* * * * *
|| Daniel Jackson ||
"Unauthorized Gate activation."
That went without saying, I thought mildly, glancing up toward the speakers as the announcement resonated through the floors. ANY Gate activation was unauthorized; had been for some time now.
As the P.A. speaker continued, calling for General Hammond, I closed the books in front of me, slipped the tablet back into its protective cover, and turned off the light. I didn't look forward to sharing my discoveries with the others, especially not Jack... yet I had to wonder. Why had he called me that night almost a month ago, at Janet's no less, and demanded that I finish translating the artifact found on P2C-260? How the hell had he known?
I stepped into the crowded embarkation room as the seventh chevron locked and the Stargate engaged, the iris already closed protectively over the event horizon's surface. It occurred to me for at least the hundredth time that a bunch of Marines would have little hope stopping something or someone who could make it past that reinforced titanium barrier.
Immediately I spied Tony and Teal'c, both armed, and worked my way over towards them. "Who is it?" I asked as soon as I was in earshot. Damn the hope that suddenly sprung up in my heart, untimely and lecherous.
"We're getting a signal," announced the technician above, answering my question. "It's Tok'ra."
Inside the glassed-in booth, Hammond must have given the expected order, because with a clank the iris swirled open and then locked itself back away in the Gate's rim. At once, the Stargate rippled silently, like a breeze-stroked pond, and then with a three tiny slurps a trio of brown-garbed Tok'ra stepped through.
None of them were familiar, I realized after a few desperately searching seconds. Two were male, one female, all with hands raised high above their heads to show they were undefended. When the Gate disengaged the glow faded, and I could see their expressions: wary and full of distress.
Behind me, the door opened again, and I glanced over my shoulder to see it admit Jack. He didn't so much glance at me, Teal'c, or Tony, striding with single-minded ferocity to the base of the ramp. Worried for the safety of our guests, I looked at my friends, and then back up at the control room, from where Hammond watched over the entire room. Oh well, I resigned myself, pushing forward for a better view. Maybe the Marines would find a purpose after all.
"Where the hell is she?"
Skin pasty, eyes wide, the lead Tok'ra pulled his hat off and held it against his chest almost reverently. "Who?"
"You know who I'm talking about," accused Jack, not seeming to notice or care that he had a rather large audience. "Lieutenant Colonel Carter; Sam Carter."
The female, a stunning woman with a smooth olive complexion, shook her head at him. "The liaison? I was told she was dead."
"I'm sorry," said the first man. "We did not mean to... anger you in any way. We are here with one purpose: to seek asylum here, to find refuge with you."
"Refuge?" barked Jack unforgivingly. "From who? The Gou'ald?"
"No," whispered the second man, a blonde with watery green eyes. "We cannot say. There may be a spy among you."
"Paranoid bunch," muttered Tony Warren.
"We are in danger," the woman said anxiously, clasping her hands before her. "That is all we can tell you. Now will you help us, or will you turn us out?"
* * * * *
|| Jack O'Neill ||
"So they didn't even tell you why they're here?" I asked Hammond, dubious. I could understand not wanting to announce their purpose to a crowd of people, but surely they weren't expecting us to go on faith and trust alone.
"They seemed extremely fearful for their safety," the general explained for the third time. "And worried that we may have 'a spy amongst us'."
"A spy for who? And if they're so worried, why come here?" I paced the small office. The Gou'ald were still in a state of confusion, but were also reportedly sending another, small vessel this way, perhaps to discover just how we'd gotten the better of them. They were also flinging some last-ditch attack at the Tollan, ignoring the Nox and the Asgard for the time being. Of course, the Asgard had their own rather drastic problems to worry about, and coercing help from the Nox was more horrendous than an actual battle.
The almost three-thousand killed more than two months ago were still mourned, and the cause of their deaths was a matter of heated controversy. Actually, it was a matter of heated politics, as Samuels, Maybourne, and their buddies attempted to deny, deny, deny, as Kinsey's sycophants tried to expose the program without being caught, and as the President attempted to negotiate with both sides for some adaptation of the 'Pandora Act' that would jolt the two branches of government out of deadlock. My own inclination was simply to storm the legislators, a take-no-prisoners sort of deal... but that was why I wasn't President.
Whatever happened in the coming months was going to be nasty; I could feel it in my bones. We'd been ordered not to use the Stargate under any circumstances but the most extreme; our three visitors would only add fuel to the fire. Had they known that? Were THEY really the spies, here to cause trouble, wreak havoc, bring about absolute mayhem? Or was there really something out there that they were deadly afraid of, something their own people couldn't even protect them from?
Hammond dismissed me, and I wandered dejectedly around the hallways for a bit. Our three guests were being kept under close watch; for all we knew, they were impersonators, Gou'ald who'd managed to infest their hosts via the mouth, to avoid the telltale scarring. All I could think was that if Sam was here, she'd surely be able to tell us if they were the real deal or not.
Sam...
I found Danny back in his office, pouring over a book with pages so brittle they looked ready to snap. "Please tell me you were able to translate it," I asked, making him jump.
Scowling at me for startling him, he stood. "Most of it, yeah." He opened a fat notebook and paged through it. "Artifact brought back from P2C-260. Tablet, roughly eighteen centimeters by eight-"
"I know what it looks like," I reminded him tersely.
With another sharp look - Janet was obviously rubbing off on him - Daniel continued. "Okay, basically, it talks about 'Su'lin'ie', a ruined, extinct planet. I can give you a direct translation, but I'm kind of at a loss to explain what it all means." He cleared his throat, pushed his glasses up his nose, and read. "'Those who do not wish to be joined will be brought here, to Su'lin'ie, and will become one. With this great technology the defeat of the evil ones will be secured.'"
I blinked, trying to grasp what he'd said and trying to ignore the chill that snaked down my spine. "The Gou'ald... were experimenting. With some method of making infesting hosts easier. Because... because of the evil ones. An enemy of the Gou'ald?"
Daniel set the book back down on the table. "That's what I figured, too."
"Then why aren't you more... excited by this?"
"Because we didn't find any of the technology mentioned on this thing." He frowned. "You know the teams that went back found a few more of these tablets and nothing else. The beams, that's it."
"What did those tablets say?" I pressed, certain that there WAS something here, and I would find it if only I could dig deep enough.
"They seemed to be in letter format, which makes me think that they were all reports of some kind."
"On rock?" I asked dubiously. "We aren't talking about the Flintstones here."
"Yeah, but remember the technology the Gou'ald use. Those page-turner thingies. Only the one that went with these pages was probably lost."
"What was in the letters?" I sighed.
"More of the same. 'This technology is everything we've hoped for.' 'We'll be unstoppable'. 'Long live us'." He grimaced. "The scary thing is that I had it dated. It's not all that old. None of them are. Certainly less than a hundred years. So... I agree with you. There's something up with that place, and we need to check it out more thoroughly once we get the all clear."
"I hear a but," I accused.
* * * * *
Looking at me strangely, as though he wanted to smile but wouldn't permit himself, Daniel stood. When he spoke, his words were measured and his tone calm... too calm. I wondered if perhaps I'd gone senile and no one had bothered to let me know. "But why do I get the feeling you were expecting more from this? Something that has to do with Sam?"
Angry for some unknown reason, I turned away, so that when I explained all of this I wouldn't have to look at the shock and concern on his face. "Because it just... popped into my head. I came home after the meeting with the Prez, Daniel, and she was... waiting for me. Sam was. We..." I swallowed, hard. "She knows I'm alive, too, but she doesn't believe it. It's like it's just easier for her to think I'm dead. She thinks it was just a dream but it was REAL. I can still... still feel her. And then I was in the shower, watching the water going around and around in the drain, and I just remembered. The tablet. The tablet." I turned and glowered at Daniel's predictably perturbed expression. "And I swear to God, Daniel, if you tell me to go make an appointment with MacKinzie..."
"Might not be such a bad idea, Jack," he said softly.
I shook my head. I didn't want to hear this.
"You've gotta let her go. You told us yourself that she was on that planet and she was dead."
"Martouf was with her," I insisted. "He thinks he loves her. He'd find a way."
"So where is she?" he demanded. "A prisoner of the Tok'ra?"
"Maybe," I snapped. "She wants to get home, but she can't."
"Jack--"
"Forget it." I bit off the words, felt them fragment around us in bloody shards. "I don't know why I asked you. You're just like the rest... you've given up. You're so blinded that you don't see what's going on. Daniel, when have the Tok'ra ever done a damn thing that wasn't in their own interests? When we went to see them the first time, they were perfectly happy to let everyone think we were dead, for their own safety. They let Sam and me go, but only there was a potential host in the deal. We save their asses, uncover a spy in their midst, and even then our technology is what interests them! So they 'saved us' when we were stuck on Hathor's planet. Do you really think they got that information to Hammond out of the goodness of their hearts? If one of us had been made a host, the Gou'ald would have automatically known a whole hell of a lot about the Tok'ra's bases, strategies. By saving us they saved themselves. Same when Marty went with us to rescue Jacob. No, they don't use the sarcophagus, but only because they know it makes you go bonkers. We assumed that they have the same goals, but do we know that? They want to destroy the Gou'ald, but why? No one ever does anything without a motivation."
I sucked in a deep breath, and made my final point. "You know what the Tok'ra are, Daniel? They're smart Gou'ald. SMART Gou'ald. We are not NEARLY as scared as we should be."
* * * * *
|| Janet Frasier ||
"This feels... weird somehow."
I glanced over at Tony, nodding, understand exactly what he meant. So many times through the years - though less frequently these past months - we'd done this. Gotten together at someone's house to watch a movie or a sports exhibition, eaten chips and popcorn and other junk, popped a couple beers, and just... hung out, enjoying the almost non-military attitude and the relaxed atmosphere. Now, most of the right component were there: snacks, civilian clothes... even Jack had showed up, and he hadn't joined in one of these since Sam's death... or disappearance.
But it wasn't relaxed. It wasn't even friendly. It was tense, and that tension was masked by a thin veneer of humor, which made it all the more explosive.
Daniel's apartment, which had initially appeared crowded - what with him, Jack, Tony, Teal'c, and myself crammed into its narrow confines - flipped and spun in the throes of paradoxical irony. The room wasn't full ENOUGH. Sam should be here, dammit, because she was just as much a part of this as any of us. She should be sitting on the couch, between me and Jack, leaning forward, a cold beer clasped in her hands, condensation trickling over her fingers. She should be here, and Charlie Kawalsky, and hell, even Makepeace. This was the biggest milestone faced by the Stargate project since its birth, and as a result, everyone who had made it what it became should be in this room, sharing in the anxiety and the distilled euphoria. A chill skittered across my shoulders, and I wondered with a delicious thrill if maybe they WERE all here.
On the television screen, the anchorwoman was ice-blonde and severe, her green eyes set so wide that it was easy to tell that they were contact lenses. "We're now hearing that the President is going to make a formal announcement regarding the hasty ratification of the Pandora Act," she said, tugging at her crisp, white collar and impossibly impeccable jacket. "To recap, a number of military documents about a program called 'Stargate' have come into the light, following the passage of the late Senator Robert Kinsey's Pandora Act. The Act follows the Senator's most basic belief that so called 'Black-Ops' projects, funded 'without the knowledge and consent of the American people' are not only detrimental to society but downright dangerous to humanity as a whole. This comes less than two months after an unexplained phenomenon that resulted in more than twenty large explosions in Earth's orbit and the as-yet unexplained deaths of almost three-thousand people in the Washington D.C. area. Senator Kinsey, visiting collaborators, was of course one of the casualties."
"Right so far," muttered Jack, putting voice to all of our opinions about the trustworthiness of the media. "Surprising."
The anchorwoman raised one slender, manicured hand to the receiver in her ear and paused. "The President is now taking the stand; we're going to cut directly to him."
Instantly the scene changed, from the newsroom to the press room of the White House: the well-known stage, the famous seal, and the President, already standing behind the podium and looking impossibly alert. "My fellow Americans," he began, smiling that classically self-deprecating smile. "In a few short minutes, as soon as I conclude this speech, packets of information with be sent out to all major news organizations, the AP, and the Internet, that complies with the newly-passed Pandora Act. This information, of course, will pertain to the United States military, and every secret it has been withholding - for reasons both ignoble and honorable - from the American people."
He paused, as though collecting his thoughts. "I won't lie to you. There's a lot of them. But I speak to you now about one of the biggest, maybe THE biggest: a program the late, esteemed Senator Kinsey had great contempt for, but which I hold in the highest regard. I'm sure you've heard of it: it's called the Stargate Program. Stargate Command, or SGC, and it's exactly that. A gate to the stars. This is more momentous than the UNTRUE rumors of alien bodies at Area 51. This is more momentous, in fact, that anything ever imagined by any conspiracy theorist, UFO fanatic, or science fiction enthusiast. What we're talking about, my friends, is not only the existence of extraterrestrial life, but extraterrestrial life, aliens, if you will, on this very planet."
He took a brief glance off-screen, but I realized that he must be making the speech in a closed room, without the usual bumbling press corps. It was the only reason he hadn't been interrupted by a dozen bouts of questioning already. "I can't tell you that these exploits have been risk-free, that they've been easy or cheap. But the serious, hard-won knowledge we've earned over the years has and will continue to --"
"Turn it off," said Jack briskly, sourly, and unquestioningly Teal'c reached for the remote. The President was cut off mid-word, still touting the virtues of the SGC, praising it despite the rather acclaimed opinion of a dead man, not a smart thing to do in politics. Daniel's living room, which suddenly felt more empty than ever, lapsed into silence broken only by the soft soughing of five people drawing considered breath, and the whir of a computer modem on the other side of the room.
I'd always imagined that this would be a truly monumental occasion, an event, a reason for celebration. A hundred times over I'd pictured this day, the day when the public learned about the Stargate Program and were told to be thankful for its existence. A day that would bring humanity together, a poignant revelation filled with fervent speeches and solemn vows, excitement and pride and celebrity. I'd always envisioned feeling great and important, famous, even, a sort of retribution for everything I had sacrificed to the project. Instead, I felt sick to my stomach, and horribly empty, as though I'd been violated, a critical secret irresponsibly exposed.
Because, of course, that was exactly what had happened.
* * * * *
|| Jack O'Neill ||
Over the past seven or so years, I'd spent the majority of my time on the planet two dozen floors beneath NORAD, and so I'd expected to be able to return there, to hole up in my rarely-used quarters or even more-rarely-used office and bury myself in some work, any work... even paperwork. That was, in fact, precisely what I intended to do, and I made it all the way to the elevator before the snotty airman from the gate caught up with me and informed me that my presence in the SGC was not currently needed or welcomed. So I went home, holed up in my living room, drawing the blinds and locking the doors, as though these conventional and familiar barriers could stave off the social evolution beyond them, and buried myself in liquor.
When I awoke from an alcohol-induced haze several days later, arms stiff and sore from all the time they'd spent hooked over the toilet bowl, I awoke to a new world.
The first thing I saw when I turned on the television was my own face, a standard pose from my files.
So I turned off the set.
The local paper published the entire 'packet' of 'unclassified military documents', but focused, of course, on the SGC. Was it a hoax? Was it ethical? Was it safe? Who had jurisdiction? Who had control? Who had started it all? How would it end? I burned ever last page in my fireplace hearth, for wont of anything more interesting to do.
But there was no escape from it, of course. Nowhere to hide. The media was suddenly as much my enemy as the Gou'ald had ever been. They aimed for my heart instead of my head, spilling my life story rather than my guts. I refused to read or watch any of it, but sticking my head in the sand was as ineffectual for me as it was for the poor ostrich. The entire world was suddenly ablaze, and like any child trapped in a burning building, I crept into a cool, dark corner and waited for the fumes to overwhelm me.
Somehow, my address - which was not part of the deal - was leaked, and my phone number and email as well. Calmly, I cancelled my Internet hookup, because the online world was nothing more than a virtual cesspool of Stargate sensationalism. Less calmly, I unplugged my phones from the wall, ignoring the clamor of reporters swarming in my front yard. Then I went and sat in the master closet for a while, because it was the largest windowless room in the house.
Maybe I went a little crazy. Maybe I went a lot crazy, cut off as I was from everything that had made up my life for so long. I felt utterly trapped, trapped on the planet, trapped in my own body, trapped HERE. Cut off from Sam. Cut off from the only method I had of locating her. With every day that passed, she seemed further and further away, less real, more unreachable until she was just... gone. Lost to me. Not that I'd ever HAD her, of course. I hadn't seen her in more than a year, and the last day I'd set eyes on her I'd been rough and crude and intentionally, gleefully nasty.
The visions I'd had? The unflagging sense that she was okay? Eventually, it flagged. I received no premonitions of her at all during those solitary weeks, and even the painfully vivid night I'd spent with her transformed from a holy visitation to just one more lurid fantasy in which my former second-in-command played the staring role. I must have looked like an idiot to Daniel, and Janet.
The magic was gone, the esotericism was gone, and all I could see was Frasier's amused expression as she described Julie Piper's love of science fiction. Why had I listened to the intern, anyway? What had I been thinking, to open myself up for such disappointment, to venture in a direction I usually let others venture in, and scoff as they did so? Telepathy indeed. Was I really so clingy and weak-minded that I couldn't accept the probable truth: Sam had died on that planet, Martouf had lied to me about helping her to get me to leave, and then had been murdered himself before he had the change to follow.
My dazed reverie was broken again late one evening, as I stared out one of the back windows, not seeing the multihued sunset or the calming cadence of swaying tree limbs, seeing only the hateful world, the staring eyes and gaping mouths. A couple of bright-eyed , bushy-tailed reporters still had it in their heads that I would break, and that they should be present when I did. They camped out in my driveway, setting up a miniature village of monstrous vans.
When the doorbell rang, I automatically assumed it was one of them, making a last-ditch effort to speak with me before heading back to whatever city they came from, back where they could get some work done, and I didn't bat an eyelash. But then there was a knock at the door, and then another, and another, in a sufficiently annoying rhythm that I knew it could only be Daniel.
Moving slowly, as though in a dream, I crossed the room and unlocked the door, hanging back in the shadows so the zealous cameras couldn't even catch a glimpse of me. Daniel opened the door only a few inches before slipping through, respecting my privacy in that small way even as he blinked in the dim lighting. He closed the door, and we remained there, in the dark entryway, regarding each other warily, like strangers, or worse, like enemies.
"You're alive," he said lightly after an equally heavy pause. "Good to know. Some of the reporters out there were afraid you might have killed yourself."
"Thought about it," I said mildly, just to see the shocked look on his face. It was a lie; I'd never given a thought about suicide, not even in those dark hours in my closet. It wasn't me, not anymore. I'd been now that path, found it ill-omened, and vowed never to return. Besides, Sam would be so displeased.
"You wouldn't," said Daniel haltingly, probably kicking himself for not coming sooner.
"Naw, you're right," I assured him.
We walked back into the living room, where it seemed I'd done very little living lately. It was perfectly dark and silent: no glowing screens, no muttering radios, nothing to remind me of how everything had changed for us. When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the rather concerned expression on Daniel's face, but refused to soften. If he was so damn worried about me, why was this the first time he or anyone else had stopped by? Too busy being famous?
"They're shutting us down, Jack."
The words echoed madly in my head. "Yeah. I figured they would."
Sullenly, I returned to my window-facing recliner and the faithful beer on the table beside it.
"There's public opinion to consider now," Daniel continued soberly, as though trying to convince me of something. "And public opinion is now that we've crippled the Gou'ald, we should stop... provoking them."
"They'll be back," I said tiredly. "They're COMING back, as we speak."
"You know that, and I know that, and they ARE letting us stay open until we get rid of the scouts..." he fidgeted. "They've gotten a lot of things wrong. Or... off. People think we've won. That there's nothing else to be afraid of because why would the Gou'ald keep sending ships; why would they keep fighting us if we're not fighting them? No one understands the Gou'ald, how they think, like we do. They figure this whole Andromeda battle was some great, grand victory."
"Andromeda battle?"
Danny shrugged weakly. "They think Andromeda - M31 - was mentioned in the reports because in the satellite pictures, the convoy was kind of... framed by the constellation." Again he shrugged, as though it was not so much an expression of uncertainly any longer, but an uncontrollable spasming. "They're extremely suspicious of the three refugees we took in... the media keeps calling them 'representatives'. They're pretty distrustful of the Tok'ra altogether," he added reluctantly, waiting for me to leap to my feet, triumphant that the newspapers and news programs were on my side. I remained stoic and seated. "For some reason, they're just crazy about Teal'c, and as for the rest of us... everyone's just really curious."
"They can keep being curious," I snapped. "I'm not selling out."
Daniel blinked, and let his jaw drop open a bit. "Selling... you think we're selling out?"
"Are you?"
"People want to know about the SGC, Jack. They're interested in it, extremely interested, and I can't blame them. What we don't tell them, what we don't set straight, they'll just make up. All they have is statistics and reports, and you can make those say pretty much anything you want them to."
I slammed down my can so hard that beer splashed back on the tabletop. "How much do they pay you per interview?" I asked spitefully.
Still standing, he stared at me with open antipathy. "Why are you being like this, Jack?"
I looked away, deadly afraid that if I kept eye contact it would spill loose, all of it, all the pent-up emotion and locked-away thoughts. "Shutting us down," I muttered. Closing us down, effectively ending one of the most exciting and wonderful chapters of my life. Damn public, unknowing, misunderstanding. Damn President, caving into public pressure, worrying about politics instead of people. Damn Kinsey, even though he was dead, even if he'd actually thought he'd been doing the right thing. How dare they do this to me? How dare they rip away the one potential connection I had to Sam?
I paused, ignoring Daniel, and deliberated my jumbled, half-witted reflections, the ones I'd come to terms with so painfully. There WAS no potential connection, was there? Nothing, not even a piece of technology as marvelous as the Stargate, could bridge the gap between the living and the dead.
I was vaguely cognizant of fading off into unresponsiveness, of depression creeping in on the edges of my vision, and of Daniel, looking overwrought, storming out of the house. I simply sat there in the dark living room, mulling over this torturous realization, strains of music wafting in on a breeze through a cracked window. Judging by the direction, it was coming from the press caravan out front: someone either trying to entertain themselves via the stereo... or trying to get a rise out of me.
"I hear a voice in my mind
I know her face by heart
Heaven and earth are moving in my soul
I don't know where to start
Tell me, tell me, the words to define
The way I feel about someone so fine"
I closed my eyes.
"How do you talk to an angel
How do you hold her close to where you are
How do you talk to an angel
It's like trying to catch a falling star"
The moisture on my cheeks was surprising, to say the least, and my first, automatic wonder was when it had started raining indoors. Surely I wasn't crying. I couldn't be crying... I never cried. I acted. I fought. I yelled. I threw tantrums and I went into despondency. But crying signified a wealth of emotion, real, honest, human emotion, that I simply denied.
"At night I dream that she is there
And I can feel her in the air
Tell me, tell me, the words to define
The way I feel about someone so fine."
It felt so GOOD, though: the hot wetness sliding silently down my face, my head aching, my chest burning, my skin on fire. There was something right about this... but what was THIS? Letting it all out? Giving myself release? Or was the right part the part when I had finally admitted to myself that I could be wrong. I could have been totally off about Sam all this time, despite the certainty, despite the weird, NON-telepathic connection I had with her. I could be wrong. She could be dead.
"How do you talk to an angel
How do you hold her close to where you are
How do you talk to an angel
It's like trying to catch a falling star.
How do you talk to an angel
How do you hold her close to where you are
How do you talk to an angel
It's like trying to catch a falling star."
* * * * *
Coming soon... The Affliction
The more feedback I get, the more inclined my Muse is to get to the good stuff...
Story Notes: Title: The Act
Author: Alli (alli@ecis.com)
Rating: PG
Category: Future story, SJR, angst
Music: "How Do You Talk To An Angel" by The Heights used without permission
Spoilers: Tok'ra I & II, Into the Fire, Jolinar's Memories/The Devil You Know
Archive: SJA and Heliopolis
The Andromeda Series
1. The Assignment
2. The Aide
3. The Afterglow
4. The Arising
5. The Allusion
6. The Attack
7. The Accident
8. The Anger
9. The Alien
10. The Archeologist
11. The Absence
12. The Advance
13. The Adversary
14. The Ability
15. The Allies
16. The Aberration
17. The Ardor
18. The Act
Author: Alli (alli@ecis.com)
Rating: PG
Category: Future story, SJR, angst
Music: "How Do You Talk To An Angel" by The Heights used without permission
Spoilers: Tok'ra I & II, Into the Fire, Jolinar's Memories/The Devil You Know
Archive: SJA and Heliopolis
The Andromeda Series
1. The Assignment
2. The Aide
3. The Afterglow
4. The Arising
5. The Allusion
6. The Attack
7. The Accident
8. The Anger
9. The Alien
10. The Archeologist
11. The Absence
12. The Advance
13. The Adversary
14. The Ability
15. The Allies
16. The Aberration
17. The Ardor
18. The Act
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc, are the property of their respective owners. Any original characters and plots are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. ... [ read more ]