I'll end that ep with a bang the moment I get free that I promise.
Stargate Through the Looking Glass and into Heaven.
- Thread starter The Immortal Watch Dog
- Start date
I'll end that ep with a bang the moment I get free that I promise.
I would never live it down.Get well soon man, be embarrassing to let something like this keep you down
Mind, I feel fine. I don't even have the mental fog associated with the disease or anything else. Just a little congestion. But they think that's because I'm an asthmatic dumb enough to live in a Florida Swamp.
Out of the hospital, heart rate's a little slower than normal but I was told they didn't see any evidence of any kind of damage to any of my organs so I'll just chalk that up to me battling a Chinese bioweapon
Any way, if I'm not too tired, you'll get the conclusion tonight.
Any way, if I'm not too tired, you'll get the conclusion tonight.
Glad to hear you're doing better man!
I function!
I'll try and get the conclusion out tonight, but suddenly being home hit me like a freight train and all I want to do is sleep.
Happy to hear the CoronaCrud couldn't keep you down.
I will not succumb mortally to the men whose sole contribution to my monthly life is the occasional bowl of eggdrop soup and overly salted noodles
No but seriously glad to be back!
Last edited:
Sergeant Foley
Well-known member
Is this the juicy Sci-Fi timeline from the Argentine Republic? @The Immortal Watch Dog
i have a question relating to the whole "gods were aliens" trope, what about the reconstructed indo-european deities? like yeah commonly known gods but there are older myths, there's also the fact that from india to greek, roman and even parts of baltic and germanic mythology some gods names are derived from a common etymological root.
Should you not be asking this in a general fanfiction pet peeve thread? Because I'm pretty sure I tried to address this in the first chapter, where the Ballard-Jackson theory got outlined.
They may, in this story there aren't very many "Gods" since there's a very strict criteria to become one. Namely you have to be a peer. You have to also be one of the most powerful Peers and you need to have been endorsed by a majority of the existing Gods/System Lords and then the Emperor has to approve.
But as the case with Herakles and Yahata/Hachiman sometimes other famous snakes get slipped into the mythos. So yeah its certainly possible that later indo-European deities were inspired by fond memories of a particularly friendly Goa'uld overseer or a particularly corrupt or lazy one.
Or how the general similarities between ogres and demons as they're depicted across most cultures ancient and modern might be the result of memories of Unas and Demi Gods and legendary heroes inspired by tales of early Jaffa or even humans descended from harceses.
Dragon's Teeth.
Alright boys and girls, I am terribly sorry for how long this took, I intended to have this done on July fifth at the earliest and then stuff happened and then I caught the coof and I've written most of this up while in recovery so if it completely sucks I'm terribly sorry.
Any way without further adieu, the conclusion to the monster fight!
Asgard Protected Planet's Zone Hurot-Battle of the Red River Conclusion
Hachiman
Colonel Jack O’Neill was a special kind of marine, in his youth he’d been a hot head who would have picked a fight with anyone for any reason so long as it didn’t land him in the brig right before deployment. He loved, fought, drank and swore with the kind of cavalier nature typical of the Marine Corps’ reputation. He lived up to that reputation in battle, as well. Fearless as he was irreverent, and he wasn’t stupid like so many of his former unit mates, he was a clever, cagey operative. As Admiral Hammond watched the boy grow into a man, that nature was tempered by wisdom and made even more deadly and though Jack O’Neill concealed all that behind the façade of a meathead Hammond knew below the hyperbole, sarcasm, mistrust of authority and incessant need to assign nicknames to everyone that his word was good as gold to anyone he considered a friend.
So, when O’Neill had returned from Avalon talking about just how deadly the leader species of the Goa’uld were, Hammond had been one of the few members of the Space Force’s upper echelons to take him completely seriously. He’d taken Jack at his word while others assumed he was exaggerating the extent of just how deadly they were (After all, no one just took that much abuse and kept fighting, life wasn’t a comic book.) except that Hammond watched Teal’c spar with the men and women under his command. He remembered the bodies strewn about from repelling Apophis and his security detail. He knew enough to know that they were living an epic to not be skeptical.
A good skipper after all; listened to his crew.
And armed with all of that, Hammond still couldn’t believe what he was witnessing with his own eyes. They had essentially tac nuked this Yahata guy, dropped an entire hill on his head and burned what looked like thirty percent of the scales and scutes off his body. Hell, they had carbonized some of the damn muscle off his body and yet this damn snake in the body of a giant lizard man was killing six to twelve Aejiri (Or however they called themselves.) with every swing of his halberd like weapon that was more like the blade of an industrial fan sharpened and attached to a support beam. He raked the blade, killed more only to be pelted with arrows, falling on him in a similar manner to how he imagined ancient Romans took down war elephants. In the modern Shinto religion Yahata, now named Hachiman was a God of war, of carnage, of strategy and battle.
He didn’t see much strategy, but everything else, every bit the type of being he could see the ancient caveman ancestors of the people who migrated to Japan confuse for a God. Time for thinking was over though and the old frogman pulled out his rifle and unleashed a flurry of bullets firing up and towards the creature’s center of mass just as green flames from Teal’c staff weapon smashed into its shoulder. The Archer’s behind him were firing like crazy and Space Vikings as O’Neill called them were crawling up the things back, stabbing it anywhere they could only to be grabbed and tossed dozens of feet into the air where they smashed into Scarran, Sleestak and human descended alien alike. Above them, he heard several of the smaller prototype drones and he wondered just how much ammo they had left.
His question was answered when one of the remaining drones that didn’t come with laser weaponry turned upwards, then spun and immediately dove to a concentration of Scarrans who had finished slaughtering their opponents and were preparing to move against Teal’c and the squadron of archers he had taken command of. Spinning it smashed into a smooth faced Scarran like a meteor exploding in a mess of flesh, heated blood, propeller blades, molten plastics and metal and flaming batteries and then finally the Naquadah generator all went up.
A miniature geyser of fire lit up the night sky and a dozen of those lizards were dead, two dozen others were mangled and leaking their unnatural body heat into the air as they writhed on the blood covered ground. Carter Hammond thought shaking his head and chuckling to himself. Jacob had once exasperatedly remarked “That girl ain’t right George” with a hefty amount of pride and a small touch of concern mixed into his voice and Hammond found himself thinking and feeling the same not for the first time this year.
Of course, the damage to the enemy came at a price. Steam was rising from the ground into damp night as hot Scarran blood began to churn the terrain. That was another problem; he knew enough about combat in the classical era and antiquity to know that on a rainy night like this, with ash and soot and dirt falling from the heavens after Carter’s min-nuke followed by the annihilation of the lion’s share of his remaining drones the death and devastation that it caused was likely going to result in enough grime and guts spilling onto the soil to make it an intolerable bog. Footing was insanely important in these kinds of battles, perhaps more so than any other element beyond quality foot-ware (Which was true in any age, Hammond’s father insisted that the quality of American shoe manufacturing quality was probably the single greatest asset it possessed in the war, arguably more so the atom bombs and right below America’s logistics and Hammond had never seen a solid counter argument to that in all his years in either the conventional Navy or the USSN.) and they were rapidly in danger of losing that advantage to the T rex footed giant lizard armor piloted by an unhinged drug addicted mammalian snake.
I have to thank Shepherd for pointing that out for me Hammond thought. That the host bodies were more like vehicles or equipment, very sophisticated “encounter suits” than they were the entity you were referring to.
If Apophis was wearing a sort of organic exo-suit, then Yahata was running the organic version of an old Sherman tank.
The son of a bitch would not go down.
The closest thing he’d ever seen to this was a forest elephant he knew in India who was obviously either a retired war elephant or descended from one and he remembered the spec ops group he was training that operated out of his turf (and it was his turf, that old elephant ran the whole damn forest as tightly as Hammond ran Cheyenne.) who had battle scars from taking on anything deadly that had entered his facility without leave. Tamerlane, they called him, after Tamerlane and it was a name that fit like a glove. They once found him demolishing a group of Chinese sponsored terrorists that had the misfortune of running their operation out of Tamerlane’s Forest.
They shot that old demon dozens of times, his leg had been set on fire, there was a machete sticking out of his rump and the bastard would not stop until every single one of them was dead even if that meant he had to perform convoy escort duty to hell to do it. It was that same psychotic fury he saw now.
Yahata wasn’t interested in victory; on some level he probably knew that even a Peer with those injuries couldn’t fight thousands of men with steel weaponry and a dozen armed men with sophisticated projectiles. It didn’t matter, he wanted it. The bastard was a kamikaze, and he embodied the fanaticism people hundreds of lightyears away that worshipped him despite not even knowing the origin of their divine figure and in his name once bathed most of the Eastern part of their home world in blood in his honor.
Admiral George Hammond had little interest in helping someone die to salvage honor the Admiral suspected he’d lost around the Viking age any way and so he took advantage of the moment of violent confusion a drone smashing into enemy combatants and exploding several hundred yards from their location caused to level his rifle and fire.
Next generation bullets were good, but apparently this thing’s scutes were tough enough that all he managed to do was crack and chip the armored bone above the eyeball and so the Admiral tried to fire again only to realize the giant suicidal snake commander had turned and sneered at him. “Hamun mik’ta! Kree”
Didn’t need to speak imperial standard to know that was an insult.
The Admiral idly wondered how the hell a fugitive who had spent a century on the run knew anything about him (And his conclusions weren’t good at all, namely that this was more than what it appeared, and it already appeared strange enough.) as he watched the fallen First Prime respond by thrusting that weapon of his forward, gutting a bunch of his own men and hurling them aside, plowing through blood soaked grass and soul as he stomped towards the Admiral, who crouched and fired.
Something tore and the giant grunted, and Hammond realized he likely blew off one of its testicles or its equivalent thereof. If the utterly agonized face that contorted into a mangled scowl of humiliation and rage filled his features was any indication. “Hasssack Taauu’Ri’so!”
The only insult Hammond returned were six bullets into its inner thigh. Green blood spurted out and he stumbled to one knee. The total sum of all the horrific injuries he’d sustained since Carter busted his bunker finally beginning to weigh the mad serpent down. Teal’c and Jack O’Neill ran towards Yahata like a pair of mad men, a kind of desperate look in the Colonel’s eyes as he tried to restrain Teal’c who fired several blasts from his staff weapon into Yahata’s wrist.
Hammond catching; on turned and fired into its right hand, smashing scutes and tearing through scale and bone. The alien giant roared, jerking and twisting on his bent knee attempting to flee from the assault but his movement was stopped when he swung his right arm and then doubled over in agony as a ripping, tearing sound carried above all others.
Something came loose and the spear fell forward.
Hammond sidestepped the spear, watching it crash harmlessly to the death soaked grass.
His eyes darted to the fallen First Prime and his wrist.
They sawed his hand off.
The creature looked down, almost in disbelief, around them the battle was either dying down, or had more or less ceased entirely. When he looked towards Hammond, finally regaining his focus. The hatred in his cruel “eyes” could have frozen an ocean. Yahata opened his mouth, a maddening roar of pure fury that echoed into the skies challenging the thunder. Louder then thunder and like Apophis before him, that weird hypnotic ability the Goa’uld voice powers carried made the roar penetrate his very being. Hammond felt a flurry of foreign emotions assault him, despair, rage, humiliation, lust, an incessant need to partake in addictive substances and a hatred for Teal’c that would have driven a lesser man to take up that hatred.
But George S Hammond wasn’t a lesser man, and he wasn’t an old Viking King in a Norse epic willing to die facing a Dragon in battle so that the Valkyrie might usher him into paradise.
He was an Admiral in the United State Space Force, Stellar Navy. “Lo’ there do I see my father.”
He took aim.
“And he taught me aim small, miss small.”
He fired.
And the bullets that were making the next generation squad weapons so damn famous out in the stars tore through the giant’s throat and open mouth, shattering teeth, jawbone and severing the spine at the base of his immense skull.
And from the trickles of blue blood.
Something else as well.
The roaring abruptly stopped.
Just as a puppet without strings the immense figure of Yahata went rigid and still. Dying on one knee, a grizzled, dinosaurian statue of dead flesh. A macabre tribute to the madness of the immortals.
Scarran, Sleestak, Lotar, Tau’Ri, everyone seemed to inch close, tentatively. Sloughing through the blood and the grime and the mud the skies sparked as storm clouds warred with the mushroom cloud.
Something twitched in the gaping mass of torn flesh that was the throat wound and Hammond edged back. O’Neill had joined him; the Colonel had a nasty gash above his eyebrow and his fatigues were torn in certain areas. He’d clearly exhausted the ammo of most of his weapons and was holding the O’Neill family 1911 pointed squarely at the writhing wound that had once been a neck.
Something slithered out, gasping, hacking, hissing. Retching, one its four fangs had been blown off, two of its four tiny green eyes were mashed beyond utility and its flesh was torn leaving a patchwork of sinew and odd-looking threads of energy woven between what was either nothing but pure nerves or muscle. Neither man had seen a fully mature Peer up close and from the Admiral’s vantage point the creature didn’t even look like it was fully corporeal which was one of the most disturbing aspects of the serpent like monster that was hissing, wheezing and seemingly trying to unleash one last psychic assault.
All Hammond knew, was that when it screeched something primal in his instincts screamed at him to get as far away from this thing as possible. An atavistic, ape like reaction to seeing something wholly unknown, not fully there reaching into your psyche.
Jack O’Neill and George Hammond fired simultaneously but Teal’c beat them to the punch, utterly vaporizing the creature that was the real Yahata.
Silence.
And then as if the Reptilians were under some sort of spell (Which they may very well have been if what Hammond remembered about the voice abilities of the Goa’uld in general but the Peers in specific were true.) enhancing their hatred and despair, they began to look around insensate and drunk as if an imposed clarity had been stripped them from with enough abruptness to leave them nearly lobotomized.
Teal’c walked towards the immobile corpse, its head unbent in a posthumous act of defiance and after examination propped himself onto the bent knee and reached down into the throat to retrieve what little was left of the fallen first Prime.
With a tear he pulled it loose and leaped to the death covered ground and rose displaying the mangled serpent’s tail. “BEHOLD!” he called in space Egyptian. “Thus passes Yahata of the house of Ame-no-Minakanushi, Bastard progeny of Amaterasu by Apollo!” Teal’c would refuse to use the word son, for he was attainted and thus no son of the Red Dawn.
Around them the Scarrans and other lizards seemed to fall to their knees, the fight utterly torn out from within their souls. Their civilization was gone, their worlds and their fellow Scarrans were now a conquered people, ruled over by their bitterest enemy a race of failed Jaffa prototypes. Their families were lost to slave mines, cartels and enforcers or had been put to slaughter or hunted for sport, betrayed by those in whose trust they’d placed their futures and now even their vengeance had been coopted and stolen to sate the madness of another. Hammond almost pitied them, but for what he’d heard about the former Scarran Empire he knew all too well that this sorrowful existence was one brought entirely upon themselves. From the macabre gathering around the deceased fugitive to the rear it seemed as though the fighting had finally ceased.
The war for the fate of the people of Hurot was over.
The Judgment of the Scarrans was now at hand.
And as Admiral George Hammond looked up at a sky.
The thunder seemed oddly animated and a sense that there was something else here, watching sitting in Judgment once again upon his boys and girls who had given their all, shed their blood, fought their hardest and may have died all on a world that wasn’t their own, for a people that weren’t theirs, in a feud they had nothing to do with.
He was proud of them all, no matter what.
He was proud of them all.
Any way without further adieu, the conclusion to the monster fight!
Asgard Protected Planet's Zone Hurot-Battle of the Red River Conclusion
Hachiman
Colonel Jack O’Neill was a special kind of marine, in his youth he’d been a hot head who would have picked a fight with anyone for any reason so long as it didn’t land him in the brig right before deployment. He loved, fought, drank and swore with the kind of cavalier nature typical of the Marine Corps’ reputation. He lived up to that reputation in battle, as well. Fearless as he was irreverent, and he wasn’t stupid like so many of his former unit mates, he was a clever, cagey operative. As Admiral Hammond watched the boy grow into a man, that nature was tempered by wisdom and made even more deadly and though Jack O’Neill concealed all that behind the façade of a meathead Hammond knew below the hyperbole, sarcasm, mistrust of authority and incessant need to assign nicknames to everyone that his word was good as gold to anyone he considered a friend.
So, when O’Neill had returned from Avalon talking about just how deadly the leader species of the Goa’uld were, Hammond had been one of the few members of the Space Force’s upper echelons to take him completely seriously. He’d taken Jack at his word while others assumed he was exaggerating the extent of just how deadly they were (After all, no one just took that much abuse and kept fighting, life wasn’t a comic book.) except that Hammond watched Teal’c spar with the men and women under his command. He remembered the bodies strewn about from repelling Apophis and his security detail. He knew enough to know that they were living an epic to not be skeptical.
A good skipper after all; listened to his crew.
And armed with all of that, Hammond still couldn’t believe what he was witnessing with his own eyes. They had essentially tac nuked this Yahata guy, dropped an entire hill on his head and burned what looked like thirty percent of the scales and scutes off his body. Hell, they had carbonized some of the damn muscle off his body and yet this damn snake in the body of a giant lizard man was killing six to twelve Aejiri (Or however they called themselves.) with every swing of his halberd like weapon that was more like the blade of an industrial fan sharpened and attached to a support beam. He raked the blade, killed more only to be pelted with arrows, falling on him in a similar manner to how he imagined ancient Romans took down war elephants. In the modern Shinto religion Yahata, now named Hachiman was a God of war, of carnage, of strategy and battle.
He didn’t see much strategy, but everything else, every bit the type of being he could see the ancient caveman ancestors of the people who migrated to Japan confuse for a God. Time for thinking was over though and the old frogman pulled out his rifle and unleashed a flurry of bullets firing up and towards the creature’s center of mass just as green flames from Teal’c staff weapon smashed into its shoulder. The Archer’s behind him were firing like crazy and Space Vikings as O’Neill called them were crawling up the things back, stabbing it anywhere they could only to be grabbed and tossed dozens of feet into the air where they smashed into Scarran, Sleestak and human descended alien alike. Above them, he heard several of the smaller prototype drones and he wondered just how much ammo they had left.
His question was answered when one of the remaining drones that didn’t come with laser weaponry turned upwards, then spun and immediately dove to a concentration of Scarrans who had finished slaughtering their opponents and were preparing to move against Teal’c and the squadron of archers he had taken command of. Spinning it smashed into a smooth faced Scarran like a meteor exploding in a mess of flesh, heated blood, propeller blades, molten plastics and metal and flaming batteries and then finally the Naquadah generator all went up.
A miniature geyser of fire lit up the night sky and a dozen of those lizards were dead, two dozen others were mangled and leaking their unnatural body heat into the air as they writhed on the blood covered ground. Carter Hammond thought shaking his head and chuckling to himself. Jacob had once exasperatedly remarked “That girl ain’t right George” with a hefty amount of pride and a small touch of concern mixed into his voice and Hammond found himself thinking and feeling the same not for the first time this year.
Of course, the damage to the enemy came at a price. Steam was rising from the ground into damp night as hot Scarran blood began to churn the terrain. That was another problem; he knew enough about combat in the classical era and antiquity to know that on a rainy night like this, with ash and soot and dirt falling from the heavens after Carter’s min-nuke followed by the annihilation of the lion’s share of his remaining drones the death and devastation that it caused was likely going to result in enough grime and guts spilling onto the soil to make it an intolerable bog. Footing was insanely important in these kinds of battles, perhaps more so than any other element beyond quality foot-ware (Which was true in any age, Hammond’s father insisted that the quality of American shoe manufacturing quality was probably the single greatest asset it possessed in the war, arguably more so the atom bombs and right below America’s logistics and Hammond had never seen a solid counter argument to that in all his years in either the conventional Navy or the USSN.) and they were rapidly in danger of losing that advantage to the T rex footed giant lizard armor piloted by an unhinged drug addicted mammalian snake.
I have to thank Shepherd for pointing that out for me Hammond thought. That the host bodies were more like vehicles or equipment, very sophisticated “encounter suits” than they were the entity you were referring to.
If Apophis was wearing a sort of organic exo-suit, then Yahata was running the organic version of an old Sherman tank.
The son of a bitch would not go down.
The closest thing he’d ever seen to this was a forest elephant he knew in India who was obviously either a retired war elephant or descended from one and he remembered the spec ops group he was training that operated out of his turf (and it was his turf, that old elephant ran the whole damn forest as tightly as Hammond ran Cheyenne.) who had battle scars from taking on anything deadly that had entered his facility without leave. Tamerlane, they called him, after Tamerlane and it was a name that fit like a glove. They once found him demolishing a group of Chinese sponsored terrorists that had the misfortune of running their operation out of Tamerlane’s Forest.
They shot that old demon dozens of times, his leg had been set on fire, there was a machete sticking out of his rump and the bastard would not stop until every single one of them was dead even if that meant he had to perform convoy escort duty to hell to do it. It was that same psychotic fury he saw now.
Yahata wasn’t interested in victory; on some level he probably knew that even a Peer with those injuries couldn’t fight thousands of men with steel weaponry and a dozen armed men with sophisticated projectiles. It didn’t matter, he wanted it. The bastard was a kamikaze, and he embodied the fanaticism people hundreds of lightyears away that worshipped him despite not even knowing the origin of their divine figure and in his name once bathed most of the Eastern part of their home world in blood in his honor.
Admiral George Hammond had little interest in helping someone die to salvage honor the Admiral suspected he’d lost around the Viking age any way and so he took advantage of the moment of violent confusion a drone smashing into enemy combatants and exploding several hundred yards from their location caused to level his rifle and fire.
Next generation bullets were good, but apparently this thing’s scutes were tough enough that all he managed to do was crack and chip the armored bone above the eyeball and so the Admiral tried to fire again only to realize the giant suicidal snake commander had turned and sneered at him. “Hamun mik’ta! Kree”
Didn’t need to speak imperial standard to know that was an insult.
The Admiral idly wondered how the hell a fugitive who had spent a century on the run knew anything about him (And his conclusions weren’t good at all, namely that this was more than what it appeared, and it already appeared strange enough.) as he watched the fallen First Prime respond by thrusting that weapon of his forward, gutting a bunch of his own men and hurling them aside, plowing through blood soaked grass and soul as he stomped towards the Admiral, who crouched and fired.
Something tore and the giant grunted, and Hammond realized he likely blew off one of its testicles or its equivalent thereof. If the utterly agonized face that contorted into a mangled scowl of humiliation and rage filled his features was any indication. “Hasssack Taauu’Ri’so!”
The only insult Hammond returned were six bullets into its inner thigh. Green blood spurted out and he stumbled to one knee. The total sum of all the horrific injuries he’d sustained since Carter busted his bunker finally beginning to weigh the mad serpent down. Teal’c and Jack O’Neill ran towards Yahata like a pair of mad men, a kind of desperate look in the Colonel’s eyes as he tried to restrain Teal’c who fired several blasts from his staff weapon into Yahata’s wrist.
Hammond catching; on turned and fired into its right hand, smashing scutes and tearing through scale and bone. The alien giant roared, jerking and twisting on his bent knee attempting to flee from the assault but his movement was stopped when he swung his right arm and then doubled over in agony as a ripping, tearing sound carried above all others.
Something came loose and the spear fell forward.
Hammond sidestepped the spear, watching it crash harmlessly to the death soaked grass.
His eyes darted to the fallen First Prime and his wrist.
They sawed his hand off.
The creature looked down, almost in disbelief, around them the battle was either dying down, or had more or less ceased entirely. When he looked towards Hammond, finally regaining his focus. The hatred in his cruel “eyes” could have frozen an ocean. Yahata opened his mouth, a maddening roar of pure fury that echoed into the skies challenging the thunder. Louder then thunder and like Apophis before him, that weird hypnotic ability the Goa’uld voice powers carried made the roar penetrate his very being. Hammond felt a flurry of foreign emotions assault him, despair, rage, humiliation, lust, an incessant need to partake in addictive substances and a hatred for Teal’c that would have driven a lesser man to take up that hatred.
But George S Hammond wasn’t a lesser man, and he wasn’t an old Viking King in a Norse epic willing to die facing a Dragon in battle so that the Valkyrie might usher him into paradise.
He was an Admiral in the United State Space Force, Stellar Navy. “Lo’ there do I see my father.”
He took aim.
“And he taught me aim small, miss small.”
He fired.
And the bullets that were making the next generation squad weapons so damn famous out in the stars tore through the giant’s throat and open mouth, shattering teeth, jawbone and severing the spine at the base of his immense skull.
And from the trickles of blue blood.
Something else as well.
The roaring abruptly stopped.
Just as a puppet without strings the immense figure of Yahata went rigid and still. Dying on one knee, a grizzled, dinosaurian statue of dead flesh. A macabre tribute to the madness of the immortals.
Scarran, Sleestak, Lotar, Tau’Ri, everyone seemed to inch close, tentatively. Sloughing through the blood and the grime and the mud the skies sparked as storm clouds warred with the mushroom cloud.
Something twitched in the gaping mass of torn flesh that was the throat wound and Hammond edged back. O’Neill had joined him; the Colonel had a nasty gash above his eyebrow and his fatigues were torn in certain areas. He’d clearly exhausted the ammo of most of his weapons and was holding the O’Neill family 1911 pointed squarely at the writhing wound that had once been a neck.
Something slithered out, gasping, hacking, hissing. Retching, one its four fangs had been blown off, two of its four tiny green eyes were mashed beyond utility and its flesh was torn leaving a patchwork of sinew and odd-looking threads of energy woven between what was either nothing but pure nerves or muscle. Neither man had seen a fully mature Peer up close and from the Admiral’s vantage point the creature didn’t even look like it was fully corporeal which was one of the most disturbing aspects of the serpent like monster that was hissing, wheezing and seemingly trying to unleash one last psychic assault.
All Hammond knew, was that when it screeched something primal in his instincts screamed at him to get as far away from this thing as possible. An atavistic, ape like reaction to seeing something wholly unknown, not fully there reaching into your psyche.
Jack O’Neill and George Hammond fired simultaneously but Teal’c beat them to the punch, utterly vaporizing the creature that was the real Yahata.
Silence.
And then as if the Reptilians were under some sort of spell (Which they may very well have been if what Hammond remembered about the voice abilities of the Goa’uld in general but the Peers in specific were true.) enhancing their hatred and despair, they began to look around insensate and drunk as if an imposed clarity had been stripped them from with enough abruptness to leave them nearly lobotomized.
Teal’c walked towards the immobile corpse, its head unbent in a posthumous act of defiance and after examination propped himself onto the bent knee and reached down into the throat to retrieve what little was left of the fallen first Prime.
With a tear he pulled it loose and leaped to the death covered ground and rose displaying the mangled serpent’s tail. “BEHOLD!” he called in space Egyptian. “Thus passes Yahata of the house of Ame-no-Minakanushi, Bastard progeny of Amaterasu by Apollo!” Teal’c would refuse to use the word son, for he was attainted and thus no son of the Red Dawn.
Around them the Scarrans and other lizards seemed to fall to their knees, the fight utterly torn out from within their souls. Their civilization was gone, their worlds and their fellow Scarrans were now a conquered people, ruled over by their bitterest enemy a race of failed Jaffa prototypes. Their families were lost to slave mines, cartels and enforcers or had been put to slaughter or hunted for sport, betrayed by those in whose trust they’d placed their futures and now even their vengeance had been coopted and stolen to sate the madness of another. Hammond almost pitied them, but for what he’d heard about the former Scarran Empire he knew all too well that this sorrowful existence was one brought entirely upon themselves. From the macabre gathering around the deceased fugitive to the rear it seemed as though the fighting had finally ceased.
The war for the fate of the people of Hurot was over.
The Judgment of the Scarrans was now at hand.
And as Admiral George Hammond looked up at a sky.
The thunder seemed oddly animated and a sense that there was something else here, watching sitting in Judgment once again upon his boys and girls who had given their all, shed their blood, fought their hardest and may have died all on a world that wasn’t their own, for a people that weren’t theirs, in a feud they had nothing to do with.
He was proud of them all, no matter what.
He was proud of them all.
Last edited:
Not sure how I missed this update but man was it worth it. Yahata was one mean SOB and just would not go down. Damn, now THAT is how you end a fight!
Hammond's first fight with a Peer.
And the old sea dog shows everyone why men like Teal'c and O'Neill are willing to take orders from him.
Glad you liked it! I wanted to showcase why the rebellion on Earth was so unique and why the leader subspecies of the Goa'uld is so feared.
I'm almost done with the concluding chapters.
Which I think you will enjoy.
Up next
My rendition of Emancipation.
Which will not have all the weird hear me roar nonsense.
And will probably also start with Herakles getting John Shepherd very, very drunk.
Which I think you will enjoy.
Up next
My rendition of Emancipation.
Which will not have all the weird hear me roar nonsense.
And will probably also start with Herakles getting John Shepherd very, very drunk.
Emancipation is one of those horrid episodes I bleach from my brain. Uhhg.
Yeah, that's why I'm not too nervous about botching that episode. No matter how mediocre I am I can't outdo the negative quality deficit that was the episode itself.
Last edited: