Jack wasn’t sure what was worse—the pain along every nerve ending in his body or the inability to scratch the itch on his nose.

His kidnapper—for lack of a better designation at this point—had left him in the dark ages ago, the door to his metal cell wide open, mocking him and his predicament. Still gagged and bound hand and foot, he wasn’t going anywhere. His other plight—paralysis from the neck down—was an added incentive to stay exactly where he was.

As soon as the needle had touched his skin, Jack knew that it was going to be bad. Feelings of panic and fear twisted his gut but there was nothing he could do to stop the maniac kneeling on him, pinning him to the floor. It was his punishment for disobedience, for refusing to stay still like a sack of potatoes. Instead, he’d struggled to get free. As if Jack O’Neill was going to go down without a fight—so not going to happen.

And so now, he was left lying on the threadbare and lumpy mattress in a metal room somewhere under a well appointed cabin located God knows where with nothing to see except the glare on the metal walls from the dim lights in the hallway.

Jack had heard noises on and off—dull thumps above his head, the creaking of the stairs, the slamming of doors, and the clicking of light switches from rooms somewhere along the basement hallway.

Things had been silent for a while and Jack reckoned that it must be night. With no windows and no access to a clock or his watch, the only way Jack could keep track of how much time had passed was when—and if—he heard a noise.

The lack of sounds worried him more than anything else because it left him alone with his thoughts—and those could be worse than the reality.

Who was this man? Jack did not know. He couldn’t even begin to fathom who he was or what he might want. If he was planning on killing him, he could have done that a long time ago. No, there was more to this kidnapping than that. The man wanted something from him, but what could that something be?

Jack closed him eyes, trying to control his racing heart, trying to gain some measure of control over his emotions. He needed a calm head in order to figure this out. The pain running up and down his spine wasn’t helpful in that regard. Although, Jack thought it was getting a little better—not quite as severe as it had been hours ago.

He wished he could turn his head. Then he wouldn’t be forced to stare at the open door—his freedom—as it mocked him, laughing at his inability to move a finger in his down defense.

He must have fallen asleep sometime after he’d had that thought, his exhausted body finally succumbing to the pain and the constant assault on his senses, because the next thing he knew his kidnapper was back, kneeling over him with a pair of large scissors in his hand.

"Well, well, sleeping beauty is finally awake. Are you enjoying the accommodations?" he asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Jack regarded the man as best as he could from his prone position on the floor. He was a big man, well muscled and athletic—reminded him of Teal’c. Broad in his shoulders, his captor’s square face was topped off with a crew cut of sorts, a hairstyle Jack had sported several years ago at the beginning of the Stargate program.

The man was examining Jack just as closely, as if weighing several options in his head. Jack could almost see the thought process going on behind those hazel eyes. He nodded to himself as if he finally came to a decision. "Would you like me to remove the gag?"

Jack blinked once, the universal gesture for yes. He tried to hold his anger and frustration back from his face and look as calm and harmless as he could. His mouth was drier than the Sahara on its worst day.

"Very well," the man said, placing the scissors on the mattress next to Jack. Leaning over him, the man pawed at Jack’s face, trying to grip the edge of the tape across his mouth. Jack knew what was coming and tried to brace himself as best as he could, but when the man finally ripped the tape free, the pain nearly overwhelmed him. Apparently the drug wasn’t selective. It affected every nerve ending equally. As Jack’s eyes watered slightly from the pain, the man fumbled at the knot behind Jack’s head, finally pulling the cloth gag from his mouth.

Sitting back on his haunches, the man silently watched as Jack took the time to compose himself again.

"Better?" he asked.

Jack tried to answer, but no sound would come from his parched throat. Apparently any motion was still out of the question—including nodding. Instead, he mouthed the words, "Yes. Water?"

A strange expression passed over the man’s face before he answered with a mischievous smile. "Yes, I think something can be arranged, Jack. We might be able to take care of two problems at the same time."

Jack’s forehead creased a little and he felt his eyes widen as the man picked up the scissors again and began cutting through his clothes, starting at the neck, the metal scissors cold against his skin, sending ripples of pain everywhere they touched. The first pass went down his spine. The second and third over the back of each arm effectively cutting the shirt from his body without the need to untie his wrists.

The man moved out of Jack’s line of sight toward his feet and he could feel fingers probing around the ropes that bound his ankles together. Jack head a loud snip and then he could feel his feet being pulled apart, as a wave of agony swept up his legs, his muscles permitted to move for the first time in several days. Jack clenched his eyes shut, trying to hold the pain at bay.

Vaguely, he could feel the metal of the scissors once again—this time moving up each of his legs, toward his waist. A rough hand gripped the material at the small of his back, pushing it aside, gaining access to his boxers.

As he felt the cold steel once again, Jack’s face began to burn as he realized what the man was doing. And Jack had no choice but to just lay there—the drug preventing any movement on his part. Moments later, two more cuts had bared each of his butt cheeks to the cool air.

His socks disappeared from his feet seconds later and appeared next to the mattress up by his head, dropped carelessly in a pile. Rough hands moved the loose material along his back and a few beats later his shirt was swept out from under him and dropped on the pile.

Jack closed his eyes as the hands returned not wanting to see his pants and boxers as they joined the rest of his clothing now nothing more than a pile of dirty rags.

"Now then, we’re just about ready, Jack," he heard the man say and opened his eyes long enough to watch him walk out of the room, the scissors in the back pocket of his jeans.

A few minutes later, the man returned carrying a coiled hose with a nozzle at one end. Dropping it on the floor in the center of the metal cell, he moved to a side of the room that was lined with floor to ceiling doors. Removing a key ring from his pocket, the man selected one and opened the far door before returning to retrieve one end of the hose and connecting it to the spout just inside the door along the inner wall. A minute or so later, the man knelt down and picked up the nozzle, testing it quickly over the drain.

Satisfied with the results, the man scooped up the pile of rags and walked out again, dropping them into the hallway. He returned immediately, stopping next to Jack’s prone form. "Well, we’re going to have to get rid of this thing for the time being," he said, kicking the mattress lightly with his booted foot. Without a care for what happened to Jack, the man bent down and lifted the end of the mattress, tumbling Jack roughly onto the cold metal floor.

He ended up in a jumble—half on his side and half on his back, his legs tangled together, his arms beneath him, his head hitting the floor with a solid thump. Closing his eyes as he saw spots, he waited for them to stop spinning before opening his eyes once again.

He regretted that immediately when he saw what was waiting for him. His captor towered over him, holding a garden nozzle with an adjustable nozzle attached about a foot from his head. "You wanted a drink, right? Drink up, Jack. Now’s your chance."

The water poured from the hose quicker than Jack imagined possible. He managed to get several mouthfuls of the cold liquid down his throat, bringing him some relief, but it was coming much too fast. It ran all over his face—down his neck, into his eyes, in his nose, and into his throat. Still paralyzed, he was unable to move away from the angry stream of water.

He was drowning.

Just when he thought he could take no more, the hose moved away and then stopped altogether, allowing Jack a few moments to catch his breath—coughing harshly, trying to get the water out of his lungs.

"My God, what are you trying to do? Kill me?" Jack asked as soon as he could, his voice laced with pain and frustration.

"Not yet, Jack," the man said, leaning over him. "I’m just trying to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. I just did what you asked."

"I’m going to have to make a complaint to the management, then," Jack said snidely.

"Well, since you’re not very thankful of my kindness," the man said, his voice turning cold, "I guess I should finish up things before it gets too late."

One of the man’s callused hands gripped his leg and flipped Jack fully onto his back, crushing his hands with the dead weight of Jack’s own body.

"Jeez," Jack muttered, wishing that he could shift his body a little so his hands wouldn’t be digging into his back, sending tendrils of pain along his nerve endings.

The sensation of cold water on his stomach nearly stole his breath away.

This time, instead of a lightly running stream of water, his captor had changed the setting on the nozzle, forcing the liquid into a powerful spray, stinging as it made its way over every inch of Jack’s body. It felt as if glass shards were pummeling his body everywhere simultaneously, cutting and puncturing his skin wherever they fell. Jack could envision the blood from his wounds pouring down his sides and onto the floor, as he felt himself lying in a growing pool of wetness. As if he were reciting a mantra, Jack had to tell himself over and over "it’s only water, it’s only water" to keep himself from screaming.

Every nerve ending was tingling with pain. Nothing was spared.

By the time the man had finished with the front of Jack’s body and flipped him over, Jack’s teeth were chattering furiously. The water felt as if it was getting colder, the needle-like spray sharper—if that was possible.

Jack couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but by the time the water was turned off and the hose stored, Jack’s entire body was shivering uncontrollably.
"Well, then. That’s much better, don’t you think, Jack?" the man asked, standing in the doorway.

"Nnnnn….notttt….really," Jack managed to say, his chattering teeth making it difficult. "C…co….cold."

The man gazed at Jack for several minutes before replying. "Well, if you had been a little more appreciative I might have felt that you deserved a blanket. But," he said as he turned toward the hallway, "I think you’re going to have to figure out something for yourself tonight. Have a good night."

The door slammed shut and Jack could hear the bolt sliding home with a loud click. With his last stores of energy, Jack started muttering curses to himself, each one in a different language. Daniel would have been proud at his fluency—had he been here to hear it for himself.

As his body continued to shiver, Jack noticed that he wasn’t getting any warmer. Realization dawned slowly. He was still lying in an inch of cold water. The drain in the floor was partially blocked by his body. The only thing that could be worse was if the lights were off.

A few seconds later, the room dropped into complete darkness.

Jack sighed deeply, a single thought coming to his mind. Why do the worst-case scenarios always have to apply to me?

Wayne sighed deeply, relaxing into the stuffed armchair and kicking up his feet onto the living room coffee table, enjoying the solid sound of his boots on the thick wooden surface.

That had been fun.

Just seeing the embarrassment on Jack’s face when he realized what was happening had been priceless. He was so glad that he had had the cameras running. He’d enjoy watching that particular scene over and over again once this whole assignment was concluded.

Complete and utter helplessness combined with the absolute humiliation of his victims—nothing could be better.

Wayne reached down, picking up the television remote, and flicking through the channels until he found the one he was looking for: the closed circuit infrared night-vision camera mounted on the ceiling of the basement cell.

Turning up the volume, he could hear O’Neill’s mutterings but did not understand many of them. He moved his feet off of the table and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he got closer to the television set, trying to listen carefully, trying to pick out the words his victim was saying.

He caught one every now and then—when Jack spoke English. Everything else was in a foreign language, but from the tone, Wayne knew that none of them were polite and they were all directed at him.

Wayne leaned back again into the cushions, hooking his hands behind his head and putting his feet back on the coffee table, a broad smile illuminating his features.

This was perfect, just perfect.