Dr. Daniel Jackson. The file was thick in papers, from photos to newspaper articles all detailing every segments of his life. I skimmed through his doctoral thesis carefully, looking to how this man was the one.

Report on Dr. Daniel Jackson

Born: July 8, 1965

Parents: Melborn and Claire Jackson (deceased)

Both archeologists killed while excavating a tomb in southern Egypt. Taken into foster care as a young child. Foster parents Tom and Jane Sinclair, both deceased.

Attended Brown University for undergraduate school with two degrees in Anthropology and History. Received his Doctorate in Egyptology and Linguistics and in well known in the archaeological community with his worked, based mainly in the Giza area.

Jackson is a well-known linguist, known to speak 23 languages including English, Russian, German, Mandarin Chinese, Arabic, French, Greek, Persian, and mainly, Egyptian hieroglyphics. He is known for his expert understanding in Egyptian hieroglyphics and is a huge advocator of the theories of Giza's non-Egyptian origins. Jackson has lost his grants and been evicted from his apartments. His only living relatives, is well-known archaeologist Nick Ballard, his grandfather, with whom he has not been in contact with in nearly seven years. Ballard resides in a classified mental institution in California.

Sighing heavily, I put the files away. Maybe he's the one who can figure it out.

"Ms. Lanford, we're here," called the driver. I walked out of the car, clutching my lucky pendant in a tight grasp. How many years had it been now? 70? How could we not discover the origins of the tablets until now? Can this Daniel Jackson help us? Sighing, I walked into the hotel glancing for the poster to show me the way to Dr. Jackson's seminar. Finding it I peered into the large room, seeing it packed. I looked to the front to see a tall, but seemingly unimpressive man standing there. He had long sandy blonde hair that nearly covered his eyes. His clothes looked worn, but professional, which accompanied his round glasses.

"Dr. Jackson how would you explain the tablet found in the 1950s with the writings of the Pharaoh Kahof, naming him the all mighty rule," yelled a voice in the back of the room. Dr. Jackson straightened turning to the board to write down some Hieroglyphs from memory.

"Those as proven before repeatedly were fraud that in fact heightens the fact that there are no writings of any kind around the pyramids whatsoever. Egyptian society was rich in its writings, telling every detail of the lives of the pharaohs and the people, thinking that the future would thrive in its country's past. But for such a large structure that was the symbol of the Egyptian empire, there are no writings at all. It's blank, like the Egyptians themselves didn't build them at all. It's only the ones in Giza specifically, because many of the other copycats have writing on them. It was the Egyptians themselves that built the pyramids, and the academic community needs to focus on that to better understand the Empire's origins."

The crowd roared in outrage as many men and women rose from their seats shouting words of doubt and ridicule.

"So what do you think built the pyramids of Giza, Dr. Jackson?" yelled a voiced with curiosity. The whole room went silent waiting for an answer. Dr. Jackson paused his eyes widening in panic and confusion. I stepped closer to see what his answer would be. He's clearly a mastermind in the translations as seen in the e crowd here, I thought to myself. As the silence continued, many people started to get up, knowing from the silence that he did not have an answer. Poor man, these people won't give him any chance.

"I have no idea who built the pyramids but-" his continuing thought was interrupted by the loud sounds of people rising from their seats and leaving. Oh dear. Dr. Jackson continued to talk hurriedly, hoping for the people to come back. Soon the hall was completely empty and quiet. Making myself unseen, I peered over and saw Dr. Jackson sit down in exasperation. He took off his glasses and sighed loudly looking up at the ceiling, thinking.

I'll wait for him outside, I thought, turning my heel to head back to the car.