46. Investment Strategies

One subjective hour after Tzintchi had left, the Eye was utterly silent. Its sole occupant lay suspended in a night-dark void, colourless images of the multiverse floating around its body like dead fish in a polluted lake.

A wall formed behind the reclining figure, velvet curtains billowing out from lavishly-decorated windows as the glare of an alien sun gleamed off the marble windowsills. A door opened and another being walked in, briefly framed by a garden of terrible and otherworldly delights before the doorway and its attendant wall vanished again, an afterscent of alien perfumes lingering in the illusory air.

"Holy crap, but it is dull in here."

The being at the centre of the Eye looked up, a rheumy compound cluster blinking open in its lower head. "A matter of opinion. I, for one, find it restful. Then again, you were never one for restfulness, were you, little brother?"

The newcomer was silent for a moment. "OK, how long have you known?"

"Since shortly after your usurpation. Your attempts at subtlety are admirable, brother, but you lack the... personality for it to be truly effective. Especially when someone's known you as long as I have. I must assume that you came here to ascertain my identity. Now you've accomplished that, is there anything more that keeps you here?"

The other being considered this. "Well, we could... uhh... chat for a bit. I mean, it's been a while, after all. Not by our usual standards, obviously, but you know how it is in these bodies, time just seems to draaag on by. So, how about that Stargate thingy, then? We going to be done here soon? Because this was fun at first, new experience, fresh start, all that shit, but frankly... it's starting to get stale."

A jaundiced, drooling smile split the first entity's face. "Relax, brother. The project is going precisely according to schedule. It won't be long now."

"You sure? 'Cos that's what you said about that godling you've got locked in the basement, and I think he's still mouldering down there. Sure, sure, that was fine and dandy whilst the mission plan was to let this piss-stain of an empire run itself into the ground, but now we're so freakin' close to a Good End and you still haven't rustled up that contingency you promised in case it doesn't work and everything goes to shit... well, I'm starting to wonder if your personal definition of 'won't be long now' is exactly in tune with everyone else's."

"You know, I hardly think you're in a position to be casting aspersions on others' reliability."

"Oh, don't give me that. It was just one time, and I made it perfectly clear that it was a matter of survival. I got the rest of you through just fine, didn't I? That's me, perfectly trustworthy. Just, y'know, not suicidal."

"Then I assume that you've received signs of our elder brother's awakening?"

"Yeah, he's somewhere all right. No idea where or what he's up to, the fucker's slippery as ever, but there's sure as hell something going on with that kid of his. The nightmares, the weird judgment calls... someone's messing with his head, and it ain't me for once." A lascivious grin. "Though the messing is kinda fun. Did you know he calls me 'Mama' sometimes?"

"No. Nor did I want to."

"Aww, you're no fun. And I gave you the cute one and everything. Hey, tell me you at least managed to take her intact."

The silence of the Eye deepened for a moment. "No. She's... gone."

"Oh, now that is just a crying shame. I don't know what I would have done if I didn't have mine around to keep me company. Sure, she's getting on a bit, and my little pet didn't leave her in the greatest shape when he was done with her, but hey, age is experience, right? Plus, taking those shredded little bits of her mind apart and putting them back together in all those new and interesting ways? That never gets old. It's like Play-Doh. You know Play-Doh? It's this mortal toy. Fantastic invention. Kept me busy for hours. Tastes pretty good, too."

There was no response.

"Ah yeah, that's why we didn't do this small-talk thing back home too often. You were always so bloody awful at it. Seriously, not even one of those crappy jokes of yours? Did you run out or something? Anyways, best be going. Things to see, people to do. Just... remember your side of the bargain, yeah? Yeah. Hate for all this effort I put in to be for nothing."

The aeons-old creature now calling itself Mislaato of the Six Wounds exited in a trail of gaudy lights, a cool breeze caressing the Eye's interior with a hint of exotic spices. The other lay back again, letting the silence wash over his own borrowed body, the mutated, plague-scarred face of a girl once known as Rei Ayanami settling into a contented smile.

"I will. Farewell, little brother."

The Eye, in its current state, was inhospitable to his kind, a barren wasteland without a life, without a soul's worth of nourishment. These days, there was no place he'd rather be, and he was content to drift for a moment, savouring the isolation... but only for a moment. There was work to be done.

As repulsive as he undoubtedly was, his brother had actually made a pretty good point. It was indeed time to see about activating his own weapon, particularly if the third of their number was indeed awake and being as troublesomely unpredictable as ever. Better yet, said weapon was more than suitably... ripe.

The pictures changed, now showing the dank, intestinal undulations of the sewer network beneath the Palace, and once more, sound returned to the Eye.


The tunnel walls dripped with enigmatic fluids, the wheezing, sickly breaths of its two occupants echoing disquietly into the distance. They were huddled on a ledge above a steaming, verdigrised grille, wrapped tight in stolen military greatcoats. The taller of the two was trying to feed the shorter one with thin, lumpy broth from a steel tin, droplets spilling across them both with every quiver of his palsied hand.

"Come on, Vita, you've got to swallow. That shouldn't be too hard, huh? Just a bit of soup – that can't beat a top-of-the-line super-soldier, right? Wait, I've got some... here you go..."

The short figure chuckled, the noise rapidly degrading into a bubbling cough. "That's... that's enough, kid. It's all right. We both know I'm not going to make it. Guess those biotech viruses worked after all, huh? Give that bitch Reigle a nice big 'fuck you' next time you see her. You know, for me."

"But... there's got to be something, hasn't there? The reset, the one we used before... the side-effects can't be that bad, can they?"

"We've been... nngh... we've been over this. Resets only work if the system remembers how it's supposed to be, and I'm too badly infected, the corruption's too deep. If we used the Stahlwind code, there's no telling what I'd end up as, but I'm guessing it wouldn't exactly inherit my piercing intelligence or stunning good looks."

"Or your charming personality."

A weak, childlike giggle. "Right."

"OK, so that's out. What about having a go at another breakout? There must be some way we haven't tried. Maybe if we..."

"... talk to the Marine kill-teams up top and ask them nicely to put their guns down? Let's face it, that's pretty much all we're good for now." Her tone softened. "Look, kid, the thing about death... it isn't necessarily permanent for us. The Wolkenritter, I mean. The Tome of the Night Sky used to keep us backed up in its main banks, and whilst it's not exactly in the best shape these days, and most of our links with it got cut after its central personality gave herself a lobotomy... I think that a master who knows what they're doing can bring us back if we die. You see? When Hayate comes, I'll be fine. I've got to be fine. I've done all the calculations, I think it'll be all right... it has to be all right, doesn't it? I can't let her... I can't let any of them... damn it, why should I be scared of this? We all knew it was going to happen, we chose it, but not like this, I didn't think it would be like this..."

Her companion put the soup down, wrapping his arms around her. Neither of them looked at the other one's face.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath, voice thick and shaky. "Jesus fucking Christ..."

They stayed like that for a while, still and cold, alone in the darkness, doing what little they could to remind each other of their shared, continued existence. Eventually, they moved apart, the taller one's foot knocking over the soup and sending it skittering into the river of sewage below. Neither noticed. Neither would have cared if they had. It was far too late for it to matter.

"So, kid," the shorter one said after a while. "I've been wondering. You the... religious type?"

"Eh? Oh, right, the Christ thing. Just an old childhood habit – Christianity was a bit of a fad religion when I was a kid. The Kyoto diocese was big on evangelising at the time, and though I never really bought into it – hell, I didn't even believe in Santa by that point – some of the lingo ended up rubbing off. Plus, casual blasphemy? Really therapeutic."

He smiled, leaning back against the moss-coated wall.

"Truth be told, I'd say religion's probably not an option for me by this point. I've met a fair few gods now, and when Haruhi, of all people, is the one you'd be most inclined to worship if you were forced to make a choice... no. Just no."

His companion laughed. "Yeah, I get that. As one of the last remnants of Ancient Belka, I should probably worship the divine Sankt Kaiser who saved us all... but I've met her, and she's a sweet kid with two absolutely great parents, but I'm not inclined to be performing genuflections anytime s-soo-"

She doubled over, coughing. Dark liquid spattered across the front of her clothes. The taller one was upright in an instant, scrabbling through the bulky sack beside them.

"Vita, damn it, hold on, it'll be fine, it's going to be just fine... where the hell is that bloody medpack...? Stay with me, all right, Vita? Stay with me."

"Hey... Kyon?" The voice was little more than a whisper. "Funny... thing, just occurred... to me. For a guy... you're actually... hhh... pretty... hhh... cute..."

"Vita? Vita? C'mon, that wasn't funny. Seriously, stop it, will you... Vita?"

Within the Eye, the watcher smiled. This was what he had been preparing for. The months of isolation, of despair, of glorious decay... all for this moment. And as he watched the changing expressions on his weapon's face as he cradled a small, ragged shape in his arms, he knew that he'd got the timing exactly right.

It took ten minutes, all told – slightly longer than the ideal, but entirely acceptable. The weapon put his tiny burden down, dragging the sack over to create a makeshift pillow.

"I'm sorry, Vita. Oh God, I'm sorry. Stahlwind B-2."

There was a stirring beneath the little one's heavy greatcoat, strange organic sounds permeating through the thick wool as faint, dirty red light illuminated the room. When it was over, she sat up, her impromptu blanket falling away.

The watcher saw the look in his weapon's eyes as he beheld his creation, felt the last embers of poisonous hope die within him as the creature's mouths opened in a wordless, mindless scream, and felt his shattered consciousness yawn before him like an empty vessel ready to be filled. He had prepared a conduit, of course. Months before, when the weapon had first come to this place, thinking it a safe refuge, he had invited the Queen of Plagues into his heart, and the being who had replaced her was finally ready to take him up on the offer.

Nurgle, Lord of Decay, third of the Gods of Chaos, entered his victim's mind and got to work.


Three subjective hours later, the Old God retreated to the Eye. Everything was still proceeding as planned, and he'd made some very definite progress, but the forging was far more time-consuming and stressful than even he had anticipated. The sheer metaphysical energies involved alone...

This was why he had not begun sooner, and why he had been forced to start now. Less time between forging and activation meant less time for the others to discover his personal modifications to their fresh new superweapon, but if he left it too late, all his effort would be for naught as someone else made their move first – loyalty, after all, had never been much of a family trait. As things stood, he would barely be able to get things running by the time the others' much-vaunted Stargate project failed.

Of course, he would first have to make sure that it did fail. Whilst the forces arrayed against Bloodhaven seemed reasonably competent, he'd never been one to leave things to chance, and the countermeasure brought up at the morning meeting presented some problems that he would have to address... without leaving too much evidence of his involvement.

Fortunately, he had exactly the tools for the job, created many months before in their initial encounters with the universe in question. They were, of course, supposed to be discarded along with everything else once the dimension's continual stability and prosperity was no longer a strategic objective, but unlike his brothers – so eager for the vivid, the fresh, the new – he had never been good at throwing things away.

No – that's a lie, isn't it? It was always easy, so easy I didn't even notice I was doing it long before the C'tan rose. Grandfather Nurgle, so many children he couldn't even remember their faces...

And then one. Just one. And we know what happened to her, don't we?

The Old God did what was necessary, feeling the echoes of his disciples' deaths slowly begin to trickle back from half a multiverse away. He hoped they would find peace. He'd be sending a lot more after them soon enough.


The Glory of Origin was not the ultimate weapon of the ascended posthumans called the Ori. It was, however, pretty close.

The dreadnought was two-and-a-half kilometres long, over twice the size of a standard Ori warship, and correspondingly heavily-armed. It had four prow beam cannons, each capable of razing a continent down to the bedrock, two slightly smaller ones on each flank, and hundreds of plasma pulseguns of various calibres arranged into batteries all over its hull. Its six onboard gates could disgorge an endless tide of soldiers from garrison-planets a galaxy away, its hangars held over two thousand heavily-armed fighter-bombers, and it was crewed by no less than twelve Priors, the unstoppable warrior-priests who served as the heralds of Origin.

Normally, the Glory would never have ventured outside its home-galaxy, the seat of the Ori's power. It was more a symbol than an active warship, a monument to the living gods' power to keep the congregation in line. They had never come up against anything nasty enough to warrant actually using it in combat until that terrible day above Unenlightened 157, the planet called 'Bloodhaven', when they had lost over sixteen warships in less than four hours. There were strange and troubling things dwelling within this galaxy, and if it were to be delivered into the cleansing light of Origin, extreme measures would be required.

Even so, Commander Matheon could not help but feel that the five hundred warships which had joined the Glory in the Ver Kadros system were perhaps a bit much. Especially since they'd originally been under the impression that four of their vessels would be enough to pacify the entire galaxy.

His own ship, the Blessed Flame, was on patrol in the galactic west, the utmost border of the Ori's current domain. Beyond were the remaining worlds occupied by the Jaffa, genetically-engineered humans once enslaved by the alien parasites called the Goa'uld, as well as the planet of the Tau'ri, their greatest foes and the ones responsible for bringing their attention to this galaxy. The planet called Earth.

Matheon and his fellow commanders were gathered in the Blessed Flame's officers' mess, one wall of which was dominated by a gigantic viewscreen. On the other side of the screen was a living god.

Adria stood in the primary hanger of the Glory of Origin, facing rank upon rank of kneeling, silver-armoured soldiers. Even given the size of the screen, she was tiny, a slim, dark-haired teenager in simple blue robes, and yet even in the Divine Blade's mess, a hundred light-years away, they could feel the power that emanated from her. The supreme commander of the Ori army, the child-messiah of Origin, the perfect fusion of mortal and divine, she was to a Prior what a Prior was to an unenlightened layman. The first living hybrid of human and Ori. The Orici.

"Brothers and sisters," she began in her clear, youthful voice, "we have suffered much. This crusade, this great enlightenment, has dragged on for too long, forced us to sacrifice too much of our blessed creed on the altar of necessity, and even caused... divisions in our ranks. However, with every great trial, there is great opportunity. When the corrupt and decadent Ancients' Stargates fell, hundreds died, but the purity of our own blessed gates endured, and our enemies now have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide from our righteous blades. Even before that, when Chaos arrived in our universe, armed our enemies, and turned them against us, we endured their attacks, we burned their stronghold to ashes, and we learned the secrets of their weapons. We are invincible, we are unstoppable, and now, my brothers and sisters, now... we shall be immortal."

The assembled soldiery roared, brandishing their gleaming new hellguns. Even as far away as the camera was, Matheon could still see the faint glow of the weapons' telltale runes. Why do those disturb me so much? Why do they feel so... familiar? He semiconsciously caressed the pistol at his hip, its reassuring warmth radiating through his worn leather glove.

"Origin has always been the true path to ascension, and those that walk it do so alongside the gods of ages past. However, that path has been blocked. You know of the Ancients, the Ori's fallen brethren who selfishly seek to keep that power for themselves, and you know that only through unbending faith in our gods may they gain the strength to reclaim humanity's birthright from their dark kin's grasping claws. I am here to tell you that this is no longer the case. The Ancients are no longer an obstacle, and with one final effort, the way to ascension shall be reopened."

The broadcast had switched to a camera closer to Adria, her beautiful face alight with divine benevolence, and Matheon leaned in, losing himself in her words – before a gleam of metal at her throat caught his eye.

"We drove Chaos from our universe, but they have returned. At the site of their defeat, in the ruins of Bloodhaven, they prepare a dark ritual as I speak, a ritual intended to overturn existence itself, and yet as vile as their sorcery is, as loathsome as their goals are, even this can serve the purposes of the Ori."

In every picture of the Orici Matheon had seen, she had worn a simple silver pendant in the shape of the symbol of Origin. It was not just a badge of rank – it was an open secret that the tiny device contained an immensely powerful personal shield, rendering its owner impervious to anything short of an orbital bombardment – and most followers of Origin devoutly believed that she would be able to shrug that off, too. In none of those pictures, though, had the pendant looked quite as it did now.

Its clean lines had been distorted out of shape, the horseshoe-teardrop of Origin becoming something that seemed simultaneously fiery and piscine. Matheon only knew of one other thing that even looked remotely similar – the runic script decorating the Ori army's new weaponry. It's just a coincidence, it's got to be- no, no, this isn't right, why do I...?

"This is why I am here before you," Adria continued on the screen. "This is why this grand armada has been assembled, why we have pulled back from our assaults on the heretic Tau'ri and Free Jaffa. We will go to Bloodhaven. We will crush the slaves of Chaos for their temerity. We shall take their power, and the Ori shall burn away its darkness with their blessed light. It will be our final weapon against the Ancients and our final key for the door to ascension, and taking it shall be our final act in this vale of tears before we transcend these weak, fragile mortal shells. A million years of dreams shall be fulfilled through your skill, your strength, and your faith, and your rewards shall be limitless for it. Children of Origin, will you follow me?"

Matheon turned away as the cheers rose, staggering out of the door as needles of pain slid into his temples. His comrades turned to him, concern evident on their faces, but he waved them off. Talk to someone. I have to... talk to someone.

The corridor outside was almost deserted – most of the crew were busy watching the broadcast. As a result, Matheon had an uninterrupted view of its structure, and what he saw was profoundly unsettling.

The inside of an Ori warship was an elegant marriage of form and function, seamlessly incorporating the symbols of Origin into its architecture without compromising utility or practicality. Every room was geometric perfection, a work of minimalist artistic beauty that did not waste a single square centimetre. Now, though, those perfect lines were subtly twisted if you looked at them from the right angle, the iconography was altered in a way that was almost, but not quite, blasphemous, and even the light had changed, casting troubling shadows where none had been previously. I'm tired, it's all in my head, there has to be an explanation...

He shook his head, continuing on, and yet his unease did not leave him. At times, in fact, it grew – when he passed the armoury, aglow with the burning runes decorating its new weapons, when he listened to the psalms in the Deck Six chapel, their familiar rhythms now indefinably unfamiliar, and when he overheard a pair of soldiers gossiping about the rebel attacks in the Ver Ilanth system. Since when did we have rebels, anyway? What could they possibly be rebelling against?

Eventually, he arrived on the ship's bridge. It was remarkably small and cramped for the nerve centre of an eleven-hundred-metre-long spacecraft, and held only the bare minimum of equipment and personnel required for safe, reliable manual piloting. The reason for this was sat in the control chair at the centre of the room, his glowing staff held upright in one wrinkled hand.

It was not, strictly speaking, true that Priors gave up their names after being chosen by the Ori for their position. Instead, their names simply became irrelevant next to the greater truth of their existence as priests of Origin, guides on the path to ascension, and instruments of the gods, gradually withering away through underuse until only the Prior remained.

That was not the only erosion of their individuality, either. Despite the fact that there were no official recruitment restrictions regarding age, race, or gender, most Priors tended to blur into each other after a while – pale old men in immaculate grey robes who all wore identical expressions of pious benevolence. The Prior captaining the Blessed Flame was no exception, and in fact was doing a particularly good job at being piously benevolent as Matheon approached him.

"How may I help you, my son?"

"Um... a minor matter, blessed Prior," Matheon replied, bowing his head. "If you have more pressing duties here, it need not concern you. I merely wished to speak to you if you had the time. To offer confession."

The old man's lined face crinkled into a smile. "Then you're in luck. Our patrol route has already been mapped out, and we will not be approaching hostile territory for another two days. Besides, what could be more important for a shepherd than tending to the needs of his flock? Lieutenant, I'm switching to manual. I'll be back in a bit."

The helmsman saluted. "Of course, my lord."

The light emanating from the Prior's staff died, and his chair leaned forward with a slow, gentle whine. Across the room, the bridge crew busied themselves with the controls at their stations, calling out sensor readings and navigational bearings to each other. Matheon moved forward, offering the priest his hand as he stood up.

"Ah, thank you, commander. To my quarters, then?"

"As you wish, blessed Prior." See? It's fine. He's a Prior. He'll know the answers. Won't he?


"So, my son, what did you want to talk about?"

The Prior's quarters were, as befitted his rank, the most spacious and opulent on the ship, but were curiously short on the personal touches that might indicate someone lived there. The only nods to individuality were the pair of low, expensive armchairs that he and Matheon were currently sitting in, and the elderly, heavily-annotated copy of the Book of Origin leaning against the end of one of the bookcases. Priors didn't have personal lives. That was sort of the point, really.

"To be honest with you, my lord, I'm not too comfortable with the direction the crusade's been taking."

The priest raised an eyebrow. "Oh? That is serious. A loss of faith can be a terrible thing. So what is it that makes you so uncomfortable?"

"Well, lots of things, really. The new weapons. The new missions. The new prayers. The way I keep feeling that every time I turn around, one more tiny, infinitesimal thing will be different somehow. I understand the need for change, blessed Prior. We live in an ever-shifting universe, and we must adapt as well in order to best spread the word of Origin. This, though? This is too much, too fast. This is not the military I grew up with. This is not even the faith I grew up with. Sometimes it feels like... no, I shouldn't."

"Please, proceed."

"It's foolish. You'll laugh, or worse, think I've gone mad. Perhaps I have."

The Prior smiled. "This is a confessional, commander. A way to unburden yourself from your doubts, your fears, and your sins. What value would it have if I were to mock you for what you feel?"

"Very well. It feels like... like our orders do not come from the Ori any more. That you, me, our civilisation as a whole... we're being manipulated somehow."

A wheezy chuckle. "Well, that's perfectly natural, commander. I believe that's the reaction you're supposed to have when you're being manipulated."

"I... beg your pardon?"

"Okay, technically, you're being manipulated twice over," the old man continued, blithely indifferent to the interesting colour that his guest's face was turning. "Of course, only the second one's particularly germane to our conversation at the moment. The second one's more in the way of background. Oh, I might as well tell you about that one anyway. There's been far too many lies in this universe already. We need a bit of truth to balance it out. Origin is a scam, commander. The Ori have never ascended another mortal, and they have no intention of starting any time soon. You're a pawn in an intergalactic confidence game, intended to provide a cabal of jumped-up godlings with all the power they could ever dream of."

Matheon's jaw slowly fell open. He could not have spoken if he wanted to.

"Incidentally, you're aware of the security mechanism the Ori have in place in case Priors go rogue? The spontaneous combustion triggered by blasphemous thought, word, and deed that ensures their ultimate purity? Of course you are. You were at Ver Kollath, you've seen it in action yourself. So why am I not a cinder on the floor right now? No, no, you don't have to answer yet. Just think about it. Independent thought is good. We need more of it around here."

The Prior snapped his fingers, and the Book of Origin on his shelf crumbled into dust, seemingly aging centuries in fractions of a second.

"Anyway, you've heard all this before, right? Nothing I've told you so far has been that far off from Tau'ri propaganda, and that means the Ori have a good number of answers for it. Very convenient, eh? Thing is, you have to admit that it makes a lot of sense anyway. If the Ori and Ancients can both derive power from worship, why are only the Ori doing it? Why haven't we seen temples to the Ancients, dark rituals and blasphemous faiths as far as the eye can see? I mean, they're evil, megalomaniacal monsters, aren't they? The Book of Origin says so. And yet who're the ones stampeding across the galaxy, forcing everyone they come across to convert or die? What evils have we seen the Ancients commit? What makes them worse than, say, us? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

"Enemies of the Ori will show no mercy in their attempt to lead us astray from the true path," Matheon quoted automatically, "and likewise we must attack with all the strength we have been given."

"Or, in other words, if a bunch of unarmed villagers tell us that Origin doesn't sound like their cup of tea, it's our moral obligation to slaughter them and torch their homes from orbit. Because they're clearly a serious threat to our millennia-old religion. Oh, don't tell me that never happens, we've both done it enough times to lose count. As a matter of fact, shouldn't you have shot me by now? I was under the impression that that's the done thing in these situations."

"W-well, yes, but... but you're a Prior," the commander croaked. "It'd just bounce off."

"Good point, but that's not the real reason, is it? Admit it, you're curious. You're wondering how the hell a Prior came to be spouting this gibberish. You're wondering which bit of the Book of Origin endorses changing prayerbooks, defacing holy symbols, and using our enemies' dark magic against them. You're wondering, in short, whether you've gone mad or everyone else has. Like I said, independent thought. Wonderful stuff. Well, commander, I'm pleased to tell you that it's the latter. And if you give me the time, I'll explain how and why, because the truth is a rare and precious thing, and I sincerely believe that you and this universe's other poor dupes deserve to hear it. Even if you don't listen, even if you don't want to believe me, it needs to be told. Oh, and I just accidentally-on-purpose rusted the door shut, so it's not like you've got much of a choice in the matter. Shall I continue, or would you like a bit of a break? I can get you a drink if you want."

Matheon did not answer. His headache had returned, along with a faint but very distracting nausea. Maybe that fish I ate yesterday isn't agreeing with me? That would explain quite a lot, actually.

"So that stony silence is a 'please proceed, blessed Prior', then? Excellent. You see, the thing about the whole Ori conspiracy is that it's been going on for some time now. I mean, our entire civilisation is built on it, after all. The recent changes, though, are just that – recent. So what does the one have to do with the other? Simple. We've established that the Ori, hallowed be their name, are venal, power-hungry little gits. As a result, when someone dangles the promise of even more power under their proverbial noses, they'll leap on it like a fat kid on a bacon sandwich. You can see where I'm going with this, yes?"

"You're saying that the Ori are working with Chaos? Consorting with our enemies?" The backs of the commander's hands were starting to itch. He took off his gloves, and absent-mindedly scratched away.

"Oh, not intentionally. I think I've made it clear by now that the Ori aren't the world's greatest team players. But that doesn't mean they can't be steered. Guided. Manipulated. The technology we stole from the Tau'ri, the stuff Chaos had given to them... did you ever wonder why our copies have all those runes on them? Of course you didn't. That was the point."

The Prior gestured with his staff, and Matheon's holster burst open. His bulky hellpistol floated out, the runes on its casing sputtering fitfully as the priest caught it in one outstretched hand.

"Verses to sway the minds of those who look upon them," he continued, running his finger along the lines of alien script, "to lower suspicions, to subtly alter their decisions, and, eventually, to turn them into unknowing servants for a greater purpose. We never stole these weapons, commander – we were given them. The blueprints were tainted, designed to near-invisibly alter our entire civilisation until we were nothing but an extension of their will. Didn't you wonder about the Stargates? Why the Ancients' ones shut down and ours didn't? Simple. We were useful. They weren't."

Matheon felt something give in his right hand and looked down, seeing an entire patch of skin caught on his fingernails. He tried to stand up, only for white-hot pain to lance through his joints as his vision swam drunkenly.

"Of course, there is such a thing as being too useful. I mean, they're called Chaos, right? Strife and turmoil is their bread and butter, and the entire galaxy being brought under the Ori's heel wouldn't help much with that. So these runes are deliberately imperfect. They work most of the time, but sometimes... sometimes people wake up and smell the hellfire. That's where the rebels came from. Opposed to their fellow tools, and yet nonetheless tools themselves. Or, at least, that's what I was told. I've never actually met one before." A warm, genuine, and slightly regretful smile. "It's a real pleasure, commander, and for what it's worth, I'm sorry I had to do this."

The commander tried to speak, but could not. Bile was searing the back of his throat. He doubled over, letting out a noise halfway between a retch and a scream as his joints protested again and something inside him gave way.

There were black wisps drifting down in front of his eyes. It took him a moment to realise that they were his hair, and a moment more to realise that bits of his skin were still attached to them.

"Neither the Ori nor the Chaos Gods can be allowed to keep existing," the Prior continued. "They are parasites, causing unending suffering and giving nothing in return. There is not a single redeeming feature between them. And yet... and yet merely destroying them, wiping out their followers, erasing all memory of their existence... even that will not be enough to let the healing begin. They are merely symptoms of a greater disease. Both were born from mortals – the Ori were once men who dreamed of godhood, and Chaos, for all their otherworldly might, are nothing but fragments of our psyches made flesh. They are our children, our responsibility, and they are not alone. Can you tell me that humans would not slaughter each other without the Ori whispering into their minds? That they would not murder, rape, or steal without Chaos urging them on? The disease can be treated time and again, its tendrils driven back, but there is only one true cure, one final salvation for the multiverse. You should know what it is, commander. It's happening to you right now."

Matheon did not hear any of this. There was only the pain, the weariness, and the vague, disconnected feeling of betrayal. Then the dark came, and took everything else away.


The Prior waited until all movement had ceased, bent over, and closed the commander's wide, staring eyes. He spread his consciousness, watching the lights of his crew's souls fade as his contagion claimed them, and sighed. I couldn't even tell them the truth first. I couldn't tell them why they had to die.

The door to his quarters presented no obstacle, exploding in a cloud of rust as his hand touched it. He returned to the bridge, drinking in the silence, with the weary, stumbling pace of a man who knew his journey was almost over.

The officers lay crumpled at their posts, their bodies already decaying. In a matter of hours, there would be nothing left of them but faint stains on their seats. The command chair hummed into life as he sat down in it, warning lights blinking across the insides of his eyes. He quelled them in moments, adjusting air-processers, fuel lines, and energy ratios with practiced ease, and keyed in a series of coordinates into the hyperdrive.

Earth. Home of the Tau'ri, the arrogant, backward tribe who dared to think of themselves and only themselves as 'human'. His master's chosen weapons, and the recipients of his final gift. I hope they make good use of it.

The Prior made a few final checks. The systems were decrypted, the engines were stocked with more than enough fuel, and Adria's speech was recorded onto the bridge computers. The Tau'ri would be suspicious, of course, but there would be no way that they could resist such a vital opportunity, and for all that they were small, weak, and hopelessly ignorant, even the tiniest, most mindless bacterium could fell the greatest behemoth if introduced properly. He understood that very well.

He thought back over his life – his family, long-abandoned, the worlds he had conquered, the civilisations he had slaughtered, and that final, transcendent moment when he had been shown the truth. None of it mattered any more. All lives, even those as long and sinful as his, must end, and in that ending he would find peace.

Jethras of Ver Isca, once a Prior of the Ori and now a disciple of the Lord of Decay, closed his eyes and let the plagues he carried devour him from within.

It is done, Grandfather. Thanks to you, we die free. Every one of us dies free.

Thirty seconds later, the ship registered that it was no longer receiving signals from its command chair. It recorded this information in its automated log, along with the housekeeping requirements for Deck Nine, and continued onwards.


Author's Notes: So there you are. Our longest chapter yet. I believe I mentioned before that this is a single-divergence AU of the Open Door, and by now, I imagine that a fair few of you will have a pretty good idea of precisely what that divergence was.

Oh, and never let it be said that I forget a character, as much as others (especially said characters) might wish otherwise. I have plans. Great and terrible plans. Some of them even involve the continued plot of this story.

See you next time... and believe me, things are going to get messy. Very messy.