Haakja meticulously examined the vials of gas before him, his golden eyes gleaming with an excitement he had not felt in centuries. For over two hundred years, he had toiled under Mistress Hathor’s rule, a position that had promised prestige but had offered little more than stagnation. The Goa’uld had long ceased to innovate, relying instead on the advancements of conquered civilizations and maintaining the relics of a bygone golden age. He had been nothing more than a glorified custodian of old designs, a mere overseer of function rather than a creator of progress.

  But Lord Sobek—he was different.

  For the first time in his long life, Haakja had been given a true purpose: to create, to innovate, to push the limits of what the Goa’uld thought possible. And now, with the volatile gases Sobek had delivered to him, he had the means to do so.

  He placed a sealed glass tub into a heating chamber, carefully adjusting the temperature. The gas inside shifted sluggishly, showing only a mild reaction to the heat. Haakja frowned. He had expected something more dramatic—either an explosion or some kind of violent chemical response. Most gases, after all, were known for their toxic or combustible properties. Yet Sobek had been insistent that this substance could be a staple for military applications.

  The thought nagged at him. How had his new master foreseen potential where he himself had not?

  Haakja tapped a clawed finger against his chin as he turned his attention back to the schematics of the weapon Sobek had tasked him with designing. It was unlike any Goa’uld firearm he had ever worked on, with an unusual emphasis on containment fields and energy cycling.

  His mind raced through the possibilities. What if the true application of this gas lay not in its raw state, but in how it could be manipulated? Then, like a spark in the darkness, realization struck him.

  Haakja spun toward the nearest pair of slaves. “You two! Fetch me several electroid cables and energy plugs. Immediately!”

  The slaves scrambled from the room, their hurried footsteps fading down the corridor.

  Electricity had long since fallen out of favor among the Goa’uld, replaced by the far superior energy properties of naquadah. Yet, Haakja recalled ancient experiments—rudimentary tests that had shown how electricity could alter the states of matter, even gases. Perhaps a more primitive approach was the key.

  He busied himself assembling a makeshift testing rig, carefully fitting a small containment cylinder filled with the gas into place. Minutes later, the slaves returned, laden with the requested equipment. Haakja snatched the cables from them without a word and immediately began connecting the power source.

  With a deep breath, he activated the current.

  A high-voltage stream surged through the chamber, and within the glass, the gas reacted violently. It condensed, thickening into a luminous, semi-solid plasma, its soft glow casting eerie reflections on the walls. Haakja’s heart pounded in his chest. He had seen many incredible sights in his long existence, but this… this was something new.

  It was as if Sobek had seen the potential long before the discovery was even made. How?

  Yet there was no time to dwell on that mystery. Haakja barked at the slaves once more. “Bring me the prototype immediately!”

  As the slaves rushed to retrieve his unfinished weapon, Haakja could barely contain his excitement. If this plasma could be weaponized—if it could be stabilized within a projectile framework—the Goa’uld would wield a force unlike anything in their long history.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Tonight, he would work until exhaustion claimed him. There were tests to be done, refinements to be made, and theories to be proven. For the first time in centuries, Haakja felt truly alive.

  The galaxy would soon tremble before the weapons he was about to create.

  Elsewhere within the complex, deep within the cold, sterile walls of his laboratory, Jayaar worked with unwavering precision, his mind consumed by the pursuit of genetic perfection. The acrid scent of chemicals lingered in the air, mixing with the coppery tang of blood. The rhythmic hum of machinery provided a steady backdrop to the muffled whimpers of the subject strapped before him.

  The slave trembled, bound to a metallic frame, their back arched unnaturally in agony. Their breathing was ragged, their muscles twitching involuntarily, but Jayaar paid no heed. With the steady hands of an artist at work, he jabbed several long needles into their exposed spine, injecting a carefully measured dose of Goa'uld blood directly into their nervous system.

  The reaction was immediate. The subject let out a guttural scream as the foreign blood burned its way through their veins. They convulsed violently against the restraints, their fingers clawing at empty air, but to Jayaar, they were nothing more than a vessel—an experiment in progress. Progress required sacrifice.

  He took a step back, his golden eyes narrowing as he observed the subject’s erratic movements. The Goa'uld blood was merging, intertwining with the host’s natural biology, rewriting the very fabric of their being. Years of research had led him to this moment, and he would not let sentimentality dull his curiosity.

  Two attendants stood a few feet away, their eyes lowered in silent terror. Jayaar, lost in his thoughts, absently addressed them. “Fascinating, isn’t it? The human body is so fragile, yet when properly… adjusted, it becomes something far more useful.”

  One of the slaves swallowed hard but dared not speak. The other, younger and less adept at masking fear, shifted uneasily. Jayaar smirked. He enjoyed their discomfort—it reminded him of the natural order of things.

  He turned back to his work. Over the years, Jayaar had come to a crucial realization: there were three distinct relationships between Goa'uld and hosts. The first was the traditional bond—two fully developed minds, one dominant and one subservient, where the Goa'uld exerted complete control. The second was a relationship formed between an adult and an immature subject, whether Goa'uld or host. And lastly, the most promising—genetically altered hosts.

  The Goa'uld had long practiced selective breeding to create optimal environments for their larvae, but now, for the first time, Jayaar had the tools to accelerate the process. No longer bound by the sluggish constraints of natural evolution, he could mold living subjects into the perfect hosts—obedient, durable, and utterly receptive to symbiosis. If his tests proved successful, he would revolutionize the future of his species.

  He moved toward another cage, where a handful of slaves had already been injected with modified Goa'uld blood. Unlike their former, pitiful selves, these subjects stood taller, their muscles subtly more defined, their skin flush with newfound vitality. Their once-dull eyes now gleamed with an eerie clarity, but more importantly, they gazed at Jayaar with something bordering on reverence.

  One of them dropped to his knees the moment Jayaar approached. The others followed suit without hesitation.

  He let out a quiet chuckle, pleased with the results. “Yes… this is far superior to the Jaffa,” he mused, mostly to himself. “Loyalty without the burden of intellect. Strength without the need for faith.” He turned his gaze to his terrified attendants. “What do you think?”

  The younger slave hesitated before answering. “T-they seem… improved, my Lord.”

  “Improved?” Jayaar echoed, arching a brow. “No, this is not mere improvement. This is evolution.” He stepped forward, grasping the kneeling slave’s chin between his fingers, tilting their face upward. The subject did not resist. Their breathing was even, their expression serene. No fear. No doubt. Just absolute obedience.

  Jayaar’s mind reeled with the possibilities. If he could refine the process—enhance cognitive function while ensuring unwavering servitude—he would create the ultimate host. Even lesser Goa'uld, once unable to exert full control, would have willing vessels. No longer would the genetic lottery dictate the fate of symbiosis. The Goa'uld numbers would swell, their dominion solidified.

  A slow smile crept across his lips as he released the subject’s chin. He turned back to his table of instruments, already considering his next move. “Let us begin the next phase.”