A note to the reader: though I am not strictly a Stargate Atlantis fan, I have several good friends that are, and their devotion, aided by my watching several episodes with them, intrigued me enough to give me the idea of writing the following story. Because of this, please excuse me if I make any blatant errors because I am not as familiar with the series as some are.

Possession, A Fanfic, sort-of

Dedicated to the many loyal viewers of Stargate: Atlantis and another popular production.

I.

Ye fervent ones, I beg thy leave

Thy fandom to assail

And, for my ignorance, reprieve

In telling this, my tale.

Young Beckett was a doctor bright,

Fair Scotland was his land,

But yet Atlantis in his sight

Was nearer e'en at hand.

One eve to studies he applied

With all Physician's art

Then looking up, he soon espied

What nearly stopped his heart!

He saw a misty form appear,

A man it soon became,

But not a sort to comfort fear,

Or give to hope a claim.

He wore a wig of powdered grey,

(Much money he had spent) (1)

And was, as best as I could say,

A well-dressed Georgian gent.

A cruel smile crossed his face

"Where have you been, my son?"

"'Tis taken years to finally trace"

"This place where you have run!"

"You seem surprised! Pray, can it be"

"I'm spoken of no more?"

"I am Lord Beckett, sir, you see,"

"Your revered ancestor!"

"So I'm an ENGLISHMAN!? Alas!"

So saddened Carson wailed,

And felt that for his Scottish class

He suddenly had failed.

"So have you come but to torment?"

"Or some wrong to avenge?"

"Yes- (said the other) I am bent"

"On having my revenge!"

"It mattered not where you had gone

"Before the fatal day"

When I found that the heir of Swann"

"Was your teammate, McKay!" (2)

In utter horror Carson cried

"What will you do to him?"

"Why nothing!" his forebear replied,

"For that's where you come in!"

II.

Meanwhile the hapless scientist

Was sound asleep in bed,

No premonitions on him pressed,

Nor was there sense of dread.

In stole the Becketts, though it looked

That only Carson came,

For he had his control forsook

---the other held the rein.

So silently up to the bed

They crept, gun held on high,

And to the hapless Canuck said

"Sirrah (3), prepare to die!"

Praise ye, technology, a task,

Of which I seldom sing---

Lord Beckett soon was forced to ask

"How do you fire this thing?!"

McKay awoke and then perceived

How perilous his way

But though he for his comrade grieved,

He swiftly ran away.

He soon was followed with great haste,

His heart was filled with dread,

For Beckett took his gun (a waste!)

And chucked it at his head.

Down, down then went his 'lawful prey'

Collapsing in a heap,

With such a sad view on display,

I cannot help but weep!

"What is this!" fearsome Ronon barked

Approaching on the site,

As Carson, pleased to hit his mark

Went to destroy him quite.

A single thump the Scot brought low,

A-sprawling on the ground,

When he'd recovered from the blow

He was himself, he found.

McKay he begged forgiveness from

Which grudgingly he gave,

Though every day alluding some

To his near-early grave.

Where went Lord Beckett then, you ask?

He found a better host,

Whom he could even better task

And even prouder boast.

So if you go to Pegasus,

I warn you now, by Faith!

Though otherwise, do as you must-

Beware the British Wraith!

1.In the Eighteenth Century, a wig was one of the most expensive parts of a gentleman's wardrobe.

2.Because technically Elizabeth and Will Turner were not legally married, several of their descendents chose to keep their Mother's maiden name.

3.Obsolete term used to address a social inferior.