TITLE: Brainwashing Snippet
AUTHOR: Tiffany Park
EMAIL: anderson7836@comcast.net
STATUS: Probably as complete as it's ever going to get...
CATEGORY: Intrigue, Drama, Angst, Horror
SPOILERS: "Shades of Grey"
SEASON: Season One
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT WARNINGS: Language, violence
SUMMARY: Colonel Makepeace wakes up to a nightmare.
ARCHIVE: No.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Recently the ColRMakepeaceSG-3 list, in its continuing efforts to redeem Our Favorite Marine, discussed the possibility that the NID had brainwashed Colonel Makepeace into working for them. While I personally don't care for the idea, it did inspire this twisted bit of Makepeace-abuse, so it can't be all bad. *g*

Dedicated to Celtic Lady and Jessie, whose conversation about possible methods of brainwashing (and even further abuses) inspired this sick puppy...

Makepeace unwillingly drifted awake to sledgehammers pounding inside his skull and a strong desire to remain unconscious. Bright light pierced his tightly closed eyelids. Probably late morning sun, or early afternoon. Reluctant to face the day, he determinedly kept his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Pain like an ice pick lanced through his head, and he grimaced and clenched his teeth.

God, what a headache. All the classic symptoms of a serious hangover were making themselves known in no uncertain fashion. Headache, cotton mouth, a touch of nausea, general aches and pains like he had the flu.... He must have really tied one on last night. That would teach him for celebrating his first day of leave in almost a year in a strip joint.

He was cold, too. He licked his dry lips and tried to roll over. Nothing happened. God, he must be in worse shape than he thought. He attempted to lift an arm, but it stayed firmly in place by his side. In fact, he couldn't move any part of his body, not even his head. Makepeace's eyes flew open in shock.

His first impressions were of brilliant light, white tile, and chrome. Several blinding examination lights, complete with reflectors, burned directly above him. If he squinted, he could also make out some kind of instrument cluster hanging in the center of the lights. He looked down, saw with a start that he was naked and lying on a table. He saw his toes rising above his chest, but couldn't turn his head to determine why he couldn't get up or change position. It was reasonable to assume he was tied down somehow, though.

He rolled his eyes back and forth, attempting to look around. From what he could make out, the room was dome-shaped, the sterile white ceiling arcing gracefully overhead. Electronic equipment surrounded him, humming and beeping and buzzing. He heard people moving around and talking quietly just outside his field of view.

And he was in the center of it all. Oh, that couldn't be good. "What the hell is this? Where am I?" he demanded. The words came out in a harsh croak.

A person in a white coverall, hair hidden in a plastic white cap, and wearing a white surgical mask leaned over him. Makepeace couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Without a word, the person peeled each of his eyelids back with latex-gloved fingers and flicked a penlight into his eyes. Makepeace cursed and tried to jerk his head away, but it was held fast. Finally coming fully alert, he was able to feel the cold metal bands around his head, the bindings on his wrists and ankles that tied him to the table he was lying on.

"The subject is awake," the anonymous person said, looking away as though speaking to someone on the other side of the room. His voice gave him away as a man.

"Good." Another white-garbed person, a woman, came into view and also poked and prodded the unwilling victim. "We'll get started, then." She reached up and adjusted the metal instruments hanging overhead. "Go ahead and prep him."

"Wait a minute!" Makepeace protested, starting to feel the beginnings of panic. "You've made a mistake. I don't know what the hell you people want, but-- Ow! Hey, watch it!" he yelped as the man, all business, stabbed his arm with an IV needle. Another masked and genderless technician pierced his other arm with even less concern for his well-being, if that was possible.

Tubes ran from the needles to a pair of complicated looking machines that flanked his bedside. The technician flipped a series of switches, and a milky fluid started flowing slowly through the left tube. A transparent, pale yellow solution dripped into the other IV. "Oh, shit," Makepeace gasped out before his body went completely slack as a strange, numbing paralysis gripped him.

He felt pressure as the two technicians adjusted the bands around his head, tightening them down, he guessed. The realization that he had been kidnapped for God only knew what purpose stunned him. It had to do with the Stargate program, he was sure, but who would have the audacity to pull such a stunt? Did they want information? He couldn't give them much beyond the basics--he was considered reasonably intelligent, but he wasn't a scientist by any means. Didn't they understand that? Why him?

He tried to speak, but couldn't make his mouth or vocal cords obey him. The drugs flowing into his veins had him paralyzed completely. This couldn't be an interrogation, then. That generally required that the subject be able to talk. So what was going on? What were they doing to him?

Full blown terror was setting in. Makepeace could only watch, wild-eyed, as the technicians attached a number of electrodes to his face, chest, arms, and legs. Hell, even his feet got the treatment, and all he could do was lie there and take it, unable to so much as flinch as each pad was pressed to his skin.

The man announced, "Preparation complete," then both technicians moved away.

"Clear the room," the woman said. "Procedure will commence in three minutes."

Makepeace heard footsteps fading into the distance, heard the dull thud of a heavy door closing, heard the hiss of pneumatic seals engaging. Then there were only the soft sounds of the equipment around him. He was alone.

A computerized voice broke the eerie quiet, speaking in clear, inhuman tones, "Initiating probe."

A whirring sound came from above his head. The instrument cluster slowly dropped downwards, back lit by the too-bright exam lights. A gleaming silver tube, no thicker than a large hypodermic needle, extended from it and started spinning, faster and faster, until the motion was blurred.

Makepeace watched with impotent terror, his disjointed thoughts scurrying in frantic circles. That thing wasn't-- They weren't, they couldn't-- Christ, that thing was going to drill into his head!

Dear God, why the hell were they keeping him awake for this?

Although his mind was in full panic mode, his breathing was steady and even, his pulse its usual calm rate. He had no doubt that his blood pressure hadn't risen a single point. Damn drugs.

Makepeace desperately wanted to close his eyes, look away, anything but stare up and watch that slender, spinning tube descend, coming closer and closer, the whole array moving with machine precision. He wanted to scream, to fight, but his body was lax, useless, no more able to defend itself than a lump of clay.

The probe touched his brow. Pain exploded in his head. The whirring deepened, becoming labored as the drill ground its way through his skull. The acrid smell of pulverized bone burned his nostrils. The agony was unendurable, but somehow he couldn't pass out, no matter how much he wanted to. He was hyperaware of every torturous, excruciating moment.

Warm liquid pooled around the invading probe. He heard a gurgling sound as a hose automatically suctioned the blood away, before it could run into his eyes or drip onto the clean, white floor.

The probe stopped.

Makepeace counted eight heartbeats.

"Scanning," the computer's mechanical tones announced passionlessly.

The room filled with hypnotic dazzle, psychedelic colors spinning and flashing and dancing, dizzying and mesmerizing in their joyous beauty. The pain retreated, becoming a mere, irritating background noise to the gorgeous, overwhelming display.

The computer spoke again, "Recording."

Helplessly, Makepeace watched his whole life flash before his eyes. Literally. Holographic scenes clear back to birth replaced the glittering colored lights, exhibited larger than life and in glorious technicolor. The machinery faded into irrelevant shadows as the memories came into prominence, demanding his full attention, his acquiescence as they overrode reality like an unstoppable tsunami.

There was no fighting it. Makepeace relived it all as though it were the first time: his childhood, growing up, friends, family, college and his first days in the Corps. His marriage and subsequent divorce. The Gulf War. The string of covert actions that followed. The frustration of being promoted out of the field; the peculiar offer from a general he trusted about a very special assignment he couldn't be told about, but that the general knew would be perfect for him.

"Just trust me, Bob. You'll love it."

He did.

Hurtling through the Stargate to alien worlds, seeing unfamiliar stars in the night sky, strange smells and tastes and colors, unimaginable wonders and horrors. New comrades, terrible enemies, and loss. Always loss.

Vaguely, Makepeace realized his face was wet.

"Scan complete. Adjustments within acceptable parameters. Initiating overwrite."

Makepeace blacked out.

July, 2001

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