Fish-Ford stared at him. "No."

Oh, there went that brilliant hypothesis.

"We are the 'Lantians."

"What? That's what I—oh never mind." Speaking was becoming too much of an effort to argue. "Ancients is our name for you. You are the race that built the Stargates, right? Ascended to another plane of existence?"

If it was possible to frown without moving a muscle, Fish-Ford managed it. "We are. And we are not."

"Oh, great, a riddle." Rodney's vision listed about twenty degrees before abruptly righting itself, a queasy reminder that now was not the time to be sarcastic. "Look, neither of us have time to waste here. You didn't go to all this trouble just to kill a few insolent humans, who, by the way, would do anything just to meet the Ancients; you want the city. Why?"

"We'll waste no more time on you, Dr. McKay." Fish-Ford's hands twitched, a precursor to some action that Rodney was very certain he wouldn't like.

"Oh, you will!" His words rushed out before Fish-Ford could move. "Unless you really want to be wiped out by what is possible one of the most ingenious weapons ever built. With a little help from an Asgard, if you still remember who they are."

The alien's gaze lost some of its intensity. "We recall the Asgard. If they are helping you, then they are far from the enlightened race they once were."

"Or maybe you're the ones who've gotten seriously screwed up over the years." But enough was enough. If this went on much longer he was going to fall over, and that really would be embarrassing. "So would you just tell me what you want? We might even be able to help."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because despite appearances, we're actually a very friendly race . . . when aliens aren't trying to kill us, at least. And if you are the Ancients, then we could use your help some time soon. The Wraith are still around and they've retained their antisocial habit of using the galaxy as a gigantic all-you-can-eat buffet." He paused, gasped for oxygen, bent a little at the waist to ease some of the pressure from his battered chest. As his eyes hit the floor he noticed something—a semicircle of feet right behind his. Motionless, boot-clad feet.

He gulped, and then with every thread of willpower he had left, forced his eyes back to Fish-Ford's.

"So how about you tell me what's going on and we take it from there."

"It is beyond your understanding."

That was it. Death threats were fine; he was used to those. But no one, no matter what their plane of existence, got to insult his intelligence. "I'm a smart man. Try me."

Fish-Ford's smile grew into a grin that was no less terrifying for its familiarity.

"Very well."

"Uh . . . what are you doing?" Rodney asked, trying not to edge away. Fish-Ford had taken a couple of steps towards him. The alien was, in fact, mere inches away. Hadn't he heard of personal space? Of course, living in an ocean was probably hell for your social skills . . .

"You wanted to know what we are. I will show you."

"Can't you just, you know, tell me?" He swallowed and took a small step back, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to put some distance between them.

"Impossible. Our state of being is too complex for your language. If your fear prevents you from—"

"Fear? What fear? I'm not afraid of you! Go on, show me." His gritted teeth and tightly closed eyes belied his words, but he couldn't help it.

A soft laugh, and then nothing for a few seconds. And then a warm touch on his temple that grew hot as it burrowed into his skull. He thought he might be screaming, but he could hear nothing, see nothing.

When sensation returned to him, he was somewhere else entirely.

He was in a large hall. The décor resembled Atlantis in style, but everything was a shade fainter than it should be. He waved a hand in front of his face; there was a slight blurring of the edges. Like looking through a microscope that was a little out of focus.

"So you can communicate at this level." Rodney turned, far faster than he could have a minute ago. Fish-Ford stood behind him, face impassive. "Surprising. I did not believe your kind had evolved to even this—"

"How about we leave the petty insults 'til later and you explain where the hell we are?" Rodney snapped.

"This is a mental construct I have created in your mind." The alien replied, completely unruffled. "It is the easiest way to show you our nature."

"Then show me, already." This whole mental thing was making him nervous. Could it cause brain damage? Even if Fish-Ford knew, he probably wouldn't care. It would be just his luck to survive everything else he'd been put through today only to be turned into a vegetable for the rest of his life. "And if this is in my head, why do you still look like Ford?"

"This is how you perceive us physically; to take another shape would cause confusion."

"Don't you have a face of your own? Have to steal his instead?"

"Yes." The answer was given coolly, and Rodney frowned. But Fish-Ford had already turned away from him, looking over to another part of the "room."

Mere meters away, people were kneeling. Maybe six altogether, but they were shadowy and indistinct; he couldn't make out their faces. Slowly, a white glow began to emanate from them.

"Millennia before your time, my kind learned how to reach another plane of existence, as you called it. We ascended." Fish-Ford's voice had an undercurrent Rodney couldn't quite decipher. A kind of wistfulness, resigned in its longing. "We had worked toward this state for many centuries. But it was slow, and even as we began the process, we were unsure of what would happen."

The glow had intensified; he could see some faces now. An old man, eyes heavenward as though praying. A girl, hands loosely clasped on her knees, face as serene as in sleep. There was an aura around them, white radiance funnelling upward. Their shapes began to merge with the brilliant light.

"Ascension took energy, far more than we anticipated. Even as our collective consciousness rose, there were fractures. Splinters of thought and awareness, lost, incomplete, without order. So we were born."

As Fish-Ford spoke, the process in front of them continued. The white light faded, the people disappeared. But even as Rodney began to turn away, he saw them—tendrils of white light like floating lightening, darting randomly about the room. He could sense their panic.

"We were confused. There was no cohesion, no structure. We were not single entities, but nor were we part of the whole; just fragments of identity and consciousness."

The tendrils continued to flit from place to place but began to slow. They met occasionally and became one. Rodney glanced at Fish-Ford, who was gazing, rapt, at the conjured scene.

"Over years, we found one another. We developed patterns of thought. Never again would we be single entities, but we could think again; we had coherence." The alien's voice grew cold. "The others did not notice our absence. We were lost. So we returned to Atlantis, our home, and waited."

The scene shifted. Now the room was one of the countless balconies in Atlantis. Rodney blinked rapidly, disorientated. The tendrils had become the "fireflies" he had seen earlier today. They flew past, a random bunch of tiny lights, plunging into the ocean.

"Millennia passed. The saltwater of the ocean made an easy path for our energies to travel, and over time, we gained abilities such as this. We learned to mimic form and speech, even thought. But our brethren never returned for us. Without them, we cannot ascend, and we have no wish to become physical entities again, even if that were possible."

The balcony scene faded, and Rodney was staring at the "room" again. Fish-Ford was standing in front of him.

"Atlantis is ours. It is all that remains for us. We have no interest in the Wraith anymore; let your species be concerned with them. Our fight should have been over long before."

The "room" was fading and Rodney with it. He tried to cry out but it was dark again, a suffocating blackness that crept down his lungs and into his head. He gripped his skull and tried to force it out . . .

And didn't even realize he was back until light fed through his fastened eyelids and burned the blackness away. Fish-Ford was still in front of him, still uncomfortably close.

"So Doc," the quasi-ancient remarked in Ford's voice, dark eyes staring dangerously into his. "How exactly are you thinking of helping?"

Oh no.

Rodney backed away, feet moving like rats, scurrying. He collided with something—someone. He didn't need to turn to know they had gathered behind him. Even if Hermiod was nearly finished, it wouldn't be enough. These were Ancients, or at least a part of them. He'd thought the chances of the weapon working were bad before, but now . . . they would probably find a way to stop it long before it was actually fired. He was still human. A smart, incredible, brilliant, human? Yes. But an Ancient? Definitely not.

He was so dead.

"Afraid?" Fish-Ford asked, still in that casual, Ford manner. It was seriously creepy. "I guess that means you can't help, then. Thought as much."

"So uh, what now?" Rodney asked, trying to keep his voice light. Sheppard wouldn't panic; he'd have some cutting remark to make. But Sheppard wasn't here, god damn it! How he wished the irritating Colonel were. If only for company.

Fish-Ford shrugged. "Now you die. As for your weapon, we'll figure something out. Death doesn't scare us, not like you. When you've been around as long as we have, life gets dull, even painful."

Rodney swallowed, fear and pain making a knot in his neck. "But . . . we're, we're like you; your descendents! You can't kill us."

"You forget, McKay. We aren't Ancients. We've been fractured, in constant pain for thousands of years! The only thing that sustained was the knowledge that our city was still here, waiting for us and for them. And now you're invaded it, infected it!" The alien turned away. "Goodbye, McKay. Be grateful you're the first. It'll save you the pain of watching your friends die."

Friends . . . see, that's what these guys lacked. No wonder they were so bad tempered—

An arm suddenly snaked around his neck. He choked, trying to pull it away. Oh, come on! Strangling him to death? They could at least shoot him . . . clearly, whatever God was in this messed up universe obviously wanted him to suffer. Why did all the Ancients in this galaxy hate him? First—

Oh God, that was it.

With a Herculean effort, he managed to carve out an inch of breathing space. "Wait!" He gasped, fighting to stay conscious; if he passed out now it was all over. Endgame. "You want to ascend? What if I can arrange that?"

Fish-Ford's back remained turned and the arm remained round his neck, but it didn't strangle again. There was a moment of total silence. Rodney glared at the Ancient-wannabe's back with all the defiance he had left, daring him to walk away.

Even so, He was truly surprised when Fish-Ford turned back and replied, "I'm listening."

Poor Rodney. He is having a really bad day. Who'd have thought it, Semi-Ascended Fish. I wonder if the Ancients took their pets with them :)

Not far to go now. One more trip for our Doctor McKay. Will he survive? Will the fish ascend? Will they take that cute plastic mermaid from the bottom of the tank?

Review and stay tuned to find out :)