Oberoth's Lie
by Bil!

Summary: Just because the Keller Replicator believed it doesn't make it true. Elizabeth, Oberoth, and a battle of wills. Major This Mortal Coil spoilers. Oneshot.

Season: Four.

Spoilers: This Mortal Coil, general Replicator episodes (Lifeline, Progeny...).

Disclaimer: Not mine. I wouldn't have killed her.

A/N: Unbetaed. I wrote the first draft of this in the half hour after seeing This Mortal Coil. Simple reason: I didn't want to believe Elizabeth was dead. So I'm happily living in denial; it's a friendly sort of place and I quite like it here :)

Side note: Layith is the name I have given, for no particular reason, to the Replicator who impersonated Keller in This Mortal Coil.

Oberoth's Lie

"Elizabeth Weir is dead."

She heard Oberoth relate the news through the Replicators' communication link. She saw Replicators take the body to be disposed of. She knew that one day the news would find its way to Atlantis, that the Atlanteans would mourn and grieve before going on with their lives.

Alone in her cell, Elizabeth sank down onto the floor and surrendered to tears of hopelessness.

Oberoth watched with satisfaction as the mock corpse was removed from the room. None of the other Asurans would choose to test the truth of his announcement, though it wouldn't matter even if they did. He had created the corpse himself and it was a perfect replica of Doctor Weir except for just one small, undetectable detail: it had never been alive. And it never would be. It would be broken down into its component materials and used in any number of projects so that soon there would be nothing left of it but memories.

Leaving him as the only one to know it had been a fake. Leaving Doctor Weir completely in his control.

Just how he wanted it.

Oberoth hadn't gained leadership of the Asurans by being weak or foolish, nor by ignoring what was going on around him. He knew that there were factions within his people who might choose to oppose him, sentimental fools intent on gaining ascension who might even go to the Atlantis upstarts for support and could think to use Doctor Weir as a bargaining chip or even a rallying point. And he also knew that some of the conservatives were growing increasingly opposed to her continued survival because she was a disruptive influence – and some had never liked the idea of including her in their collective in the first place. As such, she was a potential threat to his position and had to be disposed of.

But she fascinated him. One frail little human who could resist his will, who could disrupt the linkage of millions of Asurans all by herself. Weak, yet strong. Inferior, yet refusing to submit to her limitations. The personification of the Creators' favoured children, the personification of everything he hated. Oberoth wasn't ready to lose her.

So he cut her off from the group link and pretended he had killed her. The smug knowledge of his masterful plan sat at the back of his mind as he went about the other duties of the day: organising the annihilation of the human worlds, considering tactics to counter the Wraith attacks, making sure the great, vast empire of the connection of Asuran consciousnesses continued to run smoothly.

Already he could see the benefits of his plan. There were no more of her disruptions to the group link, no more of the petty annoyances that were so small, so impossible to defend against in advance, yet added up to significant problems. It was a wonder that such a primitive little creature could cause so much trouble. In order to avoid alarming the conservatives Oberoth had managed to explain away the problems to the other Asurans as difficulties caused by Doctor Weir's injury, but he knew the truth. This human, this tiny, insignificant little insect, had a singular gift for chaos and discord that could perturb even the great might of the Asuran collective.

It would have been a pity to squash such a remarkable creature before he had had a chance to dissect her.

Pretending to kill her had been the right choice. He could continue to study her at his leisure, but the conservatives had been silenced and the radicals had lost a rallying point for their ridiculous experimentations with ascension. In fact, he rather thought he could use the radicals to take his plan one step further. Layith and her group thought they had avoided detection, but Oberoth had never intended to wipe out all the known dissidents in one blow. He knew the value of patience and had been waiting to see if he could use them, and now he rather thought he could.

Let them build their fake Atlantis, let them create their little duplicates of the Atlanteans. It would keep them occupied and he could easily find them in time to prevent anything getting out of hand. Meanwhile, he could turn their sentimentality to a purpose. It was entirely possible that some of these radicals would indeed choose to join forces with the Atlantean upstarts as Niam had tried, and in this way the news of Doctor Weir's demise would carry far beyond the Homeworld. It would reach Atlantis, holding the ring of truth that came from words spoken in genuine belief, and then there would be no rescue attempts.

That was what Oberoth wanted. No rescue attempts, no dithering conservatives complaining, just complete freedom to study this strange, inexplicable specimen who was strong where she should be weak and fragile where she should be unbreakable.

If he could understand her then he could understand all humans. He could learn their weaknesses (so many weaknesses) and how best to destroy them. He could learn whatever skill it was that had made the Creators love them above his kind and he could emulate it. Emulate it and prove decisively that the Asurans were far superior to these scrabbling, pathetic humans.

And in the meantime, she would serve as the one upon whom he could wreak revenge for all the wrongs of her kind.

Oberoth smiled.

He left her alone for five solar days; no contact, no food, nothing except for the news he had made sure she heard and the sight he had made sure she saw: her own death. Let her contemplate just how securely she was in his power, how contemptible her attempts at sabotage had been. How futile her existence was.

She had defied him, thwarted him, fought him. Now who was the victor?

When he felt she had had time enough to assimilate the hopelessness of her situation, he slid himself out of the group link, leaving only a faint tendril of communication to alert him to emergencies, and went to the small, secret room that held his prisoner.

Doctor Weir sat in the corner of the cell, slumped against the wall with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her legs, looking small and fragile. The face she lifted weakly at his entrance was pale, her eyes red and underlined with black smudges, and there was a bleakness in her expression that pleased him. What didn't please him was the spark of defiance lingering in her narrowed eyes as she squinted against the sudden influx of light.

What would it take for her to admit her inferiority? Surely by now he had proved the impossibility of her being anything more than a temporary annoyance. She was impressive for her species but still entirely limited by what she was. When would she accept that she was a flawed, wretched being and his kind would forever be far superior to hers?

Oberoth didn't show his annoyance, of course. She was an insignificant creature, unworthy of any irritation on his part. He certainly wouldn't give her the satisfaction of believing she troubled him, for she didn't. All she was to him was a curiosity.

"Doctor Weir," he said urbanely. "I trust you have had time to think since we last met."

She glared at him, chin lifting in ridiculous defiance. What would it take to make her realise her position? How was it she was still recalcitrant when by all his calculations she should be breaking down? What was wrong with the woman?

"Do you understand what I've done?" he asked condescendingly. Perhaps her species' intelligence was even lower than he'd previously rated it. "I've killed you. You no longer exist... Except to me."

"And to me." Her voice was hoarse and thin; he had to keep her alive but there was no reason for him to pander to her feeble physical needs. Biological beings were so weak, so easily damaged. Even the nanites in her body couldn't make her strong.

"Do you really think you are of any importance?" he asked patronisingly. "You belong to me now."

She shook her head weakly and leant her cheek tiredly on her knee. "Belong to myself," she mumbled.

"No," he said, smug in his certainty. "You are mine to do with as I please. My fellow Asurans believe you dead and soon enough all of this galaxy – or at least the parts of it which matter to you – will believe the same. There will be no rescue, no escape. You live merely because I will it." Death was a strange thing to Oberoth, for he himself would not die; he was a part of the Asuran collective and the death of his body was not the death of his self. Only one more reason why these humans were so absurd. "Should I choose it to be so," he told her, pleased with his own mastery of the situation, of her, "your death will no longer be a lie. You are completely within my power."

She laughed weakly. She actually laughed, laughed at him when he controlled her very life, when he was superior to her in every way. "You think I'm afraid to die?" she asked incredulously. "You think after all this time I would even mind? Go ahead, kill me. See if I care."

"At a time of my choosing," he said coldly. "Do not delude yourself, Doctor Weir; you are indeed completely under my control."

"Go to hell," she said and coughed dryly.

"I won't," he said with comfortable conviction. "But you are already there."

He stepped forward and bent down to take her by the arm and haul her, unresisting, to her feet. When he let her go she swayed and would have fallen without him catching her and holding her up. Her weakness irritated him, but he quelled the annoyance and thrust his free hand into her forehead, shredding through her mind to see what effect these latest tactics had had on her.

She made no overt attempt to withstand his attack: instead she offered him a range of crude and vile suggestions that made him very glad not to be a biological being. They truly were disgusting creatures. Unfortunately her flood of suggestions also made a very effective shield to her mind and he gained only one small glimpse of a memory of hopeless despair and had to be satisfied with that. Really, the woman was ridiculously resourceful.

He pulled out of her mind and let her go. Without his support she crumpled down onto the floor, sprawling in an ungainly heap at his feet, her eyes half open and staring up at him from amid a sea of tangled curls.

"You will break, Doctor Weir," he told her. "It is only a matter of time."

She made no reply, just stared up at him like a sullen statue, and Oberoth felt almost shaken by the impression that a mocking smile coiled half-seen in the curve of her lips. Mocking, at a time like this? Perhaps he would never be able to understand her.

"I will break you," he promised and turned away from that unblinking stare. He dropped the food he'd brought her onto the floor and walked with unhurried stateliness from the room, displaying in every line of his body the contempt he felt for her.

But he couldn't help a faint chill in his nanites at the thought of that ghostly smile.

Elizabeth didn't move after the door had shut behind Oberoth's supercilious form, because none of the weakness she had shown him had been feigned. Even nanites could only sustain her so far on the meagre rations of food Oberoth felt necessary for her survival. But her weakness wasn't merely physical, for Oberoth was right: she was in his power, she was helpless – and with his charade the chances of her rescue were nil. Without outside help she could never escape this place... so she would never escape this place.

She hated him.

It was rare that Elizabeth let herself descend so far as to truly hate somebody, but she hated Oberoth; weakly, helplessly, but firmly. She hated him for what he'd done to her and she hated him for what he was doing to her friends. The people who'd stood by her for three years, fought alongside her – and now would grieve for her. But her hate was a weak, pathetic thing because she didn't have the energy for it. Too little food, too long in a cell, too many attacks on her mind. Hate needed strength and she had none left.

She didn't know where she'd found the strength to defy him just now – it hadn't been on purpose. Her defiance had been completely automatic: Never back down, never show weakness, and never give the opponent a chance to attack. Her life of diplomacy had been spent in constant mental battles like that and she'd forgotten how to stop fighting.

There was no point in fighting, though. Oberoth had won and he knew it. It was inevitable he would break her, for he wanted it badly, he had a free hand now, and no one could be strong forever. There was nothing she could do. Nothing.

For hours, then, she drowned in despair. There was no rage left to her, none of the passionate defiance that had sustained her through the early stages of her imprisonment. Those things were for when there was hope, some burning hope that sparked a bright flame. There was no hope here.

But even despair couldn't be maintained forever and eventually it ebbed away, leaving her empty and hollow. Mechanically, more for something to do than anything else, Elizabeth pulled herself upright and carefully ate the scant food that Oberoth had left, trying not to let her empty stomach rebel against the unaccustomed meal.

As she ate, filling the hollowness of her stomach if not of her soul, something flowed into her that wasn't strength but might pass for strength for a little while if she didn't examine it too closely. Because maybe the universe thought she was dead, maybe there was no one left to help her, but she was still alive. She had life left to her even if she had nothing else and where there was life there was opportunity. Okay, so she didn't have a chance of escaping, but she could at least make things as difficult as possible for Oberoth. After all, he'd underestimated her before; perhaps he'd do so again.

And who knew, maybe there was some faint chance that she would find her way out of even this place. Since coming to Atlantis, Elizabeth had learnt to believe in miracles.

Fin