The surface of planet designation P4H 556.
"Jack!" yelled Daniel when Willow suddenly snapped her eyes open. She was breathing hard and clutched her chest. Her face was flushed, sweat forming on her forehead as she doubled over onto the ground from her cross-legged position.
Both O'Neill and Teal'c rushed to Willow's side, shocked at her condition. She was squirming, as if trying to get up, but she couldn't.
"Willow, stay still. Try to calm down," Daniel said gently.
O'Neill pressed two fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. It was racing—like she'd just run a full-speed marathon.
"Her heart's racing. It's fast… really fast," O'Neill said, visibly worried. He looked up at Daniel. "We need to go. Now. Daniel, dial the—"
Suddenly, even as she was still panting heavily, Willow grabbed the Colonel's hand. Her eyes remained tightly shut, her face twisted in pain as she shook her head 'no.' Then she stopped moving and laid the side of her head on the ground. She needed to gather herself.
Her heart felt like it would leap out of her chest. The pain was sharp—almost unbearable. Willow wanted to tell O'Neill what she was feeling, but she had just made contact with Major Carter on the Prometheus. Carter was alone out there… and Willow had promised to watch her back.
If she told O'Neill about the pain in her chest, he'd insist they return to the SGC.
"O'Neill, she must be returned to the SGC," Teal'c said, concern etched across his face.
"No… not yet… please," Willow murmured, her speech slurred. "Made contact with Major… need a few minutes… to rest… then continue."
O'Neill, Daniel, and Teal'c exchanged looks. The same thought ran through each of their minds: Willow's idea had actually worked. She had performed a real spell—a location spell using one of Carter's uniforms—on several alien worlds while searching for the Prometheus.
Then, just minutes ago, Willow, seated cross-legged, had yelped. Her head snapped back as her body tensed for several minutes. Blood started dripping from her nose. Moments later, her eyes flew open, and she collapsed sideways onto the ground.
O'Neill placed a hand on her arm. She was in bad shape. They needed to get her back to the SGC. They had tried several other planets, but this was the only one where the spell had succeeded. That likely meant the Prometheus was somewhere close by.
The SGC could always contact the Tok'ra to send a cargo ship and search the nearby area.
Then Willow whispered—her voice faint and filled with pain. What she said next froze SG-1 in place.
"Major... Carter… alone. Crew… gone… hull damaged," she slurred, shaking her head. "Corrosive gas…"
"Red, what do you mean she's alone? Where's the rest of the crew?" asked O'Neill, his voice soft but tense.
Daniel added, "And what do you mean by corrosive gas?"
"I… I… need to rest… a minute," Willow breathed, and her body went limp.
O'Neill checked her pulse again, sighing in relief when he felt it slowing.
"Her nosebleed has stopped too," he told the others.
Daniel frowned. "Jack, she still needs medical attention."
O'Neill was torn. Stay on the planet, or return to the SGC? Seconds later, he made the call.
"Daniel, dial the Gate," he ordered. "We're getting her medical help. And while she's with Fraiser, the SGC can contact the Tok'ra."
Daniel nodded and ran toward the Stargate.
O'Neill turned back to move Willow—only for her to open her eyes just as he reached for her.
"Please, Colonel… not yet," she pleaded in an exhausted tone. "Gimme a few minutes… she has a concussion… I need to be there… to try and keep her awake… Just… just a few minutes…"
Then her eyes closed again.
O'Neill pressed his lips into a line and raised his radio. "Daniel, go back to the SGC on your own. Tell them to contact the Tok'ra. Get a search and rescue going."
Teal'c turned to him. "O'Neill, are you certain of this?"
"She's asleep," the Colonel replied after checking her pulse and holding his hand near her nose to feel her breath. "We have to trust her, T. We have to trust she knows what she's doing."
USAF Vessel Prometheus, Location Unknown.
Major Carter had managed to move from the mess hall to the engine room. She was seated on the floor, her back against one of the control consoles, wondering if her vision of Willow had been real. That incident had taken place a little over an hour ago.
"She couldn't be real," Carter kept repeating to herself. "She was just a hallucination." She shook her head and pinched her arm as her eyelids began to grow heavy. "I'm losing my mind."
Just then, she noticed Colonel O'Neill—or rather, a hallucination of him—standing in the doorway of the engine room. Carter huffed. She was so tired. She had been fighting sleep for… she wasn't even sure how long anymore.
"I was wondering when you were gonna show up," she whispered to the hallucination.
While Carter was speaking to the hallucination of O'Neill, Willow found herself back aboard the Prometheus. Back on the planet, she had awakened and been helped into a seated position by the real O'Neill. When Teal'c and O'Neill asked if she was alright, she nodded. O'Neill informed her that Daniel had sent a message to the Tok'ra, though they hadn't received a response yet.
Willow felt exhausted. A heavy pressure rested on her chest as she closed her eyes. She reassured O'Neill that she would be fine. At the very least, Carter needed to be informed that the Tok'ra had been contacted and that a cargo ship would be sent as soon as possible. O'Neill and Teal'c exchanged a look. Willow hoped she didn't look as bad as she felt.
"You sure, Red?" O'Neill asked.
Still keeping her eyes closed, Willow nodded. She tapped into the magic of the planet again and activated a location spell. Instantly, she felt sick. Once this was over, she promised herself not to use magic again.
A moment later, her non-corporeal self was soaring through the planet's atmosphere, into orbit, and then out into space. She drifted through stellar dust, micrometeorites, nebulae—until finally, she saw the Prometheus within a gas cloud. Close to it hovered a larger ship she hadn't noticed the first time she visited.
Could that be the alien ship Major Carter mentioned? Willow wondered. A question for another time. She also considered whether the alien ship had retrieved the escape pods, as she hadn't seen any on her way there.
Willow passed through the cloud and reappeared in one of the Prometheus' corridors. She immediately clutched her chest. The stinging sensation was intense—far worse than before—and she stumbled sideways, leaning against the metallic wall, panting to calm her breathing. Suddenly, the entire ship shook violently.
'Oh no. Not good,' Willow thought. The ship was groaning, and she could swear she heard the deck plating creak. Taking a deep breath, she began to run.
"Major, we have a problem! Major Carter, where are you?" she yelled, deciding to head for the bridge. If Carter wasn't already there, she'd likely arrive soon to check on the cause of the shaking and the unsettling noises.
Willow turned a corner—and ran straight through Major Carter, who had emerged from a side corridor. Willow skidded to a stop and spun around to face the very surprised Carter, who was standing stock-still with a look of shock on her face.
"Willow! What the—?" Carter shuddered. "That was… just weird."
Willow nodded. "Yeah. It's weird going through someone's body. Totally ghost vibes." It reminded her of the time she'd become a ghost on Halloween in high school. The ship shook violently again. Carter struggled to stay upright, but Willow remained unaffected.
When the shaking stopped, they both bolted toward the bridge.
"What are you doing here?" Carter shouted as another tremor rattled the ship, the walls groaning ominously.
"To make sure you're still awake… and to tell you Daniel contacted the Tok'ra," Willow said, trying to steady her racing heart. "No response yet, but we're hoping they send a cargo ship or something ASAP."
"Willow, are you really here?" Carter asked, glancing sideways at her as they jogged side by side.
"Yes, ma'am," Willow replied with a small smile. She could only manage that much; her body was aching. Maybe it was from being out of magical practice for so long? Or was it because of the immense amount of power being focused through her?
A short while later, they reached the bridge. Carter rushed to one of the consoles and studied the screen. She whispered, "Oh no." Then, louder, she added, "Parts of the hull have already corroded enough that pieces have broken off. We're losing air… and the emergency doors aren't working because the servos have been damaged. The gas is seeping inside."
Willow asked if whole sections could be sealed off.
Carter nodded. She looked up from the screen. "Three decks on the port side have been sealed, but those doors won't hold for long. The gas is extremely corrosive."
Willow gulped. They didn't have much time.
Then Carter gasped. Willow noticed the major staring past her.
"What do you want?" Carter asked, her voice sharp.
"Um… Major? Who are you talking to?" Willow asked, turning around. There was no one there.
"The little girl behind you. You don't see her?" Carter asked.
"No, ma'am. What's she doing?"
"She's blowing bubbles," Carter said.
"Bubbles?" Willow echoed.
They both froze, exchanging a look. The same thought had hit them at the same time. They pointed at each other.
They could activate the hyperdrive.
Carter explained she had tried, but the hyperspace window wouldn't form due to interference from the gas.
Willow suggested that maybe they didn't need a hyperspace window. They could activate the hyperdrive and create a bubble around the ship instead.
Carter's eyes lit up. "A hyperspace bubble would partially push the Prometheus into a parallel space-time. That might be enough to free us from the gas cloud's drag."
Willow nodded, but then swayed to the left, nearly losing her balance. Carter narrowed her eyes and stepped around the console to reach for her—but her hands passed right through Willow's body.
"Willow?"
Willow clutched her chest again. She thought she could handle the power coursing through her, but clearly, she was wrong.
"Sorry, Major," Willow breathed, wincing in pain. "Looks like you got it and…"
She flickered away—disappearing once more.
Major Carter was left alone again. But this time, she knew what to do. And she got to work, all the while hoping Willow would be okay.
The surface of planet P4H 556.
"O'Neill!" barked Teal'c, just as Willow gasped and opened her eyes wide. She clutched her chest with one hand and collapsed to the left. Colonel O'Neill caught her before she hit the ground. Her face contorted in pain as she struggled to breathe.
"Dial the Stargate!" O'Neill ordered urgently. "We're heading back to the SGC!"
Teal'c picked up Willow's weapon and sprinted toward the Stargate, which was a good five minutes away at a run.
"Red?!" O'Neill called out as he carried Willow in his arms, running behind Teal'c. "Red!"
He glanced down. Willow's eyes were closed, and her face looked peaceful—no longer pained. A bad feeling twisted in his gut. He stopped abruptly and laid her on the hard ground. Feeling for a pulse, he found none.
"No, no, no," he whispered, unzipping her tactical vest and beginning CPR. He could hear Teal'c returning. O'Neill performed chest compressions, then gave her mouth-to-mouth, then back to compressions. He checked again—there it was. A weak pulse.
He exhaled with relief. "Come on, Red!" he urged, as Teal'c took off once more. O'Neill followed close behind, shouting at Willow to hold on. "We're almost at the Gate!"
As he ran, Willow stirred in his arms. Her voice was faint, a whisper. "Major Carter did it, Colonel… She's coming home."
The Stargate came into view. Teal'c reached the DHD and quickly began dialling. Once the coordinates were entered and the wormhole established, he punched in the GDO code. They rushed through the Stargate.
O'Neill didn't stop when his feet hit the ramp on the Earth side. He sprinted down, shouting, "Walter! Notify the infirmary! Get Fraiser out here—now!"
Daniel Jackson burst from the control room, hurrying to meet them with Teal'c. Teal'c noted aloud, "Her lips are turning blue."
O'Neill stopped again and gently laid Willow on the floor. He immediately began CPR. His heart pounded in his chest. Teal'c stood nearby, clearly concerned. Daniel stood with his hands on top of his head, staring down as O'Neill counted compressions and delivered rescue breaths.
After two agonizing minutes, her heart started beating again.
At that moment, Dr. Fraiser arrived with two nurses and a gurney.
Willow was placed on the gurney, and leads from portable medical machines were quickly attached to her skin. Her oxygen levels were low, so an oxygen mask was immediately placed over her face. Her heartbeat was unstable and concerning. Without delay, the medical team rushed her down the corridor, with SG-1 running alongside the gurney toward the examination room.
As they moved, the sound of the heart monitor echoed through the hallway. Then, suddenly, it flatlined again. Dr. Fraiser climbed onto the gurney and began performing CPR. She continued for a full minute before Willow's heart was restarted. A few minutes later, just before the gurney was pushed through the doors of the examination room, she flatlined again.
Just as SG-1 prepared to follow, a nurse stopped them, asking them to wait outside. The medical staff would do everything they could, and SG-1 would be informed as soon as there was an update.
New Orleans
Celeste Duvall knew death was coming before the knock ever sounded at her door. The bones she had cast the night before told her as much—shadows swallowing light, a cleansing flame reducing all to ash. But knowing did not mean escaping.
She sat in her small parlour, the scent of burning incense thick in the air, staring at the wooden front door as the knock came. It was soft at first, then insistent. She did not answer. The knock came again, but this time the door began to rot at the edges, the wood aging centuries in seconds before collapsing inward.
Three figures stood in the doorway, draped in black robes. Their faces were hidden under the shadows of their hoods, though their unnaturally glowing eyes shone through. Celeste rose slowly, her fingers tightening around the charm at her throat.
"I have seen what you bring," she whispered.
One of the cultists—similar to the ones Faith had faced at the safehouse a couple of hours earlier—rasped, "And yet you stayed."
Celeste threw a handful of white powder into the air—a protective barrier. The cultist merely exhaled, and the powder burned away like paper catching fire. Celeste screamed as an invisible force tore her from the ground and flung her backward into her own altar.
As her bones snapped, she felt her breath being stolen—her connection to the mystical forces ripped from her like a severed limb. The cultists approached, chanting, and Celeste felt her soul being peeled away, piece by piece, until nothing remained but silence.
They left her home burning, a hollow corpse staring at the ceiling, her eyes gouged out.
The Witches of Black Hollow.
In a hidden glade deep in the Vermont wilderness, the Black Hollow Coven gathered for their nightly circle—unaware that this would be their last.
Twelve men and women stood around a roaring fire, chanting ancient words passed down through generations. Their leader, an elderly woman named Eleanor Grayson, raised her hands to the sky, calling upon the protective spirits that had watched over them for centuries.
The attack came without warning.
The air shimmered like a heat mirage before a black void tore open above them. Figures in dark robes with glowing eyes dropped from the darkness, their hands outstretched.
The magic in the air vanished, sucked away as if into a bottomless well. The witches choked on their own spells, their voices strangled by unseen hands. One by one, they collapsed—lifeforce siphoned away, their bodies withering into husks. Their deaths were eerily silent; none were able to send out a warning about what was coming.
Los Angeles.
Brianna Mercado had read tarot cards for some of the wealthiest people in the city. She had whispered truths to celebrities, unraveled secrets for politicians, and guided lost souls through her cards.
But on the night she died, her cards showed only one thing — The Tower, The Hanged Man, and Death — over and over again, no matter how many times she shuffled.
She was closing her shop when the lights flickered. The street outside was empty, eerily silent for Los Angeles.
A chill ran down her spine as she turned the lock.
"Do you know why we are here?" a voice rasped from the darkness.
She spun around. Three figures with glowing eyes and black robes stood inside her shop. She hadn't even heard them enter.
"Reading's closed," she said, forcing a smile. "Come back tomorrow."
One of them reached for a candlestick on the counter and turned it to ash with a single touch.
Brianna backed away, her back now pressed against the front door. "You don't scare me."
"We should," one of them whispered.
The tarot cards on the table burst into flame. Brianna tried to scream, but her voice vanished — not silenced, but stolen.
The last thing she saw was one of the figures rushing toward her, dagger in hand. She never felt the blade slicing open her throat. She gurgled blood before collapsing onto the floor with a thud.
All over the world, witches and covens were being eradicated, just as the Watchers had been. Some Potentials were taken, others killed, and the rest were left panicking. In New York, the Lunar Circle — a group of witches and seers — was wiped out in their own sanctum, their bodies found with blackened tongues. In San Francisco, a famous hedge witch was burned alive in her apartment, the fire leaving no trace of accelerant.
For now, Buffy, Giles, and the Scoobies remained unaware of the full extent of what was happening. Faith was still on her way to Sunnydale. Even the most powerful coven on the side of the light — the Devon Coven — could not see what was coming.
The Unmaker had ensured a veil covered his actions. And when he lifted that veil, he would revel in the panic erupting through the supernatural world.
SGC, an hour later.
Colonel O'Neill and the rest of SG-1—minus Major Carter—were waiting outside the examination room. They were joined by General Hammond, who was pacing the hallway. He had received a quick briefing from O'Neill: they had been searching for the Prometheus with little to no success, even with Willow using the mystical energy of planets to boost her location spell.
Then there was what happened on P4H-556. Willow claimed to have reached the Prometheus after enhancing her spell on that world, but she looked exhausted. She fell asleep for an hour, then resumed the search. When Willow woke up, she told O'Neill and Teal'c that the Major was trapped in a cloud of corrosive gas and was completely alone. She then performed the boosted spell again, but this time she didn't fare well after returning from it.
O'Neill had ended his report to the General with a vague gesture toward the examination room and said, "And… that happened."
Just then, Walter's voice came over the intercom:
"General Hammond to the control room. General Hammond to the control room."
"Teal'c and I will stay here, Jack," said Daniel. The Colonel nodded and followed Hammond to the control room.
A few minutes later, General Hammond and O'Neill rushed up the stairs into the control room. Hammond turned to Walter. "What's going on, Sergeant?"
"Sir, we're receiving a coded subspace burst—audio only," said Walter. He looked at the General and added, "It's the Prometheus, sir."
"Put it on speaker," ordered Hammond.
A male voice came through the speaker: "USAF Prometheus to Stargate Command, do you read?"
"Prometheus, this is General Hammond. Good to hear your voice. What is your status?"
"General, some parts of our hull have been badly damaged, but we're on our way back to Earth through hyperspace."
"Do you have any injuries?" asked Hammond.
"Major Carter seems to be the only one injured. She's in the infirmary now with a nasty concussion," said Colonel Ronson, the ship's commander. "She's out of it, sir."
"Colonel," O'Neill interjected, "did Carter say anything?"
"Something about a Willow and a Grace?" Ronson sounded confused. "We have no one by those names in the crew."
O'Neill and Hammond exchanged a look. So, Willow had been on the ship—at least, her astral form had. But whoever this Grace was, they had no idea.
Hammond leaned toward the mic. "Copy that, Colonel. See to your crew. Godspeed."
"Understood, sir. Prometheus out."
Hammond looked over at O'Neill, who stood with his lips pressed into a thin line.
"This is going to be one interesting report," Hammond muttered.
The Unmaker's Sanctum, somewhere on Earth.
Watchers had been dying all over the world.
Many Potential Slayers had been wiped out—some taken prisoner. He was certain others would be heading for Sunnydale. In fact, he wanted them to. That was where his final ritual would take place, after all. What better way to bring about a new age of the Slayer than by destroying the old one in the very city she was meant to protect?
He suspected some Covens would be warning witches. He welcomed it. Let them run like rats. The Unmaker was certain these Covens would send survivors to Sunnydale as well. Let them all go there. None could defeat him.
However, deep down, he feared one person could be a problem.
Years ago, when he was just a Watcher himself, the Unmaker had heard of a witch named Willow Rosenberg—the only one in hundreds of years to restore a vampire's soul. At the time, he had seen it as an abhorrent act. He had wanted the Council to bring her in for punishment. But his request had been refused. She wasn't registered with the Council; there was nothing tying her to them. Besides, they reasoned, it wasn't as if she would do it again—especially since the vampire in question had been dragged into Acathla's Hell.
But that feat had echoed through the Earth's leylines. To him, it was a defilement of natural law. Returning a soul to the soulless… the temerity of it all. Still, he was ordered to let it go. And being the obedient Watcher he once was, he did. But he had others keep watch. Low-level Watchers would check in on Sunnydale from time to time. Willow cast the occasional small spell—nothing major.
And then one day, she was gone.
Just like that, she vanished from Sunnydale. For the next four years, there were no spells cast. No signs of her magic echoing through the leylines. With a feat as monumental as soul restoration, he had expected her name to surface again—among the witches his cultists tore apart, the covens they shattered, the seers he drained dry in his coordinated attack. But no one mentioned her. She wasn't on the run. She wasn't rallying others. Her name had become a faded echo. Not protected. Not hidden. Just silent.
It made him suspicious.
Why hadn't she been called by Buffy and her Watcher? Didn't she sense the danger?
He scryed for her. He poured the blood of an oracle into an obsidian bowl and gazed through the smoke. He had expected resistance. But the spell found her easily.
She lay unconscious in a small, sterile room, an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. Medical personnel surrounded her.
She was alive. Unconscious. Vulnerable.
There were no wards. No cloaking spells. No ancestral protections. No sacred ground. It was, by every measure, an ordinary place.
Cheyenne Mountain.
It wasn't a Watcher stronghold. Not a coven. Just concrete and steel, and tons of rock.
He attempted a simple portal spell. He opened the necessary channels and chanted softly—
And nothing.
No pushback. No resistance. But the spell simply unraveled, as if the air itself refused to hold it together. He tried again. And again. And again. Each time, he used more force, drawing upon celestial alignments.
Still nothing.
No rift would open. No crack formed in the air. Even his most skilled cultists failed to summon a basic gateway to breach the perimeter.
He paced in frustration, the runes beneath him cracking as his fury boiled to the surface.
"There are no spells here," he hissed. "No wards. No protections. I would feel them. I would consume them!"
But something was wrong. Some force—some subtle disruption—was preventing his magic from locking onto that space within the mountain.
He considered sending cultists through more traditional means. Or opening a portal just outside the mountain. A frontal assault. Slaughter everyone. Find her. Silence her forever.
Yet he hesitated.
What if whatever was interfering with his magic wasn't passive?
What if the act of stepping too close—of trying to unleash his power near that anomaly—caused his magic to backfire?
He tested again. He opened a small tear in space less than a mile from the base. It worked. Weak. Unstable. But it worked.
And yet, the moment the portal brushed against the mountain's perimeter, it flickered, twisted, and collapsed.
He snarled.
But he did not know—could not know—that it wasn't magic keeping him out. It was a fluke of science. A lucky fluke for Willow. But a fluke nonetheless.
He had no idea that the alien device known as the Stargate would ever so slightly disrupt subspace, electromagnetic fields, and distort the frequencies of energies flowing around the Earth. Energies like mystical ones.
Mystics—especially the corrupted kind the Unmaker used—relied on order. On symphony.
What lay within Cheyenne wasn't symphony. It was chaos disguised as structure—a wound in reality that reopened and healed every time the Stargate activated. That wound was what prevented any portals from forming.
The Unmaker only knew it felt wrong.
He turned to his cultists, his voice low and dangerous.
"She is untouchable… for now. But not forever."
He had an idea.
He would send cultists to her home in Colorado Springs. They would surround it and wait. She would have to leave the mountain eventually. And when she did—when she went home—his cultists would strike. She would be killed.
She must be killed.
All because Willow Rosenberg was a wildcard. She was too dangerous to be left alive.
For now, the Unmaker would shift his attention to a greater sin the Watchers and Slayer had allowed to fester. He had once petitioned the Watchers Council to move against them. They had refused again.
Wolfram and Hart had the firepower to slow him down. So he would act. Now.
He had the power. He had the will.
He would bring them down. Shatter them from this world.
He would unmake them.
To be continued