Entering the Abyss

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 6

Summary: Two POVs on what happened after Frozen and before Abyss

Spoilers: Abyss, Frozen, anything before

Rating: PG, a little language

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, SciFiChannel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Author's note: Special thanks to Dr. S

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Familiar hands remove me from the fluid of the tank.

A host has been found for me at last.

Gently I am carried across the room and set down on a human's chest. Even at this first touch, I can feel the heat rolling off his fevered flesh, sense the struggling fight for every breath, and the battle for each labored heartbeat.

This one is ill, very ill.

I do not have much time.

Still, I pause a moment to study this body and face which I will soon share. The face, even now, is strong, though lined with care, a lived-in face, a visage that has seen much life, and much death. The body is tall and lithe, slender, the shoulders broad, strong despite the toll of his years.

If I can heal him, we will make a good team. Strong.

Sighing inwardly, I prepare myself. I am already exhausted from my recent futile efforts to save my prior host, a good man, but doomed, beyond my strength to save. I do not know if I can do this, so soon after the last. Yet, it seems I must. Hosts are few and rare. And my information is vital to our cause.

Blending with a new host is difficult even under the best of circumstances. Though we Tok'ra take only those who volunteer, these humans are a troublesome lot. They innately fight to preserve their oneness, to forbid us entrance, to block the necessary joining.

As I look once more at the face before me, I somehow sense that this blending will be a struggle greater than most.

His mouth is opened and I glide forward. Even unconscious, he gags instinctively as I enter the oral cavity. I must do this quickly. I'm into the mouth, and then I'm pushing into the soft tissue at the back of the throat, burrowing through the flesh to nest within.

Even unaware as he is, I feel his body stiffen, hear the silent scream, taste his fear, encounter his resistance.

Resistance?

It's like slamming into a brick wall at hyperspeed. I recoil stunned. Have they put me into an unwilling host? They wouldn't would they? Despite the value of the information I carry, it is against all we stand for to force a blending with one who has not consented to the joining. It is what sets us apart from our foes, the Goa'uld, that we do not use our power against those who are weaker than we... If we take the unwilling, we are lost even though we win the battle....

Calm down, Kanan, I tell myself. This host is feverish, so ill he may not be aware of what he is doing.

Soothe him. I still myself and send out calming thoughts, soothing tendrils, placating messages of peace.

The barrier before me wavers but does not drop. I probe, seeking a way through.

I push. He resists.

Ah, with this one, I must modify my tactics, go slowly though I am not sure he/we have the time. I must begin to heal him soon if there's to be any chance to save him/me.

I probe cautiously at this wall he has thrown across my path, and gently send a tendril through, one tiny thread, then another and another, until the wall is laced with them, weakening it.

Suddenly, the barrier crumbles. He cannot battle both me and his own failing body.

His silent cry of anguish is muted, but still there.

I must go quickly now, past his objections. There is no time left.

I am a very old Tok'ra. I have had many hosts, done many blendings. This one is different, though, this host... there is so much anger here, anger, resistance, pain, hatred, darkness. I recoil in the face of such vivid distaste and outright loathing for my kind. Not fear, not this one, he does not fear me, he despises me. And he insists that I know.

So why am I here?

I do not understand.

But I must concentrate now on the blending and the healing. I cannot waste energy on understanding him, not now.

I must complete this task, or die.

He is no longer actively resisting. He no longer has the strength.

He is so very, very close to dying.

I can 'hear' him still, the voice low and weak but insistent. He does not want me here. His choice was death before permitting this, before giving up control, before submitting to my kind. His distrust, dislike and loathing are blatant and unshakable.

This one is passionate, strong, opinionated, unwilling and unable to relinquish control.

Once again I try to soothe. 'I will not remain, if you do not wish it so. I will heal you, provide my people with the information I carry, and depart, into another host or into oblivion. This will remain *your* body; it is only a temporary vessel for me.'

He remains mistrustful. So he will always be.

He is too weak to stop me. Even if he were in perfect health, he could not; I know that, he knows that. But he would never concede then, even as he will not concede now.

'You will go?' he asks.

He is still unwilling, but the choice is no longer his. We can debate this later, but now I must go to work.

I have not been idle these past minutes, but I have been steadily at work, sending my ethereal tendrils infiltrating through him, through the mind to reach the body, as I must.

This blending will take all my strength. He is so ill, and his ever present resistance saps my energy further.

I push forward. 'Help me, O'Neill.'

The memory is there, and we share it, his agreeing to host me. I taste his anger, hear his words 'over my dead body' and know he meant them. I hear the call to duty, a call he cannot ignore, even though he is dying. He does not want to die like this, die without purpose, not in battle but uselessly of a disease. He wants his death to mean something; he would lay down his life to save another, he would give his life to save his country and his world, but he is angered by having his life taken by an illness.

He has envisioned his death, and it is not a death like this, but a warrior’s death, in battle, the ultimate sacrifice.

Duty, honor, courage.

Duty prevails, even over the anger.

And there is *so* much anger.

I surge onward. With his grudging consent, I make rapid headway. I discover this body has been hard used. There are many old, healed over injuries, knitted bones, accumulated damage that causes aches and pains. I don't have time for them now, I must find the life-threatening illness and conquer it before I can make other repairs.

I am so close now, so close to completion.

This is difficult, fighting my own desires, battling the urge to take control, to overpower this being, simply because I can. My instinct is to rend and tear my way through this mind to grab complete control, to conquer and dominate. It is what my kind once did, what the Goa'uld still do. I hunger for the power, and yet I turn away. I must tame my own nature even as I tame his.

Close now. Close, to survival for him/me/us.

Another wall.

This one is the strongest and widest of all. It hides his darkest places, his deepest secrets.

Even now he cannot stop himself from denying me access here. He stands behind this fortification, stubbornly refusing my request to enter, using the last of his waning strength to forbid me entrance to this place where his soul resides.

He must let me in, this place is most important of all.

Blending must be all, or it is nothing.

I no longer have time to do it gently, I must act now to save us. I cannot allow further resistance to delay me.

'Forgive me.' I do not wish to force him, but I must, and I will.

He is not strong enough to stop me for long, but he doesn't want me here.

I charge through his final barrier...

...and plunge into a pit of raging darkness, anger, despair, bitterness, guilt, self-loathing, madness, grief.

It nearly overwhelms me.

How does he, a mere human, live with it?

My body reacts, hunching, tail twitching. I feel his physical body shudder and flail even as his mind screams his last refusal.

I am numb, cold, horrified as we become one, as his memories batter at me and consume me.

Charlie.

I have never had a child, but some of my previous hosts have. I know the taste of parental love, pride, protectiveness which one must show toward one's offspring.

Such a blow, to lose someone so beloved, so young, so much potential unfulfilled; to feel responsible, the guilt, the blame, the despair.

Charlie.

No man should outlive his child.

Charlie.

The wave of darkness washes over me, threatening to drown me.

I cannot let it, or we will both die.

I force myself forward once more.

Charlie. Sara. Daniel. Kawalsky. Frank. A place called Iraq.

A kaleidoscope of images of horror, loss, despair...

Quickly, I search for the antidote, for the answering visions, for what has kept him from dropping into this pit and never emerging. Ah, yes, they are here, protected here behind this last barrier. Daniel. Teal'c. Carter. Hammond. Doc. Cassie. Merrin. Another boy called Charlie. Loren. Some odd creature named Homer. Thor of the Asgard. A place called Minnesota. A house of earth tones and a wall of windows that let in the light of day. A pledge to defend and obey.

I remind him of the existence of these lifelines, and I feel him stir.

He is dedicated, this one.

He hates the Goa'uld. I remind him that we share that, that we can help each other defeat our mutual enemy.

It is working at last.

I feel him relax slightly, as if taking a deep cleansing breath. Yes. He understands. He is not conceding, he makes that clear, he will never concede, but he will fulfill his bargain, though it was made under duress. He demands that I acknowledge this was not a choice he would make for himself. He would rather die than lose who he is.

Duty prevails in this mind. It is the key to his being, the button I must push to gain his assent, if not his acceptance.

That is sufficient. This is only my temporary home, but I can keep him alive and I can keep myself alive. We can/will help each other.

----------

I am Kanan.

My host is O'Neill.

We will survive.

========================================================

Part Two

Nothing is clear. All is haze and smoke, fog and mist.

My last distinct memories are of Antarctica, the cold and the wind, the shelter of the small scientific base, being there with my team.

Thawing out the alien ancient whatever woman.

Aiyanna.

She killed me.

Not intentially. I know that. Guess it was our own fault.

Guess this was always bound to happen.

It’s just that I resent going out this way, dying with a whimper, not a bang.

Sort of always thought I’d go out in a blaze of glory.

It started simply enough. Headache, aching muscles, nothing out of the ordinary. Hell, I feel that way half the time when I get back from a mission. Feeling my age and all those broken bones and battered body parts I guess. The chills, the fever, the vague malaise and growing listlessness soon followed.

Then the others were sick, too, and I knew.

Doc didn’t say much. Of course, neither did I, except to keep telling her ‘I’m fine, I’m okay,’ all the while knowing none of us were okay, including her. Doc kept giving me looks though, like she knew there was something I wasn’t telling her, like the way my head was pounding and my chest hurt with every breath. Of course, turned out she wasn't telling anyone how sick she was feeling either. Carter and Jonas were going downhill fast, too.

That’s pretty much the last stuff I really clearly remember. I *do recall falling exhausted into my bunk, wrapping myself in the blankets. Feeling warm and cold when I wasn’t sweating and shivering, and then the lights came on and Doc was there. I can still feel her hands in my hair. Cool. Comforting. I don’t remember her words, just the gentleness of her hands and the sound of her voice, reassuring me.

Things get *real* strange after that. I’m not sure what was illusion, delusion, fever dream, nightmare or truth. People in grotesque masks, and being carried in a coffin-like thing; a long airplane ride; being home, I could swear I was home, at the SGC, but there weren’t any familiar faces there either, just weird glassy helmets. I recognized voices, but maybe I just couldn’t focus well enough to see the faces? I don’t know.

I was sick.

I was dying.

That much I remember.

Sort of hard to forget.

Dying.

Every breath a struggle, every heartbeat pounding, every joint, bone, muscle hurting.

Fading.

It was all fading away.

Dying.

I fought as long and hard as I could, but I was losing. There was no doubt.

Then, one last moment of clarity, or semi-clarity at least.

Seemed like it was Carter, I think it was Carter, telling me I had a chance. There was a cure: accept a Tok’ra symbiote.

Yeah, right, like I’d ever consider *letting anyone put a snake in my head. I had one in there already for an eternity, entirely against my will I may add, back in Hathor’s fake SGC, and I will never let that happen again. Never.

I find the breath to answer, “Over my dead body.” And I mean it. Better dead than a snake in the head.

Carter’s still talking.

Something about information, vital information, and needing me to do something.

God, can’t they just let me die in peace? Respect the nearly-dead?

Duty calls.

Duty always calls.

Even now, when I’m dying, duty calls.

Something about the snake won’t stay. Promise.

Somehow, I summon the strength to look up at her, it’s Carter behind the mask. Why a mask? Oh, yeah, right, I’m sick with Airone’s disease and I could contaminate others… Carter’s talking. Focus, Jack. Focus on the words.

Focus on your duty.

You always do your duty.

Tok’ra. Snake. Going away. Temporary.

Yeah sure. What could it hurt? I’m dying, aren’t I?

I nod yes, and fade away into the heat and the darkness once more.

----------

Things start to happen. I have no strength left, not even the ability to open my eyes. Only bits and pieces get through to me past the roaring in my head, past the pounding of my heart, the gasping lungs, and hammering headache. Dying’s not much fun, you know, even with Doc’s nifty drugs to ease the way.

Shit. I’m back in that coffin-box thing. Can’t they at least wait until a man is dead? No, wait. I’m not going to be dead, I agreed to something, to some cure… shit, a snake. No, no, no, no, no. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t. You can’t do this.

Let me die as I am, human, not some, some, some…thing.

God, nooooo.

But my voice is too weak to be heard, nothing but unintelligible mumbles pass my lips. Someone is talking to me. It’s Doc, making those soothing sounds, telling me to hold on.

Hold on to what? Damn it. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live as a freakin’ snakehead.

Damn.

That’s the sound of the Stargate. They’re taking me somewhere. They’re taking me to the Tok’ra… No no no.

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The icy cold sensations of the wormhole soothe my burning hot skin. It feels sort of nice, actually, as I’m carried through the Stargate.

Next thing I know, people are bustling all around me. The box is opened, and I’m placed on something soft, a table in some sort of medical facility.

Resonate alien voices talking above me.

It’s happening. It’s happening.

I have to stop them, have to tell them I didn’t really understand, have to make them listen to what I said first. I don’t want this. I *really* don’t want this.

Panic flares and sparks a last surge of adrenaline. Mustering every bit of remaining strength, I open my eyes and move my lips, but the sounds won’t come. Doc bends low over me, trying to catch my words. I’m trying, I’m trying, but I don’t have enough air to talk, to tell her to stop this, that I don’t want this.

Mumbles, that’s the only sound I can make, and the final whimper of despair that no one hears and understands my plea.

Doc’s hand is on my forehead again, gentle and soothing. “The pain will be gone soon, Colonel. It will be all over soon.”

All over, right, all over for Jack O’Neill, human being.

Somebody help me!

This is a mistake, a huge honkin’ supersized giant mistake.

Someone is walking towards me.

Something is set down on my chest. I can feel it writhing, sliding, slithering across my skin, and I want to scream but I’m too weak to make a sound. My heart is pounding, my lungs are gasping for air: from the illness wracking my body or the fear?

Both.

My mouth is opened, and then I feel that thing touch my chin, glide over my lips and across my tongue. My muscles react without conscious thought. I gag and retch but it’s still there, and then there’s a moment of excruciating agony, like the biggest damn needle you could ever imagine jammed into the back of my throat. My whole body jerks and spasms in pain and horror, my back arching off the bed, arms flailing.

‘Get out get out get out,’ I scream silently.

The thing inside me is still for a moment, as if studying me, surprised.

An odd voice reverberates inside my skull, like a whisper, dimly heard, tickling my mind, telling me he is here to heal me, he is friend not foe, he is Tok’ra, not Goa’uld. ‘Together we will be stronger than either of us could ever be alone. Partners.’

No! I won’t be lulled. I won’t listen. I know his kind. I know all about snakes…

‘I am not a snake… I am Tok’ra.’ He’s pushing, deeper into my mind, brushing past the fortifications I desperately try to throw in his path.

He seems confused by my actions, but he doesn’t stop.

My barriers give way to his probing and with a cry of horror that echoes through my brain, I realize I cannot stop him.

I know that I don’t have long left. Maybe I can hold him off long enough so I can die as me. But he knows that as well as I, and he won’t let that happen. He’s forcing his way forward, deeper into my mind, ignoring my protests, flinging aside my refusal. If he really is a Tok’ra, he can’t be doing this. They don’t take unwilling hosts. That’s what they say, anyway.

Liars!

I want to fight. My silent shouts of defiance have faded to mere whispers now. I can’t fight both him and this disease that is killing me.

The voice, his voice, is back. Even in my head it echoes like the voice of the gould. “I will not remain, if you do not wish it so. I will heal you, provide my people with the information I carry, and depart, into another host or into oblivion. This will remain your body; it is only a temporary vessel for me.’

Can I trust him, just because he says he’s a Tok’ra? A snake is a snake is a snake. Never trust a snake. Never trust a Tok’ra.

‘You will go?’ I demand weakly.

It’s already too late. He’s in here, with me, in my head.

He’s reading my memories now, and I’m pointing out this one to him, the moment when my own people coerced me into this. Sure, they gave me the chance to say no, but then they had to play the duty card. That’s the only reason I did this, I tell him pointedly, showing him the moment I declared my refusal.

I can’t stop him. He’s too strong for me, weakened as I am, but I can’t surrender. I know a lot about warfare; I know that you cannot win every battle. I know that, as the weaker opponent, you must concede the ground you cannot hold, and concentrate on saving that which you cannot afford to sacrifice.

This is the place I’ll make my last stand. I can’t let him see me, the real me, the parts I keep hidden deep in my head, the memories of love and loss, the things even I can’t bear to recall. Don’t go in there. Don’t open up that house of horrors. Don’t please don’t. Don’t make me relive them with you. I can’t relive them for anyone.

He doesn’t heed my warning. He bursts through the last barrier, and is engulfed in the blackness of my soul.

I can feel him recoil as from a physical blow.

He knows.

Oh, God, he knows, knows all, knows my deepest, darkest, loathsome secrets and fears, and they overwhelm the both of us.

We're both lost in the darkness inhabited by horrible images from my past... death and destruction, shame and sorrow and unbearable grief, all the emotions I've bottled up inside, year after year, a mountain of horror.

And then there is light, beating back the darkness.

He knows my losses, but he is reminding me of what remains, my team, my friends, my comrades in arms; my cabin in Minnesota and the peace I find there. He reminds me of duty and honor and service, and how on a bright day long ago I pledged to serve and defend…

Even as my mind shrinks back in horror from what I’ve allowed to be done to me, I can feel my body begin to strengthen.

Kanan is healing me, beating back the disease. I feel my breathing ease, my heartbeat slow toward normal. The intense pain softens, eases, fades into the background, leaving me exhausted, sinking into the oblivion of healing sleep.

-------

I am O’Neill.

Host to Kanan.

We will survive.

FINISH