Second Verse, Same As the First
By Mickey

STORY STATUS: Completed 7/22/06

ARCHIVE PERMISSIONS: Ask first. I'll probably say yes.

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for fun and I sure as hell didn't get paid for writin' it. No copyright infringement intended.

WORD COUNT: 413

AUTHORS NOTE: Many thanks, as always, to my beta, Cokie!


Second verse, same as the first.

It's ridiculous what pops into your head when you're about to be tortured.

I can't get that stupid Henry the Eighth song out of my head as I'm guided back to Bouncy Boy's torture room.

We enter the room and, once again, I'm sucked up against the oversized metal spider web. I flip myself over and wait for the questions to begin.

Bocce doesn't disappoint.

"What was your mission here?"

Is he hard of hearing, or just thick headed? We went over this last time.

"I told you before, Bocce, there was no mission. I've got absolutely no idea how I got here." Well, that's not entirely true. I have very vague recollections of going through the Tok'ra Stargate and coming here. Then of running through the forest with a woman. Must be the slave he mentioned last time.

Not that I'll ever tell him that.

"What did you want with my slave?"

Back to that too. "What slave. I don't have a clue what you're babbling about."

His face reddens oh so slightly at that. I can see he's never experienced my kind of sarcasm before. Or my impudence, as he put it. He clearly isn't amused.

Tough. I don't do the `roll over and give up without a fight' thing.

Oh crap. That weird ass knife again. He goes on about what kind of pain he's going to inflict on me as he lines up one after the other on his table. I count five.

This is so not going to be fun.

"Why did you come here?"

"I don't even know where here is." It's not a lie.

He obviously doesn't believe me and lets the first knife fly.

I groan as it is hits my shoulder.

The routine goes on. He asks a question. I give a smart-ass reply. And another knife buries itself deep into my flesh.

Knife number two hits my other shoulder; number three gets me in the gut. I think he hit something vital with that one. After the fourth one, which is embedded in my lungs making it extremely difficult to breathe, he goes on about what an all-powerful god he is again.

It's really getting old.

He's holding up knife number five, but I can't really hear what he's saying anymore. Too much of my blood is making a lovely red puddle on the floor. Knife number five is released and I slip into sweet oblivion again.


THE END