for their own part in pissing off the Coalition and anyone else in Pegasus with an unwarranted, buck-passing grudge. He found himself on that balcony after many a mission. When in serious doubt, he would take himself some evenings to the east pier, and let the stars admonish him, and the twin moons judge him. By morning, he would be basking in the forgiveness of the sun.

Where was he now? The east pier maybe? It was never this roasting, not even on a summer's night. Who was lifting him? Had he fain- passed out again after skipping the infirmary for a post-mission check-up? Slumped in the corridor, mere moments from his quarters? He couldn't keep losing time like this.

No. Not the east pier. Shit. He was being dragged along familiar torch-lit corridors. He recalled the newly-founded Coalition tribunal of this past year. The fucking kangaroo court. One fair judge, one biased, one compromised. Why the 'retrial'? He stumbled into the courtroom, and was shoved onto the platform with the same old fancy-pants X-marks-the-spot. He looked up to see the dais with its three familiar yet unwelcome thrones.

"Bow!"

"Woof!"

"I said, 'Bow!'"

"Go to hell!" He looked away, feigning disinterest. He needed to set the tone here. Set the bar. He was reasonably innocent of any wrong-doing, after all.

John received another couple thwacks of that baton on the back of both legs.

"Ow! What was that for?"

It sent him sprawling. It was a wonder the damn thing didn't break any bones. He groaned and rolled over, only to tumble from the platform. Wipe out. Luckily it was a short drop, but it still knocked the wind out of him, and ratcheted his headache up from pounding to agonizing. Rough hands grabbed the back of his tee shirt, his hair, his wrists and ankles, even his goddamn boxers, and he was thrown back onto the platform, landing on his belly. He writhed, and flipped onto his back, struggling to suck in air. His vision sparked and grayed. He was hauled upright, just as he finally managed a sharp intake of breath. The goons slammed him into place, his belly button right on the goddamn X. Then they hauled him upright again.

"Kneel!"

"Bow. Kneel. Bow. Kneel. Face-plant. Make…up… your mind. You… a Wraith queen? If not - I don't… think so." John managed a defiant shake of his head, though it cost him. His head was going to explode any second. Maybe he could even pass out from the banging pain. Or at least puke on the fancy X. Make his mark. It made him feel like he was some moose in rut, but shoot, right now he honestly felt the need to clash antlers with somebody.

A goon grabbed his arms, and pushed them up his back. Since he was merely loose-limbed and not double-jointed, the only escape from being contorted if not mangled was to kneel. A second goon grabbed a generous fistful of hair, and pressed his still bleeding forehead against the floor. The first one was relentless in pushing his arms up beyond their natural limit.

Way to piss off the bad guys, John.

Okay. Okay. He could make this work.

Doubling him over turned out to be a crappy idea. Well, more of a pukey idea. It merely forced minestrone soup up from his stomach. Not actual minestrone - just that puke always seemed to have diced carrots in it, whether you'd actually eaten them or not. He totally redecorated that fancy-assed X in three seconds flat. That earned him a thwack across his shoulder blades from the baton. John let out an involuntary grunt. The baton then struck the back of his head.

"Hey! Lay… off… " the cowlicks. His vision went from gray to white. Then everything went black.

John came to in a puddle of water. Well, not so much a puddle as a whole mess of rinsewater accumulated in grout lines. He turned his mouth towards it, and sucked in as much as he could. It was gritty, but nothing would stop him slurping it up. Nothing. He could hear the goons laughing, but he didn't care. As long as he wasn't lying in his own piss, he would slake his thirst until they hauled his sorry ass away from the ready supply, kicking and screaming. He wasn't on the platform any more, so maybe they'd thrown water over him to jerk him back to consciousness. Yep, that'd be it. Maybe they'd hosed away his vomit. Next thing he knew, he was on the goddamn X again, being manipulated back into a kneeling position. One goon yanked his head back by his hair, and he looked towards the dais through blurred vision. The thrones were occupied now. He could just about make out three caped figures. His head was still swimming. He looked down to ease his discomfort. The X was already becoming warped and discolored by his involuntary ministrations. Puke and bile would do that to fancy-assed wood inlay.

"So, you do know how to bow after all."

John attempted to look his judge in the eye, but he only managed to sway, then keel over onto his left side. Bile rose again in his throat, and he had no choice but to hhhoik it up. Damn! He needed that water. Still, his aim was spot on. The X. Bulls-eye. Yeah, baby! He lay still. If they wanted him upright, they'd have to hold him up. He was already spent, and he had the sinking feeling this was only just the beginning.

John grappled behind him with his fingertips, dug his bare toes into the wooden platform, and found sufficient grip to at least scrabble into a less vulnerable and fractionally more dignified position. Yep, still on his knees but just maybe a tad more defiant? Last time he'd been here, he'd stood four-square, hands on hips or arms folded, never taking his eyes off his accusers. John radiated defiance back then. He wasn't about to radiate defeat any time soon.

It killed him to focus on the threesome up there on the dais. Yet, there they were. Some kinda homogenous blob of monk-like wannabes hiding behind their robes and cowls, their heads bent in supplication. The middle monk and presumably the Chair, shucked off his robe. Nope, her robe. The woman in the middle had long, straight, brown hair. Her lips were tightly pursed, her eyes were heavy-lidded and pale. She sported some slinky mutton-dressed-as-lamb outfit. Pegasus faux-Rustic verging on post-cull Bohemian.

Shiana.

Shiana was the Chair.

Holy shit.

Of the Tribes of Xanax? Anthrax? Viagra?

Double shit.

He remembered how undeniably facetious he had been with her, and how he was oh, so holier-than-thou as he vehemently defended the Atlantis expedition's position. Still, according to Woolsey, her husband and children had been murdered by Replicators before her very eyes. She alone had survived. His team wasn't supposed to have gotten off scot-free by all accounts. The others maybe, but him, never. Not as the military leader of Atlantis. Shiana had been denied her pound of flesh. If she was pissy then, right now she was headed for an aneurism. The woman was beetroot with suppressed anger. Her lips were beyond pursed - they were pretty much being sucked into some digestive tract black hole vortex, and he decided she looked like she'd switched out her face with her ass.

John panned left. Then right. The other two remained hidden. Okay, so when was the big reveal coming? What was the big deal? So, they'd shuffled their positions like that dumb sleight-of-hand trick. The one where the conjurer rapidly switched three downturned tumblers in a blur. He wondered which cape would have the nut underneath. Probably all three. Win-win.

A rustle of fabric to Shiana's left made him squint to see who was next. Kelore of Latifah? Dimas of the Free Peoples of Reba? What? Sora? No way! They had to be shitting him. Grudge. No question there. Either daddy or the fifty-some Genii he'd taken out during the siege way back when. Or both. At least he knew where he stood with her. She looked no different from when he'd innocently admired her, and congratulated her on her engagement. Daddy had pounced on him like he'd been about to challenge the suitor to a freakin' duel. He realized he never did bother to find out what had happened to her after her release. It was an oversight that was clearly about to bite him in the ass.

He panned right, slowly, as his head was still spinning and tumbling. The third and final judge was shucking off his or her cape.

Her cape.

Nooo…

Grudge times infinity and then some …

There was no way he would come out of this with his balls intact, metaphorical or otherwise. The third judge was - Sarayah of Medulsa. Somehow, that brazier now burned hotter and brighter than even that fucking volcano planet.

John struggled upright, though it took a few tries, and stared defiantly into the collective face of his three tormentors. He was already pretty certain by now he was unlikely to be treated as cordially as first time around - what was his first clue? - but this really took the fucking cake.

"You! But - you're dead!" He wanted to tell her to kiss his lily-white ass, but then realized she might very well take him up on the offer.

"My, what is this? You're not happy to see me, John? And after all that wonderful quality time we spent together. I'm disappointed in you. I see it's high time we got reacquainted."

Man, she was cheery.

"Go to hell," he repeated inanely, and for good measure, he added, "bitch." Most likely not his best opening argument for the defense, but still, it bucked him up immensely, merely to have had the chance to call it like it was. The woman was the biggest fucking bitch in the universe. Sarayah made Larrin look like Mary Poppins, and that was saying something.

"John, John, Johnny John-John." She leaned over the dais. She somehow managed to rest her twin upper assets on the rim, like two Big Macs to go. "Johnny Boy, you wound me," she declared.

When did she pull the Sekkari AI's freaky monicker for him from his brain? Sarayah pouted much like Sora's fixed expression, but then she blew him a kiss. He wanted to tell her to fuck off, but that would serve no purpose. He had to hope. Yeah, hope. Hope he could win Sora around. Maybe even Shiana, or at least gain an abstention. As for Sarayah, the die was cast. Or was it? He could maybe even win her around, conjuring up some rabbit from his proverbial hat - his best puppy dog eyes? - that little trick often worked to his advantage.

John tried not to think of all the times he had duped Elizabeth. Then again, she had most likely always been onto him, judging by that perpetual knowing look of hers. Anyway. Trick. Yeah, trick. He could trick Sarayah, woo her into setting him free, but he might have to resort to being suggestive, handing himself to her. This was looking more and more convoluted. And creepy. He wasn't sure whom he could rely on to vouch for him, take him at his word. His predicament was made all the more sorry by his current propensity for fain- passing out from manly… manly… manly what? Rodney would cackle his ass off. He might yet faint from not-so-manly wussiness. John was already beat, hungry, defeated. Wrecked. And they hadn't really even begun.

He'd already been weighed, measured and found wanting. John's stomach did a back flip.

He looked from Shiana's sour puss, to Sora's indignant pout to - Sarayah's stump rather than her double take-out order. He usually only revisited freaky amputation scenarios in his nightmares. This was for real. And he'd unwittingly played a major part in the disfigurement of her whip hand. Her sly grin told him his balls were about be handed back to him on a plate at the next full moon sacrifice. Them and Li'l Shep. That had to be the only reason she could possibly have for that sultry look on her face.

"I'm ambidextrous these days, John." Sarayah winked.

The bitch actually winked! Fuck. Was he supposed to take that as accepting of her condition, or the fact she'd been practicing her strokes, and was still pretty darn good at thrashing the male of the species despite her handicap?

"I also possess a prosthesis. Or two. Or three." Sarayah lifted her right stump for him to see. She made a quick twisting motion against the stump with her left hand. Great. She could screw in the handle of a cat-o'-nine-tails into that tube where her sorry bones used to be. Unless it was a bayonet fitting.

"What, you don't like my whip-handle slot?"

Now she was a mindreader.

"'I'll let you screw it in." Sarayah winked again.

"I'll pass. Thanks all the same."

"You don't care to fill my slot, John?" She winked yet again.

"I don't play the slots. Can we maybe get this over with?" he drawled. He'd rather fit a bayonet into her slot, but he kept that thought to himself.

"So we meet again, Colonel Sheppard." Back to Shiana. Sora just sat there, pouting away like her life depended on it. Gah, cliché. He hated those. He wished Woolsey were here to bail him out. Still, a cliché was only a cliché from overuse.

"A Little clichéd, doncha think?" he declared with a smirk, despite himself. He really needed to work on his material for days like this. He really should snag himself several guidebooks to the Pegasus Galaxy. 'How Not to Piss Off The Natives,' and its companion compendium, 'How To Totally Piss Off The Natives."

"'Cliched'? 'Cliched'? You - insult me? With your… non-Pegasus references? As if we should all be acquainted with them, and fall short of your expectations when we are not familiar with them? You believe I am to understand you, even as you refuse to understand me?"

John decided to not mention how he was beat up, tied up, and couldn't order a pizza if he wanted to. He clamped his mouth shut. He felt light-headed. Uh oh. As he sank involuntarily if not unceremoniously onto the puke-warped X-Marks-The-Spot once more, and subsequently passed out from an accumulation of abuse, fatigue and lack of food and water if not from avoidance, he conceded shutting the hell up was most likely his best damn decision of the day.

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