The Drop with Cliff
The next day, I staked out the drop site—a bustling park across from a police station, where a jittery fool like Cliff would stick out like a neon sign. I claimed a bench, aviators hiding my gaze, watching joggers and dog walkers drift by. Cliff shuffled in right on schedule, clutching a duffel bag like it was his last shred of dignity. His face was pale, his right eye twitching from the memory of my telekinetic grip. Fear's the best leash there is.
He spotted me and froze, scanning the crowd like a cornered rat. I let him sweat before breaking my silence. "Sit down, keep your mouth shut, and hand over the bag."
He obeyed, sliding the duffel over. I unzipped it: a handgun with ammo, two Motorola phones, and forged papers—passport, birth certificate, driver's license, all under "James Farrah." Exactly what I needed.
I met his terrified eyes. "Not bad, Cliff." With a thought, I reknit his optic nerve. He gasped, blinking as sight returned. "Now get lost."
He stumbled up, but I wasn't done. As he turned, I pinched a blood vessel in his brain—just enough for a stroke. He'd live, maybe, but he'd never forget me. I smirked, hailing a cab. One less creep, one cleaner world.
Setting the Stage
At the motel, I used one of the phones to order business cards: "Mr. M, Services 834-5343." I paid cash, claiming "my son" would pick them up. Next stop: New York City. I caught a bus, watching the landscape blur until the skyline loomed. A cheap motel took my cash for a night, but I wasn't staying. The hospital was my real target.
Slipping past security was easy—telekinesis nudged locks open, and my kid-sized shadow went unnoticed. I hit the children's ward, stashing myself in a supply closet until the night shift thinned. When the halls hushed, I emerged, scanning charts: shattered spines, genetic dead ends, hopeless cases. Perfect pawns.
I picked Sophie, 10, paralyzed from a crash. I shook her awake. "Hey, kiddo. Want to walk again?"
She glared, groggy, but before she could yell, I hushed her. "Just nod if you want it."
She nodded. I touched her spine, healing nerves and muscle in minutes. She swung her legs off the bed, sobbing. "Thank you—"
"Don't," I cut in, handing her a card. "Give this to your parents. Tell them Mr. M helped—and I'll help others if they keep quiet."
I healed nine more kids, collecting each parent's details. By dawn, I was spent. From a payphone, I left voicemails: "Your child's healed. Keep it quiet, pass my card to others who need help. You'll owe me."
The plan was simple: heal the hopeless, hook the desperate, build a web of favors. Doctors would puzzle; parents would whisper. I'd be the ghost in the machine.
The Network Grows
Days later, my phone buzzed nonstop—thanks, pleas, desperation. I prioritized the useful: Jen, a Trump Tower concierge with a son dying of DMD, topped the list. We met in a park, her boy slumped in a wheelchair. She scanned the crowd, hope and heartbreak in her eyes.
I'd watched her first, noting how she clung to him. She'll do anything. I approached, handing her a note: "Nod if you'll get me a Trump Tower room, no age questions. I'll pay; you look the other way."
She read it, glanced at me—a kid in aviators—and nodded, closing her eyes. I healed her son with a touch. His legs stirred; she collapsed in sobs. "Thank you—"
"Save it," I said, walking off. Favors, not feelings.
The day blurred with meetings: a DMV clerk with a blind daughter, a cop with a crippled wife, a lawyer whose kid had leukemia. By dusk, I had forged IDs, legal cover, and a growing roster of debtors. Jen got me into Trump Tower—a plush suite with skyline views, a far cry from motel dives. A base fit for a king.
Building the Escape
"James Farrah" became my shield—a passport, a new life. I leaned on police contacts to trace Daniel Jackson, linking him to Sarah Gardner—Osiris's future host—and an amulet tied to Osiris's ship. At a library, I pored over Egyptian texts, deciphering Goa'uld-era script until the amulet's dig site clicked into place.
My network swelled. I ditched old phones for new ones, keeping my trail cold. Military families were next—soldiers broken or with dying kids. One, a grizzled vet named Harris, scoffed at me. "A kid with magic hands? Prove it."
I healed his shattered knee on the spot. He stared, then nodded. "I'm in." Ten joined; four, with nothing left, became my full-time muscle. They escorted me through New York, turning heads. A 10-year-old with bodyguards? Let them gawk.
The amulet was trickier. A university contact "borrowed" it, but a curator sniffed around, asking questions. I had a soldier "persuade" him to back off—nothing violent, just presence. The amulet landed in my hands, its weight a promise of Egypt.
The Exit
Weeks passed. Cash piled up, favors turned to payments, my mercenaries handled the grunt work. I wound down the healing—treating the worst cases for free as a final flex—then cut the phones. With the amulet secured and Egyptian texts mastered, I booked a flight to Egypt. Osiris's ship was waiting, and Earth was done with me.
Ten military men stood around me, eyes burning with determination. I'd briefed them on my plan: reach a hidden temple in Egypt, then use it to "return home." A cargo plane stood ready on the tarmac—this was a top-secret operation, after all—and each man was armed to the teeth. Nothing was going to stop me from getting off this planet and into space.
The flight itself was uneventful. The pilots, under orders to ask no questions, said little. Hours later, we touched down on a deserted airstrip, where three Land Cruisers waited. We loaded our gear without a word and set off. Miles of dusty roads passed in silence until, at last, the temple loomed ahead—exactly as I remembered from the TV series it was supposedly modeled on.
The moment we confirmed the area was secure, I claimed the Kara Kesh device I'd come all this way to retrieve. Sitting cross-legged on the temple floor, I slid it over my hand. Eager to test it, I gave a dramatic flourish. A faint wave of energy rippled out, though not quite the effect I'd expected. I realized then the device likely needed deliberate gestures, not just thoughts, to function.
Rising to my feet, I approached the temple's stone altar. I stretched my arm out the way Osiris often did in the show. This time, a pulsing wave of energy shot across a raised platform in the center. The ground shuddered. My hired escorts exchanged uneasy glances, but I motioned for them to stay calm. Right on cue, two of the men carried our supplies to my side. With the Kara Kesh activated, I tapped the embedded stone on the altar. Instantly, rings dropped down from the ceiling, slamming around me in a flash of blinding light.
When my vision cleared, I found myself in a ring-platform chamber on a Goa'uld ship—a Tel'tak, judging by its compact cargo area. My two guards, who had ringed up with me, stood off to one side, carefully piling our gear out of the way. Curious, I examined a control panel near the door and hit the largest button. The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a narrow cockpit much like what I'd seen on screen.
I settled into the pilot's seat, hands poised a hair's breadth above a glowing red orb—the Tel'tak's primary control mechanism. Gently, I hovered my fingertips over it, feeling how it influenced the ship's motion. The left side guided forward, reverse, and vertical movements, while the right side handled lateral controls. I smiled to myself: I'd just figured out how to maneuver a spacecraft in 360 degrees.
But first, I had to learn the rest of this ship's systems. I studied the console, noting a hybrid of Egyptian hieroglyphs and Goa'uld script. After some trial and error, I found a glyph labeled "Rest" or "Sleep," which I pressed. The engines spun down, and the ship settled onto the desert sand.
I popped the exit hatch, desert heat flooding in. Over the next hour, my men transferred all our equipment aboard, then departed back to the airstrip with well-wishes. When the dust finally cleared from their vehicles, I decided it was time for a test flight.
Back at the console, I pressed the "Awake" glyph. The Tel'tak rumbled to life. As I ascended, something clunked overhead, and the readouts indicated a large sail-like structure unfolding—a hyperdrive accelerator of some sort, maybe. The ship shot upward at astonishing speed, leaving Earth's atmosphere behind in minutes. Peering out, I watched the blue sky fade to the vast black of space. Orbital flight came easier than expected—the console's intuitive readouts gave me trajectory confirmations, making me feel like I'd flown Tel'taks for years.
Satisfied that Earth's satellites wouldn't detect me, I drifted into orbit and spent the next month exploring every meter of my new prize. I deciphered swaths of Goa'uld script, mapping out the systems. I discovered that the Tel'tak, while suited for cargo, was actually modified as a personal transport—Osiris's personal transport, to be exact. The hold was cluttered with her gadgets and extravagances, from alien weapons to a surprisingly high-end (if bizarre) toilet that used some kind of "beam" to clean you instantly. It definitely beat toilet paper.
Eventually, I felt confident enough to experiment with hyperspace travel, though it was far too risky without an expert's guidance. That's when I came up with a long-term plan: find someone knowledgeable or create a situation allowing me to learn on the fly.
To pass the time, I tested the ship's sensors on Earth. After scanning various satellites, I zeroed in on the infamous Cheyenne Mountain Complex. Sure enough, the readout flagged a large naqahdah source—likely the Stargate. My curiosity got the better of me, and I checked the rest of North America and even parts of Mexico. Nothing else comparable turned up.
From there, I flew north, scanning for Earth's second Stargate in the frozen reaches of Antarctica. Sure enough, the sensors pinged it right away. Landing nearby took some finesse. A biting wind and sub-zero temperatures greeted me, but I'd prepared warm gear. The gate was buried under a mess of ice, so I spent days rigging a rope-and-winch system, drilling foot-holds, and melting ice from around the DHD.
When the DHD finally emerged, I recorded every symbol meticulously. Cross-referencing my new knowledge with the Goa'uld gate addresses I'd found in Osiris's database, I located a planet labeled as hosting "invisible beasts" in a lush forest—the Nox homeworld, if my guess was right. I figured that was a good place to start my off-world adventures.
Before leaving, I melted and reinforced more of the ice tunnel to prevent any major collapses. I even left a tongue-in-cheek note, warning would-be gate-crashers not to steal my Tel'tak: "Steal my ship, and I'll drop a comet on Earth." Maybe a slight exaggeration, but I wanted any visitors—especially certain SGC officers—to tread carefully.
Finally, I shouldered my supplies and dialed the Nox gate address. The symbols glowed, the ring spun, and the whoosh of an active wormhole blasted a shockwave of displaced air through the cavern. I kept my distance until it stabilized, then inched forward to touch the shimmering event horizon. It rippled with a weird, phone-vibration-like feedback. Taking a breath, I tossed my bags through and stepped in after them.
The ride was a disorienting rush—a cross between a roller coaster drop and a lightning strike—and I stumbled onto the other side, lightheaded. After a few seconds, my head cleared, and I looked around, wondering if this legendary home of the Nox would live up to the hype. Either way, I was off Earth at last.