O'Neill's Bait Shop
part one

Thankfully, I don't remember a thing.

I don't remember being lifted and placed in the isolation chamber again. I don't remember the stifling sense of claustrophobia I endured, which by the way is so totally unfair to inflict on a semi-conscious man, helpless and enclosed as if in a plastic coffin ... or one of those damned Goa'uld sarcophogi.

And I also don't remember the slick touch of the symbiote as it glided past my lips, or the tearing bite in the back of my throat and the writhing and rough skin of the thing as it wormed its way inside my head, laying up next to my brain like a spawning salmon. I don't remember it at all, so don't ask.

Because if I did remember any of these things, it might piss me off royally.

Okay, I can act like an idiot at SGC and get most people to halfway believe it. Heck, sometimes even I believe it. I can't fool myself now.

Yes, I remember it. Every moment since Carter woke me up and talked me into this. If I had the strength I might kick my way out of this coffin and take it all back, tell Carter no way, no deal, no thank you very much. I don't want one of those damn things poking around in my mind again. There's little enough room in here for me and my memories.

How? How on earth could I have agreed to this? Fear of death, sense of duty, pity for Carter ... she begged me to do this. She had to know how I'd feel about it, that I'd rather be dead than have a snake in my head-- and yet she asked, pleaded, and pinned me with those blue eyes that I can see even now in against the red-shot darkness of closed eyes.

I suppose it doesn't matter now; it's done.

But ... God damn it!

The alternating waves of heat and cold fade swiftly, and I am left feeling weak but alive. I can't see, can't open my eyes though I keep trying. I am not in control any more. I am no longer alone in here.

"He fights." The husky, reedy sound of a Tok'ra voice. I can hear it clearly, can tell that the speaker is standing very near, above my head and to the left; if I could move my arms, I could touch them. "I have never seen one struggle so fiercely. Perhaps it is too late after all. We should halt the blending."

Yes! Stop it! I don't want a bait shop in my head!

"Kanan did not think so. We must give them some more time." Selmak's voice? That means that Jacob is here. Why won't he stop this? Why can't he hear me? Jacob! I don't want this any more!

Someone is twisting a filet knife in the base of my skull. Suddenly I can smell so many things, and my stomach jumps sickeningly. I am glad I can't move, or I would have rolled off of this slab and vomited on some Tok'ra's shoes. I can smell a snake, smell the pungent fluid that the symbiote are preserved in. I can also smell stone and water, sweat, musky odors of living things, sharp bitter clinical smells, too.

Okay, this officially sucks. I can't move, can't see, can't speak, and now I can't sleep. I feel as if I've been wadded up and shoved in a closet, the door closed on me despite my screams against the dark. Don't shut me in here! There's a snake in here, too.

But they can't hear me.

If I ever get out of this one, I swear to God that I'll eat a bullet before enduring this again.

Someone opens my eyes, but I know it isn't me. This is wrong on – oh! so many levels! God damn it, and God help me!