Disclaimer: Don't own it. Maybe I will when Friday takes over the world, but that's several years (and episodes) in the future.

Summary: Ten years ago, SG-1 stumbled across a world of magic. But that wasn't the scariest part. It turned out there was an aspiring author who wrote stories about said magical world. Me. How did I know about it? They brought me in for questioning, and before I knew what was happening I'd been recruited to translate for them, because I was the only person on Earth who could understand the language. When the mission was over, I returned home, instructed to act as if nothing had happened. So I did.

Then, a few weeks ago, as I was working on a decoding job for Military Intelligence, I received a message from the Air Force. The SGC wanted me back. My world, Omalya, had sent them a message, and they wanted to know what it said.

The Goa'uld were on Omalya, and the Omalyans wanted our help to defeat them. Along with the help of an assassin named Nai'óbí, we managed to kill the Goa'uld and hijack their spaceship. In the process, I broke my left leg.

Now I'm back at the SGC, recovering from my injury. Hopefully I'll be able to return to MI as soon as it's healed. Stargate Command is a great place, but it's not my home. And some of the things that happen here are too much even for me to handle.

Sometimes I wish I'd never thought of Omalya. It would have made my life so much easier. If not for Omalya, I'd still be in New York, working for Military Intelligence, not sitting on a bed in the SGC infirmary with my first ever broken bone. Maybe I'd even be back home in North Carolina, playing with my twenty-nine cats—more, if one of them had littered while I was away. My friend Sarah was taking care of them for me, but she said they missed me terribly. If only I could keep them with me when I was on duty.

Dr. Miller was the one who had set my leg. Dr. Weis had tried, but apparently I'd started screaming incoherently when he tried to get near me. Daniel said he thought it was some from of Khéósin. Personally, I don't remember anything that happened after I swore vengeance on my little brother, Blake, for stepping on me. He didn't even apologize! Little brat. Actually, he began arguing, again, how my broken leg wasn't really his fault, and how could he know it'd break again as soon as I stepped through the Stargate and I'd fall? It wasn't his fault he'd stepped on me. "Besides, would you rather have flown the spaceship?" Gah! I couldn't fly the damn spaceship. I'd tried. Sometimes I just want to go Dark Side and strangle the kid. He can be so annoying!

The next thing I knew, I was in the infirmary with a cast on my leg. Blake and Tobeson hovered over me with worried expressions on their faces. "I feel so loved."

"You're awake. Good." Dr. Miller hustled over to see how I was. "Welcome back, Colonel. How's the leg?"

I made a face. "Painful. Oh, and it itches, but I gather that it's supposed to do that." That was something I'd learned from reading books. Ever since I'd discovered the wonders of the written word, I'd read voraciously. I'd also started to write when I was in kindergarten. Most of my stories from back then were about as easy to follow as my math homework, meaning I skipped a couple rather important steps. My later stories were much better. I'd even managed to publish a story while at West Point. People always ask me how I managed it. The secret was skiving on sleep and writing during class. I'd perfected that art during high school. As long as I didn't look guilty, the teachers just thought I was taking notes. Oh, yeah. And I didn't study. I didn't have to. Even my friends hated me for that.

Of course, it was my writing that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. Sometime in high school, I'd come up with the idea of a magical world named Omalya. Back then, I was crazy enough to wish it actually existed.

Then my wish came true. A group of explorers known as SG-1 stumbled through the Stargate into a world of magic. My world. Omalya. And I, being the crazy wannabe-author I was, decided that if there was any way for me to get to Omalya, I was going to take it. So I ran away from home and hitchhiked my way to Cheyenne Mountain.

That was how they found out about me. Not the best way to be introduced to the saviors of Earth, running away from them on an alien planet. Which was why I was especially surprised when they decided they wanted me back. To translate, of all things. I'd given Daniel all my notes on the language, so what did they want me for? Well, what they wanted me for was to help translate a written message sent through the Stargate. I'd only given him my notes on the language, not on the script. At the time, the notes on Khéósin writing had been in my room, lost in a pile of papers that was hidden under other junk. So I translate the damn message for them, and before I know it I'm on a mission to help save Omalya from these evil bad guys called the Goa'uld. And, naturally, my little brother is placed under my command. So, while we're on Omalya fighting the damn snakeheads, as General O'Neill calls them, Blake manages to break my leg.

I rolled over, managing to poke myself in the side with my elbow in the process. Not only that, my knees got tangled together and I jarred my broken leg on the edge of the bed. I bit back tears. Well, I guess I'm still knees and elbows after all.

I looked around to take my mind off the pain. "Where's Dr. Weis?"

"He went back to Omalya," Dr. Miller replied. "He said he wanted to study some of the Omalyan healing techniques."

As if. I don't trust him. Not one bit.

A flash. Weis trying to take a holy torch from a Relgar temple. Only it isn't really a torch. It's of alien design, advanced technology. No, it can't be; there's no advanced technology on Omalya. Nai'óbí sees him, jumps him—then nothing.

"So, any chance I might get to read the old mission reports?"

Dr. Miller shook his head. "As soon as your leg heals you're to return to Military Intelligence."

"Unscheduled off-world activation."

Nai'óbí. That's who it was. I had to warn them. But Blake and Tobeson were already gone. "Get me some crutches."

"But you're in no condition to be moving about," Dr. Miller protested.

"I can be a good patient later. Now if you don't get me those crutches, I'm going to walk out of here." I'd do it, too. I always liked to say I was an elf—just because no one could see the pointy ears didn't mean they weren't there—but sometimes I could be as bullheaded as a dwarf.

Dr. Miller wisely decided to acquiesce to my request.

I was swinging down the corridor when—Flash. Nai'óbí coming through the Stargate. She has her knife to Dr. Weis's throat. "I demand an explanation. I caught this man attempting to steal from one of our temples."

"Careful, sir," Jack cautions. "She's an assassin."

Oh, God, I thought. This could get awkward. I can't believe I'm saying this, but—fortunately, at that moment I crashed into the wall. The noise distracted Nai'óbí from what she was about to say. Instead, she asked—

"Where is Kali?" She was hoping when she came through the Stargate that she would see the one person in this world she knows she can trust.

I was touched, truly touched. Never mind that Nai'óbí was an assassin capable of taking out several of the airmen before they shot her down. I was still touched.

"Colonel Rainwater is in the infirmary with a broken leg," General Hammond replies.

I caught Nai'óbí's thought as I approached the open blast door: But Lady Rachel healed her.

"Yeah, but my leg snapped again as soon as I stepped through the Stargate. Looks like I'm not going to get out of being a storm senser after all. General Hammond, sir, I'd like to ask Dr. Weis a few questions. Actually, you might like to ask him yourself. He was trying to steal an alien device from a Relgar temple."

Nai'óbí nodded and released her hostage. She trusted me to take it from here.

"That's a lie!" Dr. Weis protested as soon as he was free from Nai'óbí's grasp. "She's obviously making it up. How would she know?"

I only lie when it doesn't matter. If I know it's unlikely that people will believe me, I'll make up a better story that they can't disprove. "The entire reason I was assigned to SG-13 was to help out on the Omalya project—because I can see things that happen there. I was warned about you, Doctor. Who do you work for? Iran?"

"The Trust."

What the Hell was the Trust? I really had to get my hands on those mission reports.

A/N (3/5/05): So, I promised that I'd start this by nest Friday. And here it is—well before next Friday. Turns out I'd already written the first chapter/teaser, so all I had to do was type it up.