Shezmu planted his clawed paw firmly on the mortal's cheek, driving it further down into the wooden block.
"P-Please!" it begged, struggling to look up at him from below. "Have mercy!"
He pressed even harder in response, relishing in the power he held over lower lifeforms. The human's skull was beginning to cave in; the sound of bones cracking and organs squelching music to his ears.
Eventually reaching a breaking point, his foot pushed through, bursting the head open with a loud pop. A mixture of blood and other fluids splattered across the temple floor, and Shezmu sneered in open disgust.
A round of laughter could be heard, and he turned around to face the assembled group of Goa'uld. At the very front stood Osiris, currently inhabiting a green-skinned humanoid of some kind. He had an unhealthy habit of discarding and adopting different hosts at random, but Shezmu did not mind.
Osiris was his liege, and his cheers were by far the loudest. That meant he had done well, and that was all that mattered.
At Osiris' side stood Isis, the beautiful queen of his Lord. Ra and Egeria stood similarly nearby; the former gracing him with a satisfied yet imperious gaze. Egeria, on the other hand, merely stared dispassionately.
He could never quite get a read on the woman. She was no doubt a loyal servant of Ra, yet seemed so different from him in every possible way.
Shezmu was almost offended. Ra was without question the greatest Goa'uld to have ever lived, having avenged Apep and driven out the scourge that was Anubis. Following that, he had established the High Council of System Lords, cementing their rule over the galaxy for millennia to come.
Why anyone would choose not to follow such an example was beyond him.
Upon meeting the eye of the final person attending the gathering, he shuddered involuntarily. Hathor ogled him hungrily, and Shezmu remembered the last time the prospective queen had demanded his attention.
It had not been a bad night, by any means, but he was not ready to relive that experience just yet. It was therefore welcome when Osiris stepped forward, cutting off his view of the nymphomaniacal goddess.
"Well done, my friend!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Truly, your executions are unrivalled amongst all of my servants."
Shezmu always found it ironic that he would be the one staring down at Osiris, and not the other way around. His Sekhmet host was tall, towering above even Unas in height, and he knew of many other Goa'uld who would perceive such a thing as a slight.
"Thank you. I live to serve."
It was his duty; his sole purpose for existing – one whose role was exclusively to dispose of whomever his master deemed unworthy of life.
"Indeed."
It was now Ra who spoke; his eyes glowing brightly as he did so. "Osiris tells me of your great loyalty, and the noble deeds you perform in the name of the Ennead."
Shezmu dared not speak out of turn, not even to express his humble gratitude. He instead attempted to convey his emotions wordlessly, hoping that the Supreme System Lord would understand.
"In recognition of this great service…" Ra continued, "…you are hereby granted the rank of minor Goa'uld. A portion of the System Lords' combined might shall be bestowed unto you, along with two precious worlds."
He could not believe what he was hearing. It was unheard of for anyone to climb their ranks so quickly. Even Osiris himself had spent many millennia as an underlord to Isis, before gaining enough influence to rule by his own right.
Ra smiled graciously, evidently pleased by his stunned reaction. Despite that, the deity's eyes hinted at something more.
"Before the official ceremony can proceed, however, you must first perform one final rite."
The doors to the temple were pushed open, and a group of slaves made their way inside. On their backs they carried a large cage, housing a filthy, disheveled and bruised human female.
The cage was dumped on the floor with a distinct lack of courtesy, and the woman inside cried out in pain. The slaves then immediately dropped to their knees, prostrating themselves before the many gods and goddesses present.
Ra laughed, which prompted the other Goa'uld to do the same. When he eventually fell silent, his soft features morphed into that of a vicious rage.
"See!" he proclaimed. "This is the fate that awaits all who oppose me!"
Shezmu took a closer look at the woman, taking note of her oddly familiar features. Despite her injuries, he could clearly discern her rounded cheeks, chestnut hair and deep, amber eyes. She must have caught his stare, because she began to desperately plead for her life.
That brought about another round of laughter, though surprisingly not from him. He could not even bring himself to sneer, as he usually would when subject to such a pathetic sight.
"Ami-Pet-Seshem-Neterit." spoke Ra. "You, who once served as God's Queen of Amun. You, who were once my Lo'taur, my most trusted servant. You, who chose to abuse that trust and betray me!" he continued; his voice growing ever louder with anger.
"I brand you shol'va! May you die an ignoble death, and your name be forever forgotten!"
Even as the King of Gods turned back toward him, ordering him to execute the traitorous servant in the most brutal and degrading of manners, Shezmu could not bring himself to move.
Seshem.
That part of the name rang in his mind, echoing on and on as though imploring him to remember something. All the while, he could hear the excited chanting of the Goa'uld in the background, spurring him on to act.
He clenched his fists, for some reason still hesitating. The priestess kept on begging; tears welling up in her eyes. Shezmu was shocked to discover that his first instinct was to help her, to wipe the tears away and comfort her.
It was beyond his understanding, and an utterly stupid thing to do, but with a mighty, leonine roar, he spun around and leapt at Ra. The shocked god could not even raise his hands in defense before a sharp set of fangs latched onto his neck.
Shezmu ripped and tore, shredding both throat and symbiote apart in a bloody mess. He barely even noticed his surroundings twist and swirl; distorted by a thick, black fog until only darkness remained.
"My Lord." a voice whispered. "My Lord! Please, wake up!"
Shezmu's eyes shot open, meeting the distressed and upset face of his First Prime. His mind was racing; the recent memories still fresh and agonizingly clear.
"Where… where are we?" he asked, blinking as he struggled to make out her face amidst the bright, white light.
"The ship, of course!" said Seshem. "You do remember what happened at the palace, right?"
He did, for better or for worse. Whatever substance that mist had contained, it was powerful enough to invoke a very realistic hallucination. Goa'uld were not as easily affected by chemicals as other organisms, and the fact that it had been so effective scared Shezmu more than he would like to admit.
"Yes. That priestess, Nitocris. Where is she?"
Seshem smirked triumphantly. "It seems she was caught by one of the Jaffa's stray blasts. Once a few of us regained consciousness, we immediately apprehended her. That's when we brought you to the ship, as well."
Her expression turned slightly uncomfortable. "You seem to have been affected far more than the rest of us." she explained, before shaking her head.
"Actually, no, that's wrong. I don't think Apophis has woken up yet. He doesn't stop twisting and shaking… I really don't know what's going on with him."
Shezmu did, if it was anything similar to what he had experienced. The worst part about the ordeal was that it had been so real. Those events – they had truly happened, once upon a time. They were some of his worst memories; his worst fears.
The only difference was that he had actually slaughtered that woman, not saved her. He had committed unspeakable acts, rendering her both physically and mentally broken before devouring her alive.
Bringing that memory to the forefront of his mind served as a poignant reminder. He was not a good person.
"I must see her." he decided, struggling his way out of the sarcophagus. Stumbling dizzily, Shezmu steadied himself against his First Prime. Willing the transportation rings to descend around him, he had them both transported to the ship's holding cells.
They were greeted to the sound of pained screams; Nitocris' frail body spasming as she was repeatedly struck with a Rod of Anguish.
Shezmu's lips curled; he had truly grown to detest that particular instrument over the ages.
Yellow light seemed to leak out of her eyes and mouth, and despite the woman's actions he could not bring himself to condone the punishment.
"Enough." he ordered, and the Jaffa administering the torture backed away. His expression was one of disbelief, however, as he turned toward his god.
"But my Lord! Surely, she must suffer for her transgressions? For what she has done to you?!"
Shezmu eyed the warrior strangely. "Torture is not our way." he eventually replied.
It had not been their way for a long time, nor would it ever be again. He could understand the Jaffa's sentiments – it had been a long time since anyone caused them any significant harm, let alone him. Nevertheless, they would have to stay true to their ideals, lest the past repeat itself once more.
"Yes, my Lord. Of course. Please forgive me."
He nodded and made his way over to the whimpering priestess. The cell was not large, and stripped bare of any amenities. Only primitive chains held Nitocris in place, locked around her limbs and holding her tightly against the wall.
Despite her sobs, she still managed to raise her head in defiance; a facsimile of her previous, wicked smile rearing its face.
"Weak." she croaked. "You're weak… pathetic… a coward. Not worthy of your divinity."
Shezmu saw her words for what they were – a futile attempt at baiting him into some foolish action. She wanted him to run out of patience; to revert to his most basic instincts and punish her for her insolence.
Why, he did not know, but he would grant the woman no such pleasure.
"How dare you?!"
It was not he, but Seshem who had uttered the words. He had never seen her this angry, fury and contempt marring her otherwise beautiful features.
Something was not right.
When Seshem suddenly grabbed the Rod from her fellow Jaffa, shoving it violently into Nitocris' side, his suspicions became a certainty.
Shezmu allowed the torture to continue, taking note of his surroundings. At first glance, they appeared just as he would expect. The closer he looked, however, the more distorted it seemed.
A corner of the cell looked blurry; a spot on the wall too dark. He could not quite make out the face of this other, nameless Jaffa.
It was right, yet not.
"Enough, Seshem. I will be dealing with her myself."
The giddy, malicious grin on his First Prime's face only served to betray her false identity.
He raised his hand, bringing his Kara'kesh only inches away from Nitocris' forehead. Beads of sweat ran down her skin, and she appeared only seconds away from death.
"Yes…" she managed to whisper, shaking uncontrollably once the device began to affect her mind.
"You know…" said Shezmu coyly, watching as a thin thread of light connected his hand to her head. "I am not exactly sure how this drug of yours functions. As such, my only remaining course of action is to stick to what I do know."
He smiled when Nitocris' seemingly victorious expression faltered, and continued.
"My Kara'kesh allows me to form a telepathic link with your mind. Of course, you could die in the process, but that would be an acceptable tradeoff for the knowledge you are hiding."
The priestess' eyes now widened in alarm, and she suddenly struggled with far more strength than a tortured prisoner should be capable of. Even her dead, skeletal arm yanked fruitlessly against the cold, metal chains.
"Unfortunately for you, this is my mind. My party, you might even say. I know my ship, I know my Jaffa and most importantly, I know my First Prime."
His sarcophagus was supposed to be used by many injured Jaffa at this time, not be left unattended. There were no Rods of Anguish left within his domain. His Jaffa did not indulge in mindless torture, nor did Seshem throw angry fits.
Actually, thought Shezmu, she did – but in a different way.
He was therefore not surprised to see both Seshem and the other warrior going limp; their postures drooped. Nitocris must have abandoned all hopes of entertaining her charade, in favor of a real threat.
The opaque, orange beam of light linking his hand to the priestess' head shone ever deeper, and more information flowed into Shezmu's mind.
The drug was known as the Breath of Sokar, similar to the Blood of Sokar but more practical in its application. It could be used to subdue a large number of enemies simultaneously, forcing them to relive or undergo various horrific events.
Like the Blood of Sokar, this drug could also induce controlled hallucinations if one possessed the appropriate equipment.
Ironically, the easiest way to leave the dream was to find one's own slumbering body, merging with it once more. It mirrored the tale Osiris once had his servants believe – that each deceased soul was split in two, and only by finding their way together again could one tread on into the afterlife.
Perhaps Sokar had let himself be inspired.
Nitocris was now frothing at the mouth, and Shezmu finally deactivated his Kara'kesh. He spared the priestess one final, pitying glance before turning on his heel, transporting himself to the bridge.
Knowing that this reality was yet another vision, he then grinned, filled with a sudden spark of mischief. Ramming a spaceship was something he had always wanted to do, and now, without any consequences, he had the perfect target.
Sokar's palace.
Shezmu awoke, for the third time, and this time he knew it was no vision. Every dream seems real whilst one is a part of it, yet when one is truly awake, there is a certain clarity to the world – a clarity that no dream can reproduce.
The first thought that came to his mind was to find Seshem, his Jaffa and Apophis. In that order, he thought slightly guiltily, but paid it little heed.
Someone had moved his body from where he had first lost consciousness. No longer was he flat on his back somewhere in the palace halls, but instead in a rather well-ornated bedchamber.
With a start, Shezmu realized there was a figure next to him, and moved to shove it aside. Nitocris had been lying beside him, her living arm resting against his chest. Just as before, he saw foam seeping out of the corner of her lips.
Meddling with the mind was a dangerous practice.
On her temple he could spot a memory recall device, which she had used to enter and manipulate his visions. He took hold of the small, round piece of technology and pulled, dislodging it from her head.
It was a particularly nasty device; one which Shezmu felt more than justified in confiscating.
Just as he was about to exit the room, he heard a shudder and a raspy breath, and sighed. Somehow, the priestess had just barely managed to cling onto life.
Lesser men would have left her behind, and better men would put her out of everyone's misery, including her own.
Truthfully, he did not particularly care whether Nitocris lived or died, so long as she did not cause any further harm. He had glimpsed more from her than just the very latest memories, and knew of the fate that befell her.
Born to the Necropolis Guard, Sokar's most notorious Jaffa, her life had been spelled out for her from the very beginning. She had only two choices – serving as a warrior or as a priestess. Needless to say, neither were particularly appealing when it came to Sokar.
Her bodily sacrifices were in fact among the least horrible things she had been subjected to.
Not for the first time, Shezmu could only hope he was making the right decision. He walked back to the bed and slung the half-dead priestess over his shoulder, before hurrying back out of the chamber.
He had yet to regroup with his soldiers, and hoped that they would find their way out of their own visions. Shezmu immediately grimaced at the thought, recalling Nitocris' dance with fate, and hastened his steps.
If any of his servants' minds failed them, he did not believe he could forgive himself.