~Prologue~

"This one's dead."

Daniel lies in a bruised heap on the floor, his stunned and barely conscious gaze riveted on the two Jn'vir soldiers who are standing over the limp body of Jack O'Neill. Daniel feels pain radiating dimly down one side of his body as he lies here, but the idealistic young linguist is barely aware of its existence, is only minimally cognizant of the blood trickling down his temple. He is immobilized by something far more grievous than his own minor injuries; he doesn't want to believe his ears now, doesn't want to hear even a single word more from the deceitful, lying lips of these people who have betrayed his team so callously, so indifferently. Maybe if he closes his eyes it won't be real; maybe he merely misinterpreted what the soldiers said...

But then one of them, the one with no hair and a nose as hooked and wicked as a falcon's beak, reaches down and grabs Jack by the scruff of his neck, grabs and rolls the impossibly--dreadfully--still form of SG-1's commander and flops O'Neill onto his back. And the time for denial, for hope, evaporates as Daniel beholds the bloody ruin of the Colonel's chest.

It is difficult to look upon, this stark display of violent death; even more wrenchingly impossible is the acceptance of it, the resigning of one's mind and spirit to the utter finality of what cannot be taken back. And if the gruesome sight before him now isn't enough--if some small, pathetically stubborn remnant of optimism yet flickers weakly in his heart even in the guttering aftermath of all that he has just witnessed...why, then, these hardened soldiers--these Jn'vir--will be only too happy to demonstrate for him the old earth credo: Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

"How can you be sure he's dead?" one of them (the one without the nose)snorts disinterestedly, and the other--yes, he of the raptor's predatory countenance--ponders the question briefly before giving a small nod. Fair question, that nod seems to say; after all, these beings we've captured ARE alien to us. How then to be certain this one's REALLY done for?

Sighing boredly, he of the rapacious proboscis extends one heavily booted foot and digs his big toe into Jack O'Neill's blood-soaked side; with admirable skill and absolutely no hint of feeling or compassion, this paragon of Jn'vir soldiery gives Jack's egregiously tortured and brutalized body a mighty heave with that same powerful toe and watches with mild interest the obscene, involuntary flopping of Jack's limbs in response to the assault. Not the slightest breath of air--not the faintest ghost of sound or life--erupts from O'Neill's savaged corpse as it is rolled half on its side; and with a sickness so strong that he can taste it deep within his soul, Daniel must finally admit to himself that it is indeed Jack's corpse he is looking at now--must accept that his friend and commander is truly gone.

"He's had it; we are looking at a sack of useless meat," Needle Nose's shorter, fatter partner is snorting now with snide amusement. "But just to make sure, perhaps...?"

And even as Daniel bellows out an anguished interdiction, even as he pulls himself to his battered hands and knees and tries to stagger forward, he knows he's much too late; the sickening, flesh-pulping sound of the fat soldier's bayonet spearing completely through Jack's stomach vies for supremacy with the agonized roar of rage, of bleak horror and disbelief that spills simultaneously from Daniel's throat.

"Shut up, you," the soldiers snarl in unison; and as Daniel continues to scream and cry and curse them in every language his traumatized mind can bring to bear, they turn on him and pummel him methodically, unmercifully, angling him for the entire duration of the beating so that he may clearly see the destroyed, ichor-oozing remains of Jack O'Neill lying so pathetically, so lost and lonely, a mere five feet away.

And as Daniel Jackson, galactic explorer extraordinaire, succumbs at last to blessed oblivion, the handful of words he's able to form with his fading consciousness constitute a useless, heartbreaking apology: I'm sorry, Jack; oh, God, I'm so sorry.

ONE~

"Stop asking me about it, Sam; he's dead. Gone. Murdered. I saw it; I saw what they did to him. You didn't, so just...shut up. Please."

Daniel's voice is a monotone, the cadence and rhythm of his speech completely lifeless and devoid of feeling...as is the expression in his dull blue eyes. "Now, will you just...go away. Go away, Sam. Be with Teal'c; he can help you. Don't ask me to. I...I just can't, right now."

Samantha Carter's eyes overflow with tears, her shoulders heaving unrestrainedly as she fails to control the paroxysm of grief and shock shivering through her lithe frame. Her lovely face has gone completely white, and if he were even remotely in his right mind, Daniel Jackson would have leapt to his feet then and would have taken his friend and fellow team member into his arms--would have held her and rocked her and murmured useless, comforting syllables as she clung to him and let her bereavement unfold.

But the linguist is not in his right mind now. Beaten and filthy-- half-maddened by now with thirst and an uncharacteristic but insatiable need for vengeance--he huddles against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, merely staring vacant-eyed at the befouled floor beneath him.

"Daniel..." Carter tries, her voice an anguished whisper-sob, her pale hands reaching, reaching so gracefully, so pitiably, in his direction. But he will not see her, will not answer; and it is Teal'c's quiet, rumbling basso profundo that draws her away now from the unresponsive archaelogist and into the Jaffa's massive, grief-burdened arms.

"They didn't have to do that," Daniel mumbles insistently to himself, unmindful that he has started to thump the back of his head rhythmically and repeatedly against the wall behind him. "They didn't have to do it. We surrendered, Jack gave up his weapons, he had his hands up...There was no need for that, no need at all."

"Daniel Jackson," Teal'c begins, his voice imperious, grave. "Daniel--"

"They pretty much ripped his heart right out of his chest, with him standing there watching it, feeling it happen," Daniel continues conversationally, a terrible rictus of a smile prying apart the frozen corners of his mouth. "He called to me, just once, very quietly...'Daniel,' he said, just like that, like he was drawing my attention to some interesting obelisk or urn or maybe even a snake in the sand; then, again, he said: 'Daniel...oh, God...' And he fell down."

A strangled laugh that is more groan than giggle escapes the linguist as he ploughs gamely ahead. "He fell and fell, and it took a really long time and all his blood was gushing, just gushing all over everything...but he kept looking at me, you know, just sort of looking at me like he couldn't understand he was dead. And they wanted to be sure; they couldn't really believe it, either, you see, because it's Jack, don't you know...So they killed him again. They gutted him like a fish, wrapped his intestines around a bayonet, and I wanted to help him push it all back inside, because everything was just oozing out...but they wouldn't let me, Sam. They hit me...Teal'c, they kept hitting me so I couldn't go to him, and I had to just leave him like that, with his insides leaking like refuse from a split-open garbage bag...And oh, he's probably so pissed at me, I can never just follow instructions..."

Sam is crying hysterically in the corner now, her horror at Daniel's complete breakdown running a close race with her grief and revulsion at the manner of Colonel O'Neill's death; and Teal'c, for all that he is a battle-seasoned warrior, feels for the first time in his long and violence-sodden life the inchoate desperation of one who has absolutely no idea what to do, who has no notion of how he might comfort either of his friends or return to Daniel Jackson the linguist's badly fractured sanity.

"They're coming," Daniel says now, his eyes narrowing down to furious slits that turn his pupils a frightening shade of black. "They want me to sit with Jack, just in case he comes back and is really mad about what they did to him. They're hoping he'll go for me first, that while he's killing me they'll have time to set this place on fire, to keep ALL of us from coming back...They make zombies here, you know, I think maybe Jack's one already...and I'm his best friend, he'll want me by his side, he'll need me...Oh, God, don't let them take me, Teal'c, I don't want to see Jack like that again...!"

Daniel is sobbing now, sobbing and begging and throwing himself wildly about on the floor; and even as Teal'c moves in his direction with the intention of restraining his distraught friend, the door to their cell creaks open. Before he can even make a preemptive strike, the impressively muscled Jaffa is dropped by a strong electric stun device, with Major Carter receiving the same treatment a scant two seconds later.

"Don't take me back to him!" Daniel screams as he is lifted, rudely and roughly hoisted up and dragged across the dirty floor. "I couldn't help him, I can't help him now, I don't know how to make him alive again, to make this all go away...kill me, you bastards, kill me now or so help me...! Jaaacckk! JACK, oh god JAACCKK!!!"...

TWO~

"Shh...I'm here, Daniel; I'm right here, it's okay, you're okay..."

The hand on his face is infinitely gentle; the other hand stroking his hair is but the barest whisper of a careful caress. And as Daniel's horrified blue eyes force themselves open, expecting to see his worst nightmare brought to life in gory, vivid technicolor, Jack O'Neill merely smiles down at him with puzzled, unbearably tender regard. Alive. Bruised, battered, reeking a bit of sweat and blood and the stale dregs of impotent rage...but alive. Brown eyes vibrant and alert, forehead creased with weariness and quiet solicitude for the man struggling in his arms, Jack O'Neill gives Daniel the smallest of hugs and murmurs softly:

"Mind control. Experimental crap, nasty stuff. Subtlety is definitely not one of these guys' strong points."

"No," Daniel mumbles dazedly,hopelessly. "You died; they killed you. Truly dead, indubitably dead, most assuredly dead. You're a zombie now, I think. The walking dead, eater of flesh and wreaker of terrible vengeance..."

"Sounds like a second rate horror flick," Jack murmurs with a tired grimace; his lips curve in a simile of a smile, but a shadow of very real concern surfaces in his eyes. "Granted, I feel like shit and don't look much better...but I assure you, Danny, I'm no zombie. They took you out of here, gave you some sort of concoction before interrogating you...just like they've done to the rest of us, for two days running, now. It will wear off, remember? Just give it a bit, rest yourself and try to keep it together..."

"Fool me once, Jack," Daniel mutters sadly, his mournful eyes drilling into Jack's. "First they want me to believe you're dead; then they want me to believe you're really still alive but that it was all some weird head trip...and then, just when I latch onto that and become convinced that--thank Jesus, God, and all the saints--you're really still with us, still here--then they sock it to me again with the REAL truth...You're dead, Jack. This isn't real, you're not real anymore. I remember; they took me in to see you yesterday, left me locked in that cell for two hours with your bloated, gas-filled corpse, your face turning black and the flies...oh my God, the bottle flies that were laying their eggs..."

"Stop it, Daniel," Jack pleads quietly, his restless hand stroking, stroking the back of Daniel's neck. As Daniel sobs helplessly against him, his face pressed desperately against the Colonel's chest, Jack closes his eyes in extreme emotional pain and glides regretful lips across the outer shell of Daniel's unheeding ear.

"I'm alive, you're alive; and you're going to be okay, this will all be over soon...Carter escaped, she's gone for help, reinforcements coming...Hold on, Daniel, please God hold on, don't lose it here, not like this, not now..."

"I loved you, Jack," Daniel shudders now, his hands lying limp alongside his body, arms unable to embrace the ghost of the one he couldn't save, couldn't see safely home again. "I'm sorry I let them kill you; you were my best friend, I loved you, even when we fought..."

"I know," Jack whispers, cradling Daniel's boneless weight against him. Tears shimmer darkly in the Colonel's hawklike eyes, and a tremor of grief and rage runs through him like an ague as he feels the mind of his best friend slipping, sliding away.

"Don't hate me, Jack," Daniel whispers, his lips brushing like the delicate, ethereal flutter of butterfly wings against the skin of Jack's throat. "I couldn't put you back together again, and I'm sorry. Don't hate me, I would have put everything back if only they'd given me all the pieces..."

"It's okay, Daniel," Jack sighs into Daniel's lank, greasy hair. "It's okay, I didn't really need those parts, anyway...And see, Danny, I'm here with you now, here to hold you and keep you company, everything's gonna be okay..."

"They're coming, Jack; oh, God, they're coming! I'm sorry you're dead, I'm sorry they keep killing you, keep bringing me here to see you because they'll never let me take you home, never let you rest next to Charlie, never let you just be..."

"Daniel, stop it! God, Daniel, don't do this, don't leave me like this, stay focused, stay with me...! Son of a bitch, don't you bastards realize what you're doing to him, how fucking EVIL this is, to strip him of his mind, his reason? I'll kill you, I'll fucking kill every last damned one of you!!...."

THREE~

"Fool me once," Jack O'Neill sighs fretfully in his sleep, his expression disturbed as he tosses in the narrow infirmary bed. "Fool me once, shame on me...fool me, fool Daniel, kill you all, BASTARDS!..."

"No change, Dr. Fraiser?"

General Hammond's voice is a weary rasp at Janet Fraiser's elbow, and she turns with an exhausted frown to show the base's commander the frustration in her eyes.

"They're in and out, sir, it comes and goes; they're both lucid for short periods, but then both of them descend back into this dissociative state, back into periods of psychosis and severe post-traumatic stress. Based on all the latest lab work and a full analysis of the stuff they were exposed to on PX7GJ9, we feel fairly safe--fairly confident--in estimating that it should take no more than another ten hours for the airborne chemical released by the planet's indigenous life form to completely metabolize itself out of their bodies." Her shoulders slumping in exhaustion, Janet sighs and runs a shaky hand across her forehead.

"Based on the rate of both Teal'c's and Major Carter's guardedly optimstic recoveries, I believe the Colonel and Dr. Jackson should start coming around by tomorrow afternoon," Janet muses softly. "Of course, they went through the gate first, ahead of the others, and consequently received a much higher dose of inhaled substance for a longer concentration of time; that's complicating their recovery to some extent.But I think they're going to be okay...eventually. It will just take some time for them to...assimilate all the terrible hallucinations this chemical has caused them to experience; I fear that for the first little while once they're fully conscious, we'll have our hands full convincing them that we're all real and that this isn't just another hallucination going on in between the delusions of torture and horror their minds keep feeding them."

"God, what a terrible ordeal for them to have to go through," General Hammond sighs, his troubled gaze settling on the restless movements Jack O'Neill is making in his sleep. "Keep me informed of their condition and any positive progress they make in their recovery, Dr."

"Yes,sir, will do," Janet replies with quiet respect; and as the General's discouraged form trudges slowly out of the night-hushed infirmary, the Doctor moves to brush back a sweat-darkened lock of Daniel Jackson's hair, to adjust Jack O'Neill's iv drip and then to stand between them, misery lining her face as each man writhes and mumbles and sobs out harsh, gutteral bits of broken agony in the midst of their tormented dreams.

"Fool me once," she hears Daniel snarl just below his breath, his hands clenching into tight fists atop his chest; and almost in tandem Jack takes up the gauntlet:

"Shame on me...stay with me, help me, Daniel, don't go! Not real, not real, oh god don't let it be real...!"

And as they each wage their private battles in hell, Janet steps up to Daniel's bedside, leans in and whispers, softly, "Shh...it's me, Daniel--it's Jack; I'm here, here with you..." Daniel murmurs Jack's name, his brow creasing in faint hope; and as Jack suddenly growls out a frantic "DANIEL!" from his bed a scant three feet away, Janet hurries over to whisper in his ear,

"Shh...it's okay, Jack; it's me, Daniel. I'm here with you, it's okay...you just have to hold on, stay with me, we'll get through this together..."

Jack's face clears as the doctor keeps speaking, his hands slowly unclenching and relaxing at his sides as, within his troubled dreams, Daniel comes to sit beside him, to resurrect him, to keep him from disappearing entirely.

"Misdirection, obfuscation, manipulation," Janet murmurs tiredly to herself once both her patients are fully, dreamlessly asleep. "God help me, using the same thing that's keeping them in turmoil to pull them out of it! But it's all I know to do now, the strongest link I can find--their friendship for each other, their NEED to be there, to be strong, for one another. Hang in there, boys; don't let this damned alien biochemical win. You ARE strong, you ARE going to beat this. Together, guys; I'm not losing either of you. Got it?"

And as the night wings its way on its silent course, Janet Fraiser's weary shadow following her on her final rounds, the mind dreaming all of this cries out in the throes of hopeless subjugation and dreams itself awake, aware, heart pounding and hands trembling as they frantically grope in the predawn darkness, fingers latching onto warm, solid flesh and fiercely grasping--holding--as a cry of delirious, shaken relief shatters the peaceful quiet...

"Oh, geez, Daniel, not the guts-hanging-out, zombie dream again?" Jack's sleepy, concerned voice murmurs; and as his arms pull his trembling, sweat-soaked lover close against the warmth of his body, the body of SG-1's renowned linguist moans once, hungrily, in his hospital bed. Three feet away the lean, gray-haired Air Force Colonel lying in his own lonely bed sighs once in relieved satisfaction, his lips murmuring words of gentle affirmation as the long night draws on to dawn.

END

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