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lilyhargraveFandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG-1 fusion
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Pairing: John Sheppard/Anansi the Goa'uld (OC), future likely: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Tags & Warnings: Slash, canon-typical violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Goa'uld (Stargate), Action/Adventure, Made-up Goa'uld biology, Taking liberties with canon, because canon is inconsistent and doesn't make sense sometimes, I invented one (1) good Goa'uld for this, Goa'uld!John, Sharing a Body, Consensually, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John gets to get over it, WIP, No idea when or if I'll finish it, Start at your own risk!, Conquering the galaxy, Politics, More tags to be added as applicable
Summary: In the early days of the Stargate Program, one John Sheppard is recruited into the SGC.
His first mission on a gate team goes catastrophically wrong.
A/N: Yeah, let's post some more of this, otherwise it'll be ages until we catch up with AO3, :)
Previous: Chapter 1
I can see you know about our genetic memory. It is a powerful asset– and a curse. John, the Goa'uld are insane. It's not entirely surprising– the ability, the drive, to take full control of another being easily leads to arrogance, and the sarcophagus technology has certain side-effects. But with the genetic memory, insanity spreads among us like poison in a well– from a queen to all her off-spring, and if one of those happens to be male and mate another queen, to her offspring as well. You asked what makes me different– the queen who spawned me. She realized what was happening, clung to what sanity she could, passed it on as well as she could.
Insane? The Goa'uld are insane?
They have lost all capacity for emotion beyond pride and hate and self-interest. They are entirely driven by their obsessions– more power, more pleasure, more death. Oh, we were never a peaceful species, or one with strong bonds between each other. But it's gone far beyond that– if the Goa'uld are left to rule, they will not stop until this entire galaxy is crushed into mindless slavery or dead, and even then, I believe, the fighting will continue until there is only one left. In the long term, our extinction is rather probable.
John catches a few impressions, vague images of vast armies of ships moving through space to destroy each other in rains of fire and debris, planets burned and black and pock-marked with craters, streets running with blood, and vast numbers of people on their knees before a pyramid and a figure in gold and flowing white silk– and they're memories.
So... what're you gonna do about it? Because John can feel the scope– a galaxy, hundreds, maybe thousands of Goa'uld, and far larger numbers of Jaffa, even more people just trying to live their lives on their planets.
And he'd known Earth was fighting a fight where they were vastly outnumbered, ridiculously out-gunned– but he hadn't seen it.
I do my very best to hasten the process. And I plan to be the one left standing. I plan to conquer the galaxy– and free it.
It's... preposterous. John would've snorted an incredulous laugh if he could have.
That's... ambitious, he thinks.
Irony is a very strange thing to feel, coming from someone else. I am Goa'uld. Ambition is in my nature, the Goa'uld answers. I'm aware it's very dangerous, and my chances of success are probably minor. But why shouldn't I try? And every Jaffa I employ and convince I am not a God, and every planet I conquer and help advance itself is another potential ally, a stone thrown into the pond of the Goa'uld propaganda– who knows where the ripples'll end up?
It's preposterous, and John kinda, morbidly, wants to see it happen.
If you join me, you may.
Yeah, John's not at all convinced. And if I don't?, he asks.
A sigh of regret breathes through his mind. I will leave your body. Your throat is almost healed– I will leave through your neck. I regret that I won't be able to make it painless or heal you, but I will do as little damage as I can.
Just like that? Because, John thinks, that's way too easy. Nothing in his life is that easy.
Yes, just like that. I do not take a host unwilling– not for longer than I absolutely must.
But what're you gonna do?
John feels his eyes fall on the bloody water in the drain.
I will do my best to survive until I can find a willing host.
John can tell that the Goa'uld isn't enthusiastic about it, or optimistic– there's a battle on, and a lot of dead Jaffa, but not a whole lot of people to try and convince to host a Goa'uld... and how do you even do that if you're a snake and all you can do is screech...?
No, my chances aren't great, the Goa'uld agrees dryly. Never mind that not every attempted merging is successful at all.
But you'd still leave?
Yes. And I do recommend you follow my example and leave the immediate area– the fighting will likely go on for some time to come. Try to make your way out of the city. There are woods around where you might find food and shelter. With any luck, the fighting won't spill out of the city. I can tell you want to return to the chappa'ai– please, wait. Your chances of reaching it alive at the moment are minuscule, and it would be such a shame to waste yourself on a fool's errant.
Unfortunately, John agrees. The fighting's too heavy, both sides will happily kill him for nothing more than being there, and the open area around the Stargate is a killing ground. And the next check-in isn't due for hours. It looked so empty and peaceful through the MALP telemetry, just your usual poke-around-the-ruins mission, that their check-in schedule was assigned generously. Staying in the area that long, with death gliders overhead and Jaffa on the ground, is suicide. But if he leaves the city... Dammit, they'd said it in the mission briefing, hadn't they, there was ionic radiation in the atmosphere that would interfere with radio communication. No one'd worried about it, because they'd come for the city, and it wouldn't matter at that range. But if he heads for those forests, he won't get a signal through more likely than not, and if they can't contact him and they send a MALP to see the carnage around the gate, they'll lock out his iris codes.
The alpha site. He can still dial the alpha site and gate home that way. But he still needs to get to the gate in the first place.
A death glider screams by, way too low for comfort.
We can't remain any longer.
Yeah, well, you're asking me to make a pretty life-changing decision, here, John grouses. It's a bit more profound than getting married, and I haven't known you for even half an hour.
To his surprise, an actual, amused chuckle sweeps through his mind.
True. I can offer you a compromise that would help us both out greatly, if you're willing to tolerate my presence for at least a while: I have a cloaked Tel'tak parked at the edge of the city. It's about three days to my stronghold– if at the end of those you refuse me, you can return to your people through my chappa'ai, and I can find another host among my own people, where my chances at a volunteer are far better.
How'd you get to your ship if I want you to leave right away? John asks. Three days with a Goa'uld in his head? He'd shudder, if the Goa'uld in his head let him.
I wouldn't, until I find a host.
John hesitates for another moment, but... it's that which decides him. Maybe the snake is lying, but... if he'd actually give up a perfectly good means of escape to most likely die on this rock... Well.
Ok, let's go, John thinks.
Gladly.
Then he's rising to his feet, checking his surroundings, ducking into a street, and that's still creepy.
How about you let me do that? he complains.
Sorry, but I know the way– this is faster than telling you.
Maybe it is, slightly, but John doesn't have to like it, and he doesn't pretend he does, throws a mental growl in the direction of the snake who's currently running his body without his input.
Please, focus– I might be using your body, but you could still notice something I miss.
Fine. John turns his attention to their surroundings, the red sandstone buildings and their yawning entrances, where they still exist, the dangerously open ground of crossroads.
He's getting vaguely dizzy and nauseated because he's not in charge of where his eyes go, and it's disorienting as fuck, but at least he can keep his ears peeled without interference.
Twice, they have to quickly duck into a ruined building as they come across groups of Jaffa– once to carefully, quietly, climb over the ruined back wall into the next street over as the Jaffa get into a fire fight with a death glider, which pins them down with strafing runs, gets shot at with staff lances in return.
But as they get further from the centre of the city, they leave the fighting behind, until the Goa'uld is trotting them through empty streets at a good clip. John can see the dusty green line of the forest over an expanse of scrubby, yellow grass between houses that have lost all their sharp angles to time and the elements when they reach the promised Tel'tak– which turns out to be a small-ish ship with a humped back. It kind of reminds John of a turtle.
It shimmers into existence in what looked like an empty little courtyard after he (or rather, the Goa'uld,) runs his hand along the invisible flank of it, the odd feeling of fine-grained metal crossed with the occasional groove under his fingers while his eyes tell him there's nothing there, and then his fingers find a panel, enter a quick code that makes the ship visible and opens the door.
Okay, invisible spaceships are pretty cool, John has to admit.
The Goa'uld chuckles at him again as they enter, the door closing behind them, lights coming on by themselves. Inside, it's all gold and black, hieroglyphics decorating surfaces, typical Goa'uld style décor from what he's seen on video footage and Dr Jackson's sketches.
They head straight for the cockpit, and John watches with envy as his hands dance over the controls, start the ship's engine and lift off.
Dammit, he could totally do that, he wants to do that.
This craft is unfamiliar to you, and we're in a bit of a hurry.
I could still totally do that.
It flies– John hasn't met a vehicle that flies that he couldn't handle. Anyway, it doesn't look too hard– ignition, joy-stick style steering, no biggie... okay, he wouldn't have known right off that that's the button for the cloak, but still.
I'll teach you how to fly it and you can do the landing, how about that?
Okay, he concedes as he watches his fingers input a course, engage what has to be an autopilot. Then they sit back in the chair, and watch as the sky burns orange over the ship as they leave atmosphere, and, holy shit!
They're in space, John's in actual space, the planet a bright reddish rim off to the side, and over there are two huge ships, like golden pyramids surrounded by a hollow black disk with holes in it, Goa'uld attack ships like the ones that came for Earth, and they're firing at each other, bright blasts that make orange energy shields flare around them.
They're a good bit away, but John (and therefore, the Goa'uld) still watch them warily as they zoom past, before there's a bright flare of light in front of them, and the ship jolts into it so they're pressed into the seat, and then the stars are gone and there's blue and purple stripes of light undulating outside the window.
Hyperspace, the Goa'uld explains as he gets up. We're safe now.
Does that mean I can have my body back? Because John is kind of sick of being run around like a puppet.
There's a sigh, and a brief moment of hesitation, and then the Goa'uld pulls the gun they're still carrying from the holster, ejects the magazine, puts it in one of John's pockets, pulls the slide to pop the bullet out of the chamber, re-holsters the gun.
Very well.
