STORY STATUS: Completed 8/5/06
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: 834
She's back again.
Talk about in your face. If she were any closer we'd be kissing.
"Is it you?"
No, it's the tooth fairy. Got any loose teeth? Doesn't matter. I doubt you have a pillow anyway.
"You shouldn't be here."
Then again, neither should I.
"You look so different. How can you be Kanan?"
You know, Baal isn't the only one with a thick head. "I'm not."
"If I leave with you he will know."
So. Take a chance.
"He used both of us."
Hey! Where'd she go?
"He did use both of us."
Where'd he come from? Funny, I don't remember coming back here.
He didn't see her either.
She's not real. Every time I see and hear her, it's all in my mind. That's . . . weird. Never considered myself to be the type that sees things, but no one else can see her so she must be in my head. Right?
Well, I mean, I know she's real . . . somewhere. I'm just not really seeing her when I think I see her. I think.
How about you ask me some new questions this time? Mix it up a bit? Or how about something else entirely? Like the weather. Or why you chose a crappy, muddy planet for your little secret base? Or how long you think you can keep said base a secret? I don't think I want to know how you do that thing with the cell or this web. Techno babble confuses me. Just ask Carter.
On second thought, stay away from her. Stay away from everyone on my team. Matter of fact, stay the hell away from my planet.
"How long where you a host to this Kanan before he convinced you to come here? Days, or merely hours."
That's not a new question. You just reworded it. "I don't remember."
"What did this Kanan share about his previous mission here?"
"Nothing." Again, same question. Same answer. There was no sharing. The slimy bastard hijacked my body and dragged my ass out here without uttering a word as to why. Do you even realize how much you sound like a broken record?
"What did he want with my slave?"
"I don't know."
It's not a lie, really. Closer to a half-truth I'd say. I do have a vague idea and, oddly enough considering everything else is getting fuzzier, the `picture' is getting clearer.
"Why did he return?"
"I don't know!" At this point, I really don't even care anymore.
"I believe you."
Good! How's about letting me go then? Or at least let me die and stay dead? That's not too much to ask now is it?
"You're a victim of this Tok'ra just as I am."
Ha! You aren't a victim of anyone. More like victimizer.
"This Kanan took over the host body, your body, just as I or any other Goa'uld would have done."
"He used you to come here."
That's what I've been saying all along.
"But to what purpose?"
Not telling. So there.
"I believe the answers are there in your mind. Even if you were host for a mere matter of hours, something of him would be left behind."
Nope. Got nothing.
Crap. That smile again.
"An unfortunate inheritance for you."
He's opening the lid. Double crap.
"Because I will find them. If I have to . . . dig them out."
I vote for not digging.
Crap! Okay, okay, I get it. I don't get a vote.
Hate to be a nag here, but that's stabbing, not digging. And it hurts. A lot.
Fuck! I get the point. Literally. Okay? You can stop now. Really. You can put that down, shutting up now.
God! "Stop." Crap. I'm whimpering again.
I don't care. I just want it to stop. At this point, I'd kneel on the ground and lick his damn boots if I thought there was even a chance he'd stop this. The military and their `never say die' crap can go straight to hell. I'll meet them there.
I'm running out of fight. The sarcophagus is killing me just as surely as Baal keeps killing my body.
I haven't told him anything other than Kanan's name yet, but my resolve is fading fast. I'm fighting a loosing battle here and I can feel the end nearing. I can't keep this up much longer. I don't even bother with the sarcastic remarks out loud anymore. I don't care about antagonizing the bastard.
Shit! That's gonna leave a mark. Nothing like a bull's-eye on your forehead.
Not really, but . . .
My throat is sore from screaming now. I don't even try to stop that anymore. He lets loose with a knife or a drop of acid, I let go with a loud groan or, depending on the location, an ear splitting scream.
I just don't care. If that's how he gets his jollies, good for him.
The acid finally makes its way to my brain. There's a brief, intense burst of pain then it's lights out again.