Precisely one hour after SG5 gated back to the SGC, Hammond called to order their team debriefing. In addition to SG5, Hammond requested the presence of SG1. Both teams had been to the same planet and had had two very different experiences. He knew both of them could not be accurate and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

"Let’s get this started, people," Hammond said, settling down in the chair at the head of the briefing table. Carter and Jackson, at his right, were quick to start.

"Sir, I don’t understand how SG5 found no sign of life on that planet. When we were there it was teeming with life—both animals and humans," Carter said emphatically, her hands moving in synch with her words.

"Major, what are you implying?" Colonel Yearwood asked, immediately on the defensive. His shoulders tensed and his light brown eyes flashed with anger.

"I’m not implying anything, Colonel," Carter started, but Jackson cut her off.

"Actually, she is implying that you didn’t do your job." Jackson played with his glasses, absently adjusting how they sat on his nose. His gaze was direct, unyielding, and accusing. "It is absolutely beyond me how a trained military soldier, such as yourself, could have missed the very obvious signs of human habitation. Did you even bother to follow the path to the village?"

"Dr. Jackson, I resent the implications of your words." Yearwood angrily pointed his index finger at Jackson. "And in any case, where do you get off insulting the very military organization that invited you to work on this program? If you don’t watch what you say, you might find yourself on the outside. You seem to forget that you’re just a civilian with special privileges."

"Well, at least I know what my job is and carry it out properly." Jackson shot back angrily.

Hammond sat with his hands crossed in front of him and watched the exchange. Insults were flying back and forth across the table. It almost felt like he was watching a competitive tennis match. It was time he intervened. His quiet, yet authoritative voice brought the argument to its end immediately. "Enough." A stern look around the table followed his declaration. Carter had the decency to look embarrassed, her military training kicking in. Jackson stared accusingly at Yearwood, but held his tongue. Everyone could see Yearwood’s animosity hovering just under the surface. Tension permeated the room. Hammond took a deep breath before he continued. "I will not tolerate this type of childish behavior from my officers—or from those who are under this command." He eyeballed each team-member individually. "Do I have to remind you that you are all adults?"

"No, sir," mumbled Carter sheepishly.

Colonel Yearwood backed down a moment later. "No, sir. Sorry, sir." Daniel didn’t say anything, taking a noticeable interest in his fingernails.

Once silence settled over the room, he continued. "Now Colonel Yearwood, would you please recount your team’s experience on P5X-171. From the beginning," Hammond firmly added, folding his hands together and turning his attention on the SG5 commander. Yearwood cleared his throat uneasily and narrated his team’s time offworld, step by step; backtracking and elaborating when prompted by Hammond or Carter. Jackson remained unusually silent.

"Very well, Colonel. Thank you for your thoroughness in this assignment." Hammond looked around the table at the dispirited faces of SG1 and SG5. No one was a happy camper tonight—him included. He was still missing his second in command—and his friend. He shook off the thought. "Does anyone have anything else to add?"

After a few beats of silence, Jackson spoke up. His hands, which had never stopped playing with his glasses, now underscored his words with every gesture. "Yes, General. I believe you need to send another team back to P5X-171 and I need to be part of that team. There are sentient lifeforms on that planet, whatever Colonel Yearwood says. How else would you explain what’s happened to us?" Hammond’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. Did Jackson ever give up? Vaguely, Hammond wondered just how Jack O’Neill could deal with this kind of passion every day of the week.

Jackson took a deep breath and continued on full tilt. Apparently he’d been gearing up for this. Jackson’s blue eyes were clear and focused intently on Hammond, as if his very force of will would convince Hammond that he was right. "You are insistent that we have another member in our team. If that’s the case, how did we forget him in the first place? It wasn’t by merely inhaling the air on that planet or eating or drinking something. If that were the case, our memory loss would be more extensive. Apparently, our memories have been erased or blocked in a very deliberate manner. Someone had to do it to us. Therefore, that indicates that there is some type of intelligent life residing on that planet. Not only intelligent, but also highly advanced. How else could our memories have been changed that specifically, that deliberately?"

While Jackson’s observations had the ring of truth to them, Hammond couldn’t order another mission to this planet based on hypotheses and half-formed ideas. He needed something concrete, something solid. Unfortunately, where this planet was concerned, he didn’t think he was going to get it.

Hammond sighed softly. Nothing ever went easily when SG1 was concerned. "Dr. Jackson, that sounds all well and good, but if that were the case, then SG5’s memories might also have been tampered with."

Colonel Yearwood perked up noticeably. "Absolutely not. We didn’t even come in contact with any intelligent life. There was nothing there."
"That you remember," Jackson said quietly, speaking aloud the thought in everyone’s mind.

"SG5, please report to Dr. Fraiser and have her give you a thorough, and I mean very thorough, examination. I want to get to the bottom of this." He looked around the briefing room table, catching everyone’s eye while his mind mulled over this information. A conclusion was reached easily, but he knew it wouldn’t be popular. The good thing about the military was that it wasn’t a democracy. If they didn’t listen, he could make them. "Until I get answers that I like, both SG1 and SG5 are confined to base under the care of Dr. Fraiser. Only once Dr. Fraiser clears you for duty will I consider re-activating both teams. Dismissed." Hammond stood and quickly walked out of the briefing room and into his office, avoiding the arguments he knew would come. A succession of "yes, sirs" followed him out.

Jack O’Neill woke to the smell of breakfast. Not just any breakfast, but a freshly made, home cooked breakfast. The kind mom made when she was proud of you.

For a minute, he thought he was home again, but soon enough he came face to face with the harsh reality of a dirt floor and his left cheek pressed firmly into it. He realized that home was the farthest thing from the truth. The cold and damp had settled into his joints like a smothering blanket; they were stiff from disuse. He was lying on his left side, sprawled out ungracefully on the floor. He moved slightly, bracing himself for the pain he knew was coming, and was surprised when he didn’t feel anything.

Slowly, one by one, memories returned. The torture from the night—or the day before. Lady Morgana cleaning his back, using some kind of healing device. He opened one eye—the one not pressed into the dirt floor—to see what, or who, was around. He was alone as far as he could tell and there was a tray of food beside him—a different one than before. This one had several rolls lumped into a pile in the center—while not a large amount of food, compared to what he’d eaten recently it was a feast.

He carefully eased himself into a sitting position. The chain dangling from the collar around his neck rattling slightly. He was pleasantly surprised when the room remained rock steady. That was a new thing, especially lately.

Although his muscles were sore, he seemed to be in one piece. Even his ribs were fine. He was confused and a little surprised, but from experience, he knew he didn’t want to look a gift horse—or in this case, a misplaced Celtic priestess—in the mouth.
See, Daniel. I do pay attention sometimes, he thought.

He looked around again, inspecting the room. There hadn’t been much of an opportunity earlier to do so. Besides, on that short chain he couldn’t have gotten very far in any case.

Squinting a little, he noticed that there was a bucket in the far corner—in the back of the cell deep in the shadows. That would have come in handy that first night, he thought, grimacing in disgust. He’d woken up briefly in the middle of the night, his bladder finally screaming for release. Tired and aching, he merely had the strength to turn a little, the chain not giving him any leeway. Even in the dark he was disgusted—both at himself and the situation. He was no better than an animal. From what he could see, his urine, while not as plentiful as he originally expected, was dark yellow. Dehydration had definitely set in. Weariness and resignation had finally pushed him back down into a restless slumber, leaving him barely enough energy to move away from the puddle slowly soaking into the dirt and pebble covered floor before him, the wool of his pants soaking up some of the foul smelling liquid. He had been too tired to care.

He glanced around the room again, making sure he was alone. Once he confirmed his first observations, he moved gingerly over to the tray, easing his muscles into moving and working once again. He took a warm roll into his hands, lifting it to his face to inhale the intoxicating aroma. He closed his eyes, letting it envelop his senses. Without buttering it, he took a small bite, savoring the simple rustic bread. It tasted like heaven.

He wanted to devour the whole roll in one bite, but knew that wouldn’t be recommended. He knew the routine, had been through it more times than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t eaten in days and he didn’t want to lose his first meal. He went slowly, pacing himself. The water, although lukewarm, was sheer ecstasy.

He had polished off one of the rolls and almost the entire goblet of water when Lady Morgana walked in. He nearly felt human again, although he could use a long, hot soak in a shower.

"Good afternoon, my pet. How are you feeling?" she asked, looking down at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

O’Neill paused, actually considering the answer to her question. He cleared his throat several times before he could get the words out. "All things considered, I’m okay."

"Good. You have been unconscious for two days. We were starting to get worried."

"Two days?" Jeez, he thought, no wonder I feel stiff. The floor isn’t the best place for a restful night’s sleep—let alone two nights. He looked up at her, curious as to what she wanted. She would tell him eventually, he knew, but there had to be a catch, a string somewhere. He just couldn’t figure out what it could be. While he was apparently in some semblance of working order, his mind was still playing catch up.

"Yes, the healing device takes much energy, from both the patient and the caregiver. You had many injuries that required healing. The food and water should help to restore some of your strength. Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I did," O’Neill said, clearing his throat again. He glanced around the room again, trying to order his thoughts. His interest was piqued, however, and he wasn’t in the mood to beat around the bush. One part of him wanted to know the answer, but the other part didn’t really want to know. Grimacing slightly, he dived in. "Why exactly are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? I thought you said I was lower than your enemy, somewhere just above pond scum. Why the sudden interest in my health?"

Lady Morgana smiled slightly. "Why, my pet, did you not know that as long as you continue to help my people that I am honor bound to treat you well?"

"What?" O’Neill was confused. His forehead creased, causing the line between his brows to deepen. He hadn’t helped her. He hadn’t told her anything. Or had he? He wracked his brain, trying to remember, but just drew a blank. His memories of his torture were kind of hazy. All he could clearly remember was the pain.

"Tonight we shall speak once again. Perhaps you will be able to secure for yourself another day of rest and food. What do you think my pet?" She smiled evilly at him before she turned toward the door.

O’Neill was on his feet, his eyes flashing in anger. How he got there so quickly, he didn’t remember. He was acting on instinct and instinct alone and he didn’t like this, not one bit. He was at the end of his rope, literally; the chain stretched taunt behind him. He pointed his finger angrily at her. "There’s no way I would have helped you. I’m not one of your projects, your experiments."

She turned back to him, a contented look on her face. The look sent chills down his back. He had seen that look before. He had seen it in Iraq, on the face of the base commander before the unspeakable torture began. He had seen it on Hathor’s face as she placed the mature Goa’uld on his chest, moments before it dived into his exposed neck. He had also seen it when he was on Netu, on the face of Apophis just before he forced him to drink the Blood of Sokar and relive the horrible memories from his past. Some might have called it evil determination. It was a madness for power and control so deeply rooted that the best of intentions could even prove to be deadly for those who stood in the way.

"My pet, you leave me no choice. Tonight you will see just how much you already belong to me." She stepped closer to O’Neill, gazing directly into his hate-filled eyes. "Hear my words this day. You will never win. I will slowly drive you out of your mind. I want to be the one to see your face when you reach that place when you realize a woman has defeated you, and you scream and beg for my mercy. You will get there, I assure you and, when you do, I will be there to see it. You will help my people, whatever it takes." She stepped back to the door, tossing the last words over her shoulder as she walked away. "Tonight, we shall take it one step further and see how far you can go. Be well, my pet, and rest. You will need all your strength tonight."

O’Neill stood in place for several minutes, trying to cool his rage, his fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously. He had so many unanswered questions. Where did she get all the Goa’uld technology? It wasn’t like the Goa’uld had just left it behind. It wasn’t hard to come by, even for them. How had these people defeated the Goa’uld in the first place? Who was Morgana really? Apparently, she was different from everyone else. She had a presence—sometimes intoxicatingly beautiful and kind, other times darkly malevolent. The villagers worshipped her, catering to her every whim. She received their unquestioning obedience. She thrived on it.

O’Neill settled back down on the dirt floor, leaning against the stone wall. He drew the food tray close to him so he could reach it without stretching. The bread was cooling, but he didn’t care. Knowing his stubbornness, he knew it would probably be quite some time before he earned another meal. He had better try to eat as much as he could now. He would need the energy and the strength later on—especially if Morgana got her way.

He sat, quietly munching on a second roll and wondering what torture she had planned for tonight. He spent the afternoon that way, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. Compartmentalizing, he called it, locking up bits and pieces of his mind so there was something left after the torture was done. It was something he had learned to do years ago, mostly out of necessity. It wasn’t exactly something the nice Air Force folks taught you. It was a skill you picked up along the way.

Turlough and Bubba arrived sooner than he expected. His time sense was off. It didn’t help to be in a dark dungeon with no access to the outside. It could be the middle of the night for all he knew. The torches in the hall continued to burn all day and all night, steadfast and unchanging.

Bubba pulled him roughly to his feet while Turlough unhooked the chain from the wall. They dragged him down the hall to the Goa’uld laboratory, barely letting him get his feet under him. Somewhere along the way he had lost his socks. He protested all the way, trying to convince the goons that he could "walk very well on his own two feet, thank you." They ignored him and dragged him forward relentlessly.

This time, in place of the single wooden chair in the middle of the room, a table stood with what looked like some type of soft material on top. Bubba lifted him, dropping him unceremoniously on the top. O’Neill struggled, but to no avail. They held him down, without even breaking a sweat.

The surface wasn’t the usual hard metal O’Neill was accustomed to when it came to Goa’uld technology. It was soft, conforming to his body.

After freeing one of his hands, Turlough pressed a button on the side of the table and a soft humming filled the air. Turlough and Bubba stepped back from the table and, before O’Neill could figure out what was happening, the table beneath him started moving. O’Neill watched—his eyes filled with understanding and horror—as streams of what looked like liquid metal surged up from beneath him.

At first he thought he would be covered completely with the material, but that was not the case. Restraints appeared just above his elbows, at his wrists, just above his knees, at his ankles, around his neck and the collar, and around his waist. They firmly and effectively secured him to the table at every movable point. It only took seconds and the streams of metal hardened. He pulled and tugged at the restraints, trying franticly to break free, but it was no use. He was completely and thoroughly incapacitated. He was helpless, unable to move a muscle in his own defense. He could barely even lift his head. This was no Goa’uld technology he had ever seen before.

"So it’s torture time again, is it?" O’Neill asked sarcastically, trying to cover his nervousness, not really expecting an answer. He wasn’t surprised then when Turlough and Bubba didn’t respond, stepping back to guard him instead.

O’Neill rolled his eyes and gestured the best he could with his hands. "Look, guys, I’m not going anywhere, as if you hadn’t already noticed. You don’t have to stand there staring at me."

Turlough looked at O’Neill for a moment before answering. "Lady Morgana requested us to remain here."

"Did she?"

"Yes." Turlough was as expressive as Teal’c tonight. That didn’t bode well.

Tough crowd, O’Neill thought, grimacing. All the while he was tugging carefully, forcefully at the metal that secured him to the table. It wasn’t budging, but it didn’t stop him from trying. He spoke up a moment later. "So, what exactly does she have planned for tonight? A little dining, a little dancing, a little torture?"

"I do not know," said Turlough evenly, staring intently at a spot on the wall across the room.

"That’s enough, Turlough," Lady Morgana said sharply from the doorway. O’Neill tried without success to raise his head to look at her. No one had heard her approach. "Both of you may wait in the hall. I might need your assistance later tonight."

"Yes, my Lady." Bubba and Turlough uttered, bowed, and quickly exited the room, closing the door behind them.

"So…what do you have in mind for tonight?" O’Neill asked, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice as she circled the table like a shark, staring down at him. She was inspecting him like a piece of meat. Every now and then she’d reach down, tugging at his clothing, caressing his arm, his leg, whatever was close.

"Hey, come on. What do you think you’re doing?" O’Neill protested. He shifted infinitesimally, nervous and unable to do anything but watch, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. She merely smiled at his discomfort and continued on.

After what seemed like hours, she strode over to the side of the room toward some shelving and pulled a few items off. He didn’t remember those shelves from the other night—however many days ago that was, he thought absently. Walking back to O’Neill, she pressed a small button on the side of the table and a tray slid out. She placed the items she held on it.

O’Neill couldn’t help but be impressed by the technology. As much as he complained and moaned about Carter’s technobabble, he knew cool when he saw it. This was cool technology. Not that he was all that interested in examining it close up, but tonight, it didn’t look like he had much choice in the matter.

"Now, my pet, we can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s your choice."

He looked directly at her and tried giving her his most charming smile. "Well, I don’t have the reputation of being easy and I’m not about ready to start now. Besides, I wouldn’t want to start any rumors. So, what do you think? You’ve got three guesses."

"I think you are determined to defy me." Her green eyes flashed in anger, matching O’Neill’s dark brown ones in intensity.

"Well, you guessed right the first time. You win a prize," he said sarcastically.

She ignored his comments and picked up one of the items off the tray at her side. It looked like some kind of Goa’uld technology, but he couldn’t place it. She saw his questioning look and graced him with an explanation. He was thankful for the delay, but discovered soon enough that he might have been better off not knowing.

"You recognize that this was once a Goa’uld device, do you not?" At O’Neill’s reluctant nod, she continued, spinning the tool in her fingers. "This was a simple instrument once, but it only had one purpose, to cut. Now, it can do so much more, from simply causing pain like this," she said, pressing the tip lightly into the flesh of his right arm, causing burning pain to shoot up and down the length of his arm.

O’Neill held his breath and bit his lip in an effort to hold in his outcry. The fingers of his right hand stretched and spasmed. Morgana lifted up the device, leaving a small welt on his arm that was already turning red.

"Or," she continued, "with a little pressure it can do this." She moved down the length of his body to his right leg and pressed the device in firmly, drawing it up his leg. An intense pain ripped through him. He tried arching his back in an attempt to escape the agony but the restraints held him tightly—he didn’t budge. He gritted his teeth, but a moan escaped his lips. He could feel the mark the device made, even through his pant leg. He could feel the hot blood dripping down his thigh and pooling beneath him, soaking through the light woolen pants.

"Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?" She asked rhetorically as O’Neill tried to catch his breath. She watched him thoughtfully for a minute. "Or, if I was so inclined, I could do this," she said, firmly pressing it to one of his ribs. The audible sound of the bone breaking echoed through the room. The white-hot pain along his side threatened to overwhelm his senses and blackness danced at the outer edge of his vision, but his consciousness held on. He screamed and cursed her.

"You can scream all you like, my pet, no one can hear you down here." She smiled down at him. "Oh, and do not think that death will end your pain. The table you are on was once one of several sarcophagi that the Goa’uld left behind. We modified this one. This table will keep you alive as long as you remain on it. It does not take away the pain, but it can heal you enough to keep you alive during the torture."

"Swell," O’Neill said through gritted teeth. It was all he could get out. He was breathing heavily now with short shallow breaths, trying not to move too much. Broken bones digging into raw nerves shouldn’t hurt so much, but for some reason it did—every time.

"I’m glad you approve. Shall I continue?" she asked, waving the device. "Or shall I demonstrate some of the other toys I have at my disposal?"

"Whatever floats your boat," O’Neill said breathlessly. A drop of sweat trickled down from his hairline, tracing a path down his temple and along his left eye.

"My, my, we’re cooperative tonight," she said, picking up another tool. This one was about the size of her palm. "This one is very interesting. We combined several pieces of Goa’uld technology to get this device. I’m actually surprised the Goa’uld have not created something similar. Although, they might have developed something like this since they were last here. But then, they are a rather stupid and single-minded race. They do not see the big picture, I believe that’s what you call it." She smiled to herself in thought. A few moments went by before she brought herself back to the present. "You see, while the other device leaves red welts when it is used, this device leaves no external markings. Instead it just causes pain at the lowest setting and at the higher setting can cause internal trauma. It’s very useful. Here, let me show you what I mean. For this demonstration, I’ll leave it on its lowest setting."

"Thanks, you’re all heart." He grimaced and braced himself the best he could for what he knew was to come.

She carefully looked him over trying to decide just where to start. She opted for his lower left leg. Pressing it to his calf muscle, a dull pain started to radiate up his leg. The longer she held it there, the more intense the pain got. Before too long, he was moaning and cursing under his breath. Just when he thought his muscle was going to cramp up, she stopped and the pain immediately subsided.

"See, my pet, the fun we can have?" The frightening part about this whole thing is that she appeared to be enjoying herself—and she hadn’t asked him anything yet.

"Oh yeah. Fun times can be had by all."

"Now then, I think it’s time to get down to business," she said, glaring at O’Neill effectively shutting him up. "Where do we start? Oh I know, where can the Stargate take me?"

He looked at her, hatred in his eyes. "Straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200."

She didn’t flinch; instead choosing to press the palm device against his abdomen. The pain began again, slowly at first. "I asked you a question. I intend to get an answer. Where can the Stargate take me?"

O’Neill tried to catch his breath before he answered. He didn’t want her to know how much it was starting to hurt. He enunciated each word. It was the only way they were coming out. "It’s …not …my …fault …you’ve …never …played …Monopoly." He fought desperately to take a deep breath. It took all his energy to get the words out. "You …had …better …get …used …to …disappointment."

A cold fury raged through her eyes and she pressed the device in deeper before drawing it away. If he could have sagged in relief he would have, but he couldn’t even scratch his nose. Oddly enough, as soon as he realized that circumstance, his nose started twitching. He didn’t think she would be cooperative if he asked her to scratch his nose.

Apparently she wasn’t happy with the results the second device was giving her. She reached for the scalpel-like device and continued her questions.

"Where can the Stargate take me?"

"To Disneyland." The device pressed into his thigh, drawing blood as she pulled it up his leg as if she were slicing open a tomato.

"How many worlds does the Stargate go to?"

"Why? Trying to get away from it all?" She pressed it sharply into his left forearm, snapping the bones. He yelped in pain, cursing the day of her birth. He instinctively wanted to cradle his arm, but couldn’t budge. Tears of frustration and pain formed in his eyes. Sheer determination was the only thing that kept them from falling.

"What is the situation out there? Why have you not defeated the Goa’uld?"

He breathed heavily, trying to push the pain away. Compartmentalize, he thought. Take the pain and put it away. He knew he could do it. He’d done it before. Unfortunately, the pain kept coming back to haunt him. Sweat was popping out all over his face. The pain was starting to make him nauseous.

"Killed a few. Still a number of slimy snakeheads left. Still enough to kill you."

Again the device dived in, drawing blood again as she twisted it into his side. Warm blood spilled down his side, pooling beneath him. She jabbed it in for a good measure more and another rib broke under the pressure. Blackness threatened to close him on him as the pain swelled. He screamed.

Once she got started, she worked quickly, developing a sadistic rhythm of sorts, asking questions about everything. Each question was answered with a sarcastic comment that only proved to infuriate her more. She worked her little tool with surgeon-like precision, only bruising at times while other times, peeling the skin apart, letting the blood run free, or digging it in deep, rupturing blood vessels and breaking bones. Through it all, she kept a satisfied smile on her face. She was enjoying herself.

A number of times, O’Neill thought he was going to black out, but each time he regained his senses she was there, attacking with words and with the knife.

In this place, time had no meaning. All he knew was the pain. There wasn’t a place on his body that remained unscathed. At one point, she scored the bottom of his left foot several times, just because she could. Another time she broke the bones in his right foot. His knees, already aching from the dampness, didn’t escape her notice. Even while she snapped the ligaments in one knee, she smiled, knowing exactly what kind of pain she caused. While she pressed the device into his cheek, she smiled lovingly down at him, and broke his cheekbone.

Pain wracked his body and there was nothing he could do to comfort himself or protect himself. He yelled and screamed, cursing her, her race, her planet, and the very air she breathed. By the end, he shrieked and cried, yelling out nonsensical answers to questions he barely heard, let alone understood. The pain just had to stop. He couldn’t survive like this for much longer.

Blood dripped from more wounds than he could imagine, even from the bloodiest battles in which he had fought. Warm, sticky blood trickled from his body, collecting in a pool beneath him, his clothes soaking it up. His life-blood was oozing from him one drop at a time. Black spots danced before his eyes.

He didn’t even notice when she stopped. Instead, he vaguely heard her speaking to the men outside. "Leave him here until his wounds heal then throw him back in the cell."

He tried to draw a breath of relief, but his body’s shudders prevented even that comfort. She was finished. He could rest.