This story was written strictly for the purpose of entertainment. No attempt has been made to copyright any characters which may not have been originally created by the author, and no profit is made from this work of fiction. Any original characters and the stories themselves are the property of the author.

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Major Samantha Carter was really nauseated. It seemed like she was nauseated all the time. At the rate she was throwing up, she was slightly mystified as to why she wasn't losing weight. In fact, maybe she was even gaining a little. Sam had methodically worked through all the possible reasons for her intestinal problems and none of them made sense. She had been in this 12 foot by 12 foot cell for what must be at least five months but only sick for the past two and one half. Two and one half months seemed excessive for food poisoning or a stomach virus. Further evidence against the food poisoning hypothesis was the fact that her bowl of mush had never tasted or smelled any different from the first of her three daily meals to the last or from one day to the next. She was sick to death of it but, if it hadn't made her ill for the first half of her captivity, it didn't make sense that it would start doing so in the second half.

As a scientist, she realized that there were possibly fallacious a priori assumptions undergirding her belief that it wasn't a virus. Earth diseases of this sort didn't run this long but who knew what the diseases were like here on P4T890? There was the assumption that she had to have caught it on earth which would make for an excessive incubation period. Maybe she was wrong to dismiss infection here but she based it on the fact that she hadn't seen anyone but her captors in the entire five months. They were always gowned, gloved, and wearing something akin to surgical masks when they dealt with her. It seemed as if they were trying very hard to avoid being contaminated themselves or contaminating her. Sam had noticed a number of attributes that made her doubt they were human or think perhaps they were humans who had mutated a long way from Tauri-style humans. This also seemed to raise questions about what, if anything, she could catch from them.

There was one avenue of investigation that she had great difficulty forcing herself to consider. Her mind wanted to skitter away from it. Every time Sam tried to analyze the possibilities it implied, she would find herself thinking about something else, uncertain why she was no longer considering what might have been done to her during her drugged periods. But they surely happened. The lights would go out. Then she would smell something faintly garlicky and have to sit down quickly. Fortunately, even if she had fallen before she blacked out, she was literally living in a padded cell. The floor, walls, and ceiling of her room were all covered with the same seamless moss green plastic like substance, broken only around the door and at the ceiling over 4 feet above her head where there appeared to be the local equivalent of video cameras. She speculated that the green substance had been sprayed on. It couldn't be scratched or written on despite the fact that it yielded sponge-fashion to the touch.

It did seem an inescapable conclusion that they examined her while she was unconscious and did tests on her. Sometimes when she came to herself in her cell, she found pricks in her skin. Sometimes her anus, her vagina, or her throat were sore as if something invasive had happened. Her best hypothesis for the nausea was that they had done something or were doing something on a regular basis when she was unconscious that was making her sick, possibly injecting her with something to see how she reacted.

It also appeared that her drugged periods were when clean up took place and they bathed her. Her cell was always spotlessly clean when she came out of her stupor to face bright lights and an empty cell. Any mess she might have made was gone. Of course, how much mess could she make? They kept her naked, her head shaved, and her nails cut short. All she had in the cell with her was the bed with some sort of soft substance molded on to it, the bowl with the mush which she was expected to eat with her fingers, a cup and a pitcher of water, a stack of roughly 12 x 12 sheets of white paper, and, in a depression in the floor, a sort of field toilet/bidet. The bowl, cup, and pitcher were made of something plasticine in appearance and completely unbreakable. She didn't even have a blanket, although in the even warm temperature of the cell it wasn't needed for warmth.

The paper had mystified her at first. Initially, all she could think of to use it for was origami but even that was limited since it was very hard to tear. Then one day, she discovered that water worked like ink on it. If she dipped her little finger in her cup, she could write. They left what she wrote unless she crumbled a sheet and threw it to one side. It seemed likely that they took her work and did the local variation of Xeroxing before returning it though. Why else would they have given her the paper than to try to gain insight into what she knew or what she was thinking?

Sam forced herself to begin her daily exercise regime despite how poorly she felt. Physical exercise, things you could do with paper, and mental activities were the only ways to pass the interminable days. She'd already spent too much time this wake period on thinking, obsessing about being ill, fruitlessly reviewing the nonexistent possibilities for escape, and worrying about what had happened to Teal'c, Daniel, and Jack. At first worrying about them had completely overwhelmed her for days at a time. Sam had only been able to keep it from consuming her when she began to rediscover the prayer of her childhood.

Sam did a full workout routine, starting and ending with stretches, and running through sit ups, push ups, running in place, jumping jacks, and every other exercise she could think of. She exercised for hours and only stopped when she was too exhausted to continue. Then she did what yoga she could remember. Spending your day naked definitely got you in touch with your body and she had been able to take pleasure in how toned she had become. It made the slight weight gain even more distressing.

Knowing her captors would look at anything she wrote made her reluctant to write so she mostly did artwork and designed houses. Very tired now, she sat on her bed, leaned back against the wall, and pulled over her collection of plans so far. She leafed through them, reassuring herself that there was no way her wardens could ever figure out the significance of the two sets of floor plans and home illustrations she drew and refined day after day. Even more to the point, thank God, there was no way anyone in Stargate Command would ever do so even if they saw them. The homes she was designing were intensively private because these were the houses she would have if she married either of the men that she spent more and more time fantasizing about.

When the fantasies had first started to take hold on her a few weeks after she was locked away, she had firmly repressed them. She didn't even want to think about how huge the embarrassment factor would eventually be when she had to look her fantasy partner in the face again. She was determined to believe that she WOULD be looking him in the face someday. Then when she couldn't fight it any more she launched a second set of fantasies about a second man, reasoning that this would keep her from falling too deeply into some madness where she began to believe it was all real. Or at least that was how she explained having intimate thoughts about a man who had always been firmly in the best friend category. Sam refused to address whether the fact that she eventually gave in to the daydreams, accepting the inevitability of future embarrassment, meant that, on some level, she had decided that her teammates were dead or that she would never leave here alive.

The first set of plans and drawings she picked up showed an A-frame that was integrated into the wilderness that surrounded it. It was built very close to water and included a boat house and dock. There were decks running the length of the house, circling a hot tub, and meeting steps to the water and the dock. Inside the house wasn't that big, designed as it was for a childless couple. In addition to the master bedroom and a fantasy bath with a huge sunken tub, there were only two smallish guest bedrooms. The kitchen was designed for efficiency, not gourmet cooking, but there was a room next to the garage for making beer. There were huge windows and no planned window treatments, except in the bathrooms, because the house was in the middle of nowhere. She worried a little about the windows, given the frigid winters, but she was still working her way around that.

Sam walks through the house in her mind now. She finishes making the bed, retrieving half the bedding from the floor, cast there during a heavenly season of afternoon delight hours before. She walks down the open, winding stairs to the kitchen and goes to stand at the kitchen sink, looking out the window at a beautiful evening in late summer. Her husband is walking up the steps to the deck from the boat dock, trailed by a black lab. No, she corrected herself. She had decided there would be two dogs, a black lab and a chocolate lab. He's carrying two large fish and stops to lay them on an outdoor table they use for gutting and cleaning. He affectionately, but sternly, corrects one dog who is a little too interested in the fish and then comes on into the house with the dogs dancing excitedly around him. She has anticipated this scenario and already taken two doggie treats out of the cupboard. She hands them to him over the bobbing and excited canine heads.

"Sit, Samuels. Sit, Maybourne," he says and the dogs do as they are told. He takes great satisfaction in giving orders to dogs so named and discussing how Kinsey has fleas or Maybourne is chasing his tail.

Then he comes over to her and puts his arms around her waist and kisses her neck. She protests, laughing, "Your hands are all fishy," but she doesn't really care.

He says, "I guess I should take a shower or maybe a bath." He squeezes her and kisses her neck again before letting go and walking out of the kitchen. "That would mean that I was in that great big bathtub totally naked, all by myself. Did I mention naked?" He grins. Did that man ever have a high voltage grin, a little naughty around the edges, and just wonderful.

He goes on up the stairs, whistling. She puts the fish in a cooler to protect them from pillaging animals during this unplanned interlude. Then she goes to the refrigerator, gets out two Guinesses, takes two frosted beer mugs from the freezer, and follows him. When she reaches the master bath, he is already in the bathtub with the jacuzzi jets turned on and the water frothing around him. Sam puts the drinks down on the wide edge of the tub. She undresses very slowly, throwing a little of the stripper into it, while he leans back in the tub, his eyes little more than slits, watching very appreciatively. At last she eases into the bubbly water and sits down on his lap facing him.

That was as far as Sam took the visualization this time: sitting on his lap, feeling all the hard planes of his body against her and his eyes, hot with passion, roaming over what was right in front of him.

She picked up the other stack of drawings and plans then. They showed a large Victorian, with five bedrooms, all full. As befit a house with two sets of twins and three adopted children brought through the gate from ravaged worlds, there was a large, sunny playroom at the back, next to a huge, eat in, country kitchen. The backyard was fenced and furnished with a full compliment of swing set, geodesic dome climber, sandbox, monkey bars, and tree house. There was a dog house out there for an improbable looking mongrel. His body parts seemed to be assembled from many, not too compatible donor animals, but the whole was more than the sum of the parts and the kids loved him. He shared their affection with two cats, two hamsters, and a parakeet.

As she walks through the house in her mind now, it is impossible not to notice the piles of books and papers that litter all surfaces above the level of an inquisitive five year old. Everywhere you could put one, there is a built in bookshelf, all full. She picks up a doll here, a truck there. Her husband doesn't want any toy guns in the house and there aren't any, but there are GI Joe action figures and she just knows that at least one of their brood are going to go military on him, whether he likes it or not.

It is 9:30 and all the little ones are in their rooms, if not necessarily asleep. The bedtime ritual is an extravaganza, presided over chiefly by their father, which goes on for over an hour every night. First there is the book reading. Each child picks a book every other night. Little Kirk always gets his read first if he has a pick. The child cannot stay awake for longer than one book and it's only fair. Kirk is their answer to the challenge of naming a child after Teal'c. They wanted to honor Teal'c but they didn't want to give a child a name that would lead to endless teasing. They had asked Teal'c himself and he suggested that they name a child after James T. Kirk for whom he felt an improbable kinship.

After the reading comes the individual activities in each bedroom. The littlest ones love to have their father make improbable guesses about what he is feeling through the bedcovers. He feels a knee and says, to wild gales of giggles, "Is this a bicycle?" With the older ones he tells stories. Frequently, it is tag team story telling in which they take turns taking over the narrative, sharing the story with their father and the sibling sharing the room. He uses these stories to slide in training in the mythology of Greece, Rome, and Egypt.

Finally, tonight, everyone is settled in. He comes down the stairs and she meets him at the bottom and hands him a cold glass of tea. He puts his arm around her and slides his hand down until it cups her backside. They walk into the living room, remove two stuffed animals and a Lego construction from the sofa and sit down.

"Remind me how we managed to have the second set of twins when we never have a moment to ourselves," he asks.

"I seem to remember you pulling me into the laundry room while the kids were playing in the backyard and making love to me between the washer and the shelf with the detergent and the fabric softener," she answers.

He puts the tea down on the coffee table, already so child scarred that it would be a waste of time to worry about making rings. He reaches over and pulls her around on his lap. He finds a smudge on her cheek from a kiss by a gooey mouthed child hours ago. She has never noticed it and now he gently wipes it off. He takes off his glasses and puts them on the coffee table, next to the tea, and begins kissing her, touching her, making her forget all the children, and the house, and the pets, and her job and his. He unzips her jeans and is about to slide a hand inside when a little voice pipes up, "Mommy, Daddy, I had a bad dream."

Sam dropped the drawings into her lap and realized that there was a tear rolling down her cheek. She never cried after the Jack scenarios. If anything, she usually felt aroused. The Daniel scenarios, though, brought a lump to her throat and such a sweet sense of sadness. She really didn't understand herself at all.

She was beginning to get really hungry. Clearly there was something strange going on. She received her mush at very regular intervals that her stomach was programmed to expect. She was very tired and really wanted to get her food so she could go to sleep.

Suddenly she had confirmation that, indeed, something was happening. There was noise outside her room, something which never happened. Her wardens never spoke in her presence and apparently were very quiet outside of it as well. There was a sort of muffled thump and then sharp reports like rifle shots and shouting. Were those words in English?