Shaking fingers clamped on Styrofoam, almost too tight.

"Easy, now." Janet guided the cup of coffee to Liz's mouth. Trembling. Heart-rate up. Adrenaline saturating her system. At least it was decaf.

"I shot him eight times," shivered out from between tight-pressed lips. "Point blank."

"And he was still moving?"

Janet shot a death-glare at the Colonel. Jack shrugged, arms crossed as he propped up the Infirmary wall.

"He kept coming," Liz whispered. Brown eyes couldn't stop moving, dissecting every shadow. Shock. Post-traumatic stress?

"Must have been wearing Kevlar." Tony Wexler, leader of SG-5, packed grimness into every word. One hand rubbed soothingly at a tense shoulder; Liz kept scanning the corners of the room.

A new voice managed to draw her attention, but only for a minute. "How did you get away?" Daniel was there too, looking out for members of the scientific side of the SGC, military or civilian.

"Shots must have stunned him. I ran to my neighbor's house," Liz gulped at the coffee. Sucked in a deep breath, and brought her eyes up to meet General Hammond's. "I saw him leave, sir. I watched from the window, and he just stepped outside the door and walked down the street. By the time the police arrived, he was gone."

"And you didn't get a good look at him," Jack stepped forward.

"No, sir. He'd thrown some of the fuses and cut off power – the whole house was dark. Except the basement." The last word wavered, and Janet took in slumped posture and clenched hands. All right. No more. "That's enough for now. General, Private Cunningham needs to rest."

Hammond dipped his head in a nod, giving Liz's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Colonel."

"Liz?" Janet gently tucked a warm blanket around tense shoulders. "Do you need anything?"

"His eyes," she said suddenly. Blinking, Liz seemed to see the Infirmary for the first time. She straightened, fingers winding into heated wool. "His eyes glowed."

Everyone froze.

Goa'uld.

One look at the General told her that there was no way she would be able to make them leave now, not until Private Cunningham had reported in full.

"Private." Jack's voice now reminded her of the 'Charlie' incident – low and gentle. Careful. "We need to know everything that happened last night."

That got a blink and a nod. Thousand-yard stare is fading. Janet knew a little about psychology, enough to know that talking this out would help. Not enough to know if it might be better to wait.

Another scalding sip went down; Liz licked her lips briefly. "I got home around seven. A little later than normal, but nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't notice anything wrong when I went into my house – no doors unlocked, windows open, no signs that anyone had broken in. I made a cup of tea, and went to sit in the living room to watch the news."

"What happened then?" Janet rubbed blanket-covered shoulders, easing the warmth from heated wool deeper into muscle and bone. One shifted under her grip.

"I – I don't really remember much. Except – cloth, over my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe – and there was a sweet, sick smell."

"Chloroform," Janet murmured, catching the archaeologist's wince. Daniel exchanged a speaking glance with Colonel O'Neill.

General Hammond nodded, face tight and fists clenched out of Cunningham's sight.

Every line of Tony Wexler's body was tense. "And when you woke up you were in the basement."

Auburn strands nodded. "I managed to get free -"

"How?" Daniel, gently probing.

"A dislocated thumb," Janet answered, indicating one gently bandaged hand where it rested in Liz's lap.

"And get upstairs. I keep a Beretta in my bedside table – I didn't know if I should go for the gun, or the door -" Heaving breaths interrupted the uneven flow of words.

Janet stepped between Liz and the Colonel, easing her head between her knees for a moment and murmuring soothing nonsense. Ribs expanded and contracted under her palm; Wexler was squeezing one shoulder. "C'mon, now, Cunningham. It's okay, Liz. Hey, remember that time on P3M-164? And the crazy natives?"

Strangled laughter, but it seemed to help. "That's what I told myself," Liz managed through a gasp. Janet slid two fingers onto her wrist, silently counting. Elevated, but easing.

"Yeah, well, nothing like a few spear-happy guys running around in their altogether to put a little Earth-side action into perspective, hey?"

The nod was shakier, this time, but it was still there.

"What happened next?" Colonel O'Neill, playing bad cop.

"I – I went for the gun," Liz gulped at the cooling coffee. "I got it, I was going for the door – and he was there. He – he called me Lizzie. Wasn't afraid of the gun. He laughed at me."

Daniel again, soft. "What did you do?"

Viciousness lit a gleam in brown eyes. "I shot him," she said fiercely. "And then I ran for the door. He – he caught me before I could get it open. Thought he was wearing a vest. And he said, he said, 'Bullets, Lizzie? That wasn't very kind' – and then his eyes glowed."

"But you didn't see a ribbon device?" Jack leant over, making eye contact. Intent. "A personal shield?"

"No. I – I emptied the clip into him before he could say anything."

So no intel on who the symbiote was. Which meant that this debrief was over. Dr. Frasier took control of the situation once more; she would have one of the nurses in here in a moment to take Liz's vitals more formally. "Did you talk to the police already?"

Another nod.

Janet kept the frown off her face. Out of shock, but withdrawn. Emotional and mental trauma. Which meant counseling. After the disaster with Daniel's misdiagnosis, however, SGC personnel were extremely leery when it came to MacKenzie.

Jack followed the General out; Daniel murmured a few words to Liz and managed to wring a tiny smile loose. Wexler planted himself firmly in a plastic chair, leveling a look straight at her – one that said just-try-and-make-me.

"You can stay, Major," Janet met that gimlet stare with one of her own. "But you will be quiet, understand? No questions."

"Yes, Doctor."

No SG team leader was ever meek. One red-brown brow hiked challengingly. "Upset her, and you're out."

Wexler nodded back.

Good enough for now.

"Here's probably good."

Dean eased the Impala against the sidewalk's curb, taking care not to block any of her doors with a tree. Took a good look around, since they had skirted the Colorado Springs city center and ended up in the suburbs. "Huh."

"Upper middle class," was Sam's contribution.

"You got the list of victims?"

"Yeah." Sam's voice turned serious, reading off the names. "Stephanie Torres, twenty nine, secretary. JR King, worked in IT, twenty-four years old. Lynette Garland, analyst, thirty-five. And the last; Victor Dutienne, thirty, a duplicating assistant."

"A what?"

Sam grimaced. "Copyboy. Y'know, Xeroxing. Not the most stimulating job out there."

That sucks out loud. "Damn."

"Still. All single, kept in reasonable contact with their families, no trouble with the law. And they all have one other thing in common." His brother's hair was so long it flopped into blue-green eyes, but Dean could read his face easily enough. Now what's wrong? "They worked in or for the military base."

Dean reached for the door. "We go where the weird is, Sammy." Only it doesn't usually seem to go for noticeable targets. Like the government. "Still. That's one hell of a connection."

"Yeah." His brother unfolded himself from the passenger seat, door opening with a creeeak.

Gotta oil the hinges, Dean reminded himself. The doors sucked up WD40 like the engine guzzled gas. And cue the frown. Not much of a one, but the little line between Sam's brows was easy enough to decipher, even half-hidden by hair. "Sam. What?"

"Colorado Springs is a military town, Dean. I mean, NORAD is under Cheyenne Mountain." His brother's body was tight with anxiety under two layers of shirts, shoulders hunched and fingers dug deep into pockets. "If we screw up here . . ."

NORAD. It'll bring Henrickson like a moth to flame, and he'll get whatever help he needs to keep chasing us. "We can't just let it go on killing, Sammy." They really had no kind of a choice, here.

Frustration leaked from the taller man in a groan. "I know, Dean. But -"

But years of flying under the radar won't mean anything. Can't hunt evil from jail. "Dude, chill. I get it." A thought slithered past him; Dean let the manicured bushes in his view go unfocused as he tried to catch it. Wait. Did he say – "Cheyenne Mountain?"

Butt planted against the front fender, Sam looked up. "Yeah. What?"

Gone. Sonuva – Dean shook his head. "Nothin'. Who we visiting first?"

"Stephanie Torres," Sam leant through the window, digging into the glovebox for IDs. "Secretary." His younger brother's shaggy mop tilted toward a small, neatly-kept two-story across the street.

White paint, two-car garage, and flowers. Couldn't get any more friggin' normal if there was a picket fence. Normal, and ignorant – until something had crept in and killed her. "House should be empty." Black casing peeked out of his duffle; Dean tucked the EMF meter into a deep pocket.

"Neighbors," Sam's reply was muffled; his head was still in the Impala as he dug around in the dashboard.

"It's the middle of the day, Sam. They're probably at work." Dean still tucked the false license in his wallet; it would make it more plausible if the neighbors found Dean Roberts, fact-checker for CNN, than a cop on the Colorado Springs force, poking around a month-old crime scene. "C'mon."

Two pairs of boots hit grass instead of the bricked walkway up to the front door. Around back, luck smiled on them in the form of a recessed entry, protected from the neighbors' windows. Dean eased two picks into the lock, feeling for tumblers and tweaking each into place. Sweet.

"She was found tied in the basement," Sam used one gloved hand to ease white-painted wood open. "Same for the others. Cops think they have a serial killer on the loose."

Just like St. Louis. Great. Dean pulled out his gun. Just in case.

A quick sweep showed the house was clear of people, and that Torres' belongings had been completely cleaned out. Damn. "Figure we'll find anything?" They wouldn't, but Sam didn't like wasting time any more than Dean did. Stood to reason he'd seen something in one of the reports that set him off.

"I was wondering." Sam reached for a knob, revealing a black, empty space and descending stairs when it swung open. Rooting through baggy sweatshirt pockets, his little brother came up with a flashlight.

Click.

Eyes on the stairs, Dean's handgun led the way.

"All the victims were found in the basement. None of the neighbors saw anyone suspicious around the houses in the week or more before Torres died; same for the others."

"Dude, just because no one sees it doesn't mean there isn't something there." Boots smacked concrete dully; Dean reached for dangling string. One pull, and light flooded the basement.

"None of the other switches in the house worked," Sam frowned. The flashlight beam laid bare the corners and spidery hole under the stairs; Dean moved to the breakers.

That explains it. "Someone pulled the fuses." Bare metal scraped against seeking fingers; the older Winchester's lips pursed. "And cut the wires. Whatever it was, it didn't take any chances."

Blue glowed faintly, shining from behind him. Sam had pulled out the blacklight. "Afraid of the light?"

No. Didn't make sense. Dean shook his head. "Then why would it keep its victims here, in the light?"

Sam hmmmed, the blue glow busily shifting up and down. Dean tucked the handgun within easy reach, and pulled the EMF-meter free of his pocket. It slowly came to life in his hand, but he didn't read anything beyond a constant low-level emission, easily explained by the juice running through wires powering the deserted house. "Got anything?"

"No," and the blue light clicked off.

Victims in the light. Rest of the house dark . . . "Didn't the neighbors notice if it looked like Torres didn't come home?"

"Huh?"

Dean shrugged, poking the EMF-meter into the crawlspace under creaky steps. "Torres had a routine, right? For the thing to be able to track her. Single, so not hookin' up with anyone. Comes home at the same time every night, and she needs lights. Wouldn't the neighbors notice the house was dark?"

Sam grabbed the thread of idea, and ran with it. "Unless she did come home, and go through her routine."

"And it waited until she was asleep to grab her."

"Or at least until it could pretend she was asleep." Sam circled the small space behind him. "But why pull the lights?"

Dean had come up with dust and not much else. He gave the flashlight a considering glance. "People are afraid of the dark, Sammy."

Under floppy bangs, green-blue eyes went distant, chasing a thought. "Yeah."

Gamma shielding requires increased density. Atoms packed tightly. Should correspond to increased physical density, but –

"What've you got?"

Sam blinked, looking up from her side of the shared workspace.

"Unfortunately, nothing definite." Daniel fiddled a pen between long fingers; pointed at the computer. The archaeologist had slipped into her workroom a few hours before, with a few books and a listening ear. "There are almost a dozen System Lords unaccounted-for by the Tok'ra in the time before Ra was overthrown and the Earth Stargate buried. Nergal, Erra, Tezcatlipoca, Gunab, Laima, Berstuk -"

"Yadda yadda," Jack folded his arms, settling back against the worktable scattered in equal measure with Daniel's texts and her instruments. "Got anything, Teal'c?"

The Jaffa's head tilted, unperturbed. "There are stories of the downfall of Erra, told long ago. It is said he unleashed his greatest plague on the Jaffa who served him, and in their madness they turned against him and tore him to pieces."

"I guess that takes him off the list," Sam blew out a breath.

"Plague?" Jack said, distaste in every letter.

"Erra was the Babylonian god of pestilence." Daniel tapped his pen against the leather-bound cover of one of his texts. "He and Niirti had a lot in common."

Cassie.

Sam refocused on her friend.

"My point is," the archaeologist continued, "that it could be any of these Goa'uld. If they landed on Earth or came through the Stargate unnoticed, they could still be here. Lying dormant like Isis and Osiris, hopping from host to host like Seth."

Sam winced. Just don't think about it. "And the Tok'ra don't have any more information to help us narrow the search?" She turned blue eyes to Selmac. Dad?

The Tok'ra didn't flinch. "Hundreds of System Lords have risen and been deposed in the thousands of years the Goa'uld have roamed the galaxy." BDU-covered shoulders shrugged. "Some slip through the cracks."

"A dozen?"

Selmac sighed, head dropping; her Dad looked up. "Look, I don't know what to tell you, Jack. There aren't many Tok'ra with memories that old, and we've lost track of Goa'uld in the past. It happens. Mostly when they disappeared they weren't much of a threat anyway – or likely to become one."

Teal'c's brow crept slowly toward the golden symbol on his forehead.

"But that could change," Sam frowned, fingers fiddling with a piece of flexi-glass from P5M-K58. After all, we thought Apophis was gone. "Even after five thousand years."

Look at the problems Seth had caused, when he had been supposedly dead and gone.

"If the Tok'ra could give me more information, so that I could at least narrow down the list," Daniel tried, all earnestness and determination.

Sam blinked, feeling a smile well up inside; that was nice to see. Their more recent missions hadn't been easy on any of them, but seemed to hit the archaeologist particularly hard.

Dad sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"I will assist you as well, Daniel Jackson."

"Thank you, Teal'c."

Hands linked behind his back, the fourth member of SG-1 tilted his head slightly.

Jack shifted brown eyes her way. "Carter, any luck?"

"Yes, sir." Turning to her own computer, she pulled up a few rundowns of her results. Okay, first - "Colorado Springs police reports. There have been four other victims in the last month, all of whom were killed. The medical examiner's been having trouble determining the exact time of death; it seems that he consistently finds the time of death to be about a week before the victim was last seen alive."

"Okay, that's weird," Jack folded his arms over his chest, staring at her.

But there is an explanation. "The way medical examiners determine time of death for a body found in a crime scene is to find the temperature of the corpse, and compare it to living human norm, which is ninety-eight point five degrees Farenheight. There's an equation they use, plugging in the temperature of the body at discovery against the norm, and solving for the variable, time." Thank you, Janet.

"The Goa'uld can control the host's nervous systems, and involuntary functions," Daniel rounded the table, coming to peer over her shoulder at the screen.

Which is how they inflict pain on their hosts and force them to do what they want. Sam resettled on her stool, the scientist in her intrigued. "The host's core body temperature would only have to be lowered by about three degrees for it to have a significant impact on the time-of-death equation." Just above the level where hypothermia would set in. "Is it possible for a symbiote to lower the host's body temperature that much?" She directed the question at her Dad.

For a moment he seemed to confer within himself; then Jacob frowned. "Selmac says it's possible, but difficult. And neither of us can think of a reason why a symbiote would do that."

Jack's voice was cold. "Makes it hard on the host, doesn't it?"

"Reason enough," Daniel murmured. From anyone else, it would be bitter; but her friend's voice was laced with hurt. Sha'uri.

And even though Jolinar had never tortured her, the Tok'ra had done enough just by – Stop it. She had to – there was no other way.

At least, that was what the High Council had agreed upon.

Dammit.

"Private Cunningham is the first survivor?" The Colonel's tone was matter-of-fact, but the twist of his lips betrayed assessment.

"She appears to be the only survivor, O'Neill."

Of course. Teal'c made it a point to watch the news – he probably knew more about what the media was saying than the rest of them put together. Hmm . . . the media.

"As far as we know," Daniel contributed. Brown brows hitched upward as he scanned the police report.

Sam scrolled downward, blue eyes skimming the screen. "The local news stations have been running the police's theory that a serial killer is on the loose in the area. Until now, no one has managed to escape. They haven't even released that there's been another attack." She was actually a little surprised that Cunningham wasn't already in protective custody.

Think, Sam. Cheyenne Mountain pretty much counts.

"Well." Jack's smile was wolf-like. "We wouldn't want to disrupt any official investigations."

Uneasiness curled inside her. He – he can't mean –

"Jack . . ."

"What?" Jack snapped back, the barest of edges in his tone. "What goes on in this facility is classified, Daniel."

"And Liz was attacked in her home, Jack," the archaeologist retorted, shoving his glasses up. "That's not the SGC's jurisdiction."

"Doesn't matter," the colonel waved a dismissive hand. "It was a Goa'uld. That sure as hell is our jurisdiction!"

Wait a minute.

Sam reached for the keyboard, fingers flying under the noise of the debate behind her heating up further.

"But the police have already been working on the case," Daniel argued. She couldn't see his face, but the astrophysicist could hear the strain in his voice.

"We won't stop Cunningham from talking to them. She'll just have to . . . edit her account, slightly."

Coldness seeped through her veins. C'mon, where is it -

"Is that not illegal by your country's standards, O'Neill?"

You bet it is, Teal'c.

"Private Cunningham took an oath to maintain national security when she was brought into the SGC," Jack bit out. "She has a responsibility to this facility -"

Daniel wasn't giving in. "To abide by her country's laws too, Jack."

"Same thing."

Got it! "That isn't going to work anyway," Sam interrupted, azure gaze settling on the text she'd been searching for. Thank God. "Private Cunningham already gave her statement to the police."

"Hey, check it out." Sam pushed the paper under Dean's nose.

"New victim . . ." Green scanned lines of print, and looked up in impressed surprise. "She got away."

"Yeah." Sam leant back in the too-tiny, too-stiff motel chair, and huffed a sigh. Ow. Shifted against metal slats digging into his spine, trying not to look too hard at the silver saucers flying against navy wallpaper. "Police have been keeping it pretty quiet; it hasn't hit the news yet."

"Which means we can't just waltz up and ask for an interview," Dean muttered, bed creaking under him as he sat forward. "She works in the Cheyenne Mountain base too. Looks like that's our link."

City this big, the law of averages should have someone working in the Pikes' Peak tourist trade getting targeted by now. "Except she's not administrative staff," Sam slouched, crossing jean-covered ankles. "She's in the Air Force."

For a minute, Dean was silent. Then, "Huh."

Not a that's-nice sound, one that Sam heard every-so-often when something he'd said caught Dean's attention. A look-what-I-found sound. "What?"

His brother shifted off the mattress, sparing a second to glare at the green alien heads grinning across the bedspread. "Get this – statement says that the guy's eyes glowed."

Glowed? "Not black?"

"Nope."

"Well, there goes possible possession." Which could only be good – made things simpler. You knew from the start this wasn't tied into the Demon. No visions. Sam shoved the disappointment away, replacing it with relief that at least he wouldn't have to copy the Key of Solomon again.

Dean scratched at short hair, striding to the window and settling against the wall. "Yeah. Looks like the cops wrote it off as a streetlight shining in through the windows and reflecting off his eyes."

Wait a minute . . . "But I thought the fact that the skinwalker's eyes glowed was only camera flare. You couldn't actually see it with your own eyes." Sam gave up on the chair, feeling vertebrae pop as he stretched long arms toward the star-painted ceiling.

A pen flipped in Dean's fingers, outdoor lighting glinting off the silver ring on his right hand. "That would make ID-ing them a hell of a lot easier."

"Still." Sam sighed. It fits. "All the signs point to the fact that whatever was impersonating the victims knew details only the victims would. Psychic connection would give the imposter that. So. Skinwalker?"

"Skinwalker." Lines smoothed out as Dean's frown melted. "Or close enough."

For silver bullets.

"It does match with what we pulled from the victim's houses today, too." No EMF in the first two, barely any readings in the third, and something more substantial in the fourth. Could have been using the sewer system to move, like the one in St. Louis. Sam leant over his laptop, ignoring the chair for a moment.

"Yeah, I know." His big brother pulled the curtain tighter, moving back to the notes scattered across his bed. Distracted by the screen, Sam almost didn't hear the trailing question. "But why?"

Huh? "Why what?"

"This skinwalker." Paper rustled; Dean dumped a pile of print-outs next to the laptop. "It's not just killing people for some psycho reason like the one in St. Louis. It's just – taking their places? I mean, why?"

Finished saving files and bookmarking sites, Sam hit the power button. "It's effectively a serial killer, Dean. I think that's explanation enough." It was automatic, playing devil's advocate, each brother taking up an opposing side of an issue, working toward an answer.

"No." Boots hit the floor, followed by socks; as he crossed black carpet, Sam watched Dean slip the sharp Bowie beneath his pillow.

Ziiiiiiiiiiip.

Rifling through his duffle, Sam yanked out a mostly-clean shirt. "Why not?"

"A skinwalker offs people, and then what? Spends a week living their lives, nine-to-fiving it? No way." Flannel hit the awful bedspread as Dean shucked his outer shirt. "What's the point? The victims were all pretty boring people; it's not like it was hitting the town every night or somethin'."

A breath huffed from his lungs; Sam twisted his mouth to hide the smile that wanted out. "You never know."

"Hell, they didn't even know each other," Dean continued, wrestling free of the rest of his clothes. Before he dropped into bed, though, each garment was folded and set within easy reach, just in case. All Dad.

"They didn't seem to have anything in common," Sam agreed. Froze, halfway to the bathroom. Except -

"Cheyenne Mountain," came the mutter from the bed closest to the door. "Son of a bitch. It's going after something in NORAD."

Oh, God. That's it. That was the connection.

Wide green eyes, so like his own, stared at him. "Sammy, we gotta get in there."

His jaw dropped, words spilling out. "What, are you crazy? We can't just . . . blast our way into NORAD, Dean!"

St. Louis, and all its consequences, hung between them.

Then Dean rolled his eyes, and the look he shot Sam was eloquent. 'No, really, college-boy?'

Sam could feel his teeth grinding against one another. "Dean -"

But his big brother was reaching for the bedside table; came up holding his cell. "Dude, chill."

I don't believe this. The mattress squeaked beneath him as Sam plopped on his own bed, facing his brother. "Who are you gonna call, Dean? Bobby? You know someone who can get us into NORAD?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact," Dean snapped, any hint of a joke completely absent from his face. Startled, Sam's jaw snapped shut. "I do."

A/N2: Special thanks to trecebo for providing me with the names of the victims. I did do a mad scramble with the options given, but all generated names are courtesy of her. Alphonso Canton sadly did not make the cut, though he may show up somewhere near the end of the fic . . . and quite possibly even be alive. grin