Milton floated in silence, his thoughts his only companion. The strange, rhythmic pulse of the egg cocooned him, steady and relentless. There was no sense of time here, only the vague awareness of his own growth. His human memories had dulled, but certain fragments remained stubbornly vivid.

  What kind of world is this?

  That question gnawed at him. Milton had consumed so much sci-fi that the possibilities seemed endless. A post-apocalyptic wasteland? An alien empire? Perhaps something close to Earth, where he could blend in. But the truth lay somewhere in the unknown.

  Why do I feel so... different?

  Milton tried to push back the alien instincts creeping into his consciousness. They were subtle but undeniable—a strange awareness of his surroundings, a sense of purpose that didn’t align with his old self. He wasn’t Milton Yeager anymore, at least not entirely. Pieces of his humanity were slipping away, replaced by something colder, sharper, and infinitely more alien.

  He clung to the fragments of his old life—the memory of his mother’s laugh, the smell of coffee on a rainy morning, the sound of his favorite song. But they were fading, like pages from a book left out in the rain. In their place came a growing sense of detachment, a hunger for control, and a whisper of something ancient and predatory.

  The cocoon pulsed around him, a rhythmic thrum that echoed in his bones. It was warm, almost suffocating, and the air—if it could be called air—was thick with a metallic tang that clung to his senses. The walls of the cocoon were smooth and slightly yielding, like the inside of a living organism. Strange currents of energy flowed through it, feeding him, shaping him, preparing him for what lay ahead.

  Milton’s serpentine form shifted restlessly within the cocoon, his instincts urging him to move, to break free. But he wasn’t ready yet. The process wasn’t complete. He could feel himself changing, his mind and body adapting to something new and unfamiliar. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to step back or leap forward.

  Then it happened.

  A shift. A sudden jolt that made his surroundings ripple, almost like being dropped into water. Pressure enveloped him, and he felt himself moving—dragged, transported, pulled toward something.

  The sensation was disorienting. One moment, he was suspended in the cocoon. The next, he was freefalling through liquid warmth before being thrust into something solid.

  What’s happening?

  Milton’s instincts flared, primal and undeniable. A command whispered in the back of his mind: Implant. Survive. He didn’t think; he acted. His small, serpentine form surged forward, guided by an innate sense of direction. It felt familiar, as if he had done this a thousand times before, though he couldn’t remember when or how.

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  He felt flesh, warmth, and then—connection.

  With startling clarity, he was inside the body. It wasn’t like possessing something in the movies; it was as though he’d slotted into place, his being fusing seamlessly with the host. He felt the rhythmic thud of the heart, the expansion of lungs, the electric pulse of nerves sparking to life.

  For a brief, terrifying moment, he was overwhelmed. The body resisted, a primal fight against the intrusion. But instinct took over, and he pushed harder, asserting control. The struggle subsided as the host's consciousness ebbed away, leaving him in command.

  Milton gasped—or rather, the body did. He flexed fingers that weren’t his own, blinked eyes that felt foreign, and tried to process the flood of sensations.

  Then came the memories.

  They weren’t his, but they came all the same—fragmented and raw. The whip of a taskmaster cracking through the air. The feel of rough stone under bare feet. A voice, harsh and guttural, barking orders.

  Slave.

  The word settled in his mind, accompanied by flashes of toil and suffering. The host had lived a hard life, one of subjugation and fear. Milton felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly replaced by something stronger.

  Survival. Adaptation.

  He searched the memories for clarity, for context. Words surfaced in fragments, many of them foreign, but a few stood out: Jaffa. System Lord. Goa’uld.

  The realization struck him like a hammer.

  He wasn’t just reborn into any world. He was in the Stargate universe.

  Milton let out a bitter laugh, or at least he tried to. The sound that escaped his lips was harsher, grittier, and entirely alien. He flexed his new fingers, marveling at the strange sensation of muscles and tendons moving under his command. It was surreal, like wearing a suit that didn’t quite fit but somehow worked.

  "Well, I guess I got my sci-fi wish," he muttered, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears. "But of all the universes, why this one? Stargate? Really?"

  He groaned inwardly, his mind racing through the fragments of knowledge he had about the Stargate universe. He remembered the Stargates, those massive rings that connected worlds, and the Jaffa warriors with their glowing foreheads and staff weapons. He remembered the snarky one-liners from O’Neill and the quiet determination of Carter. But the rest was a blur.

  Who were the Tok’ra? What was the deal with the Ancients? And why did the System Lords seem so obsessed with ruling a bunch of backwater planets?

  "I should have paid more attention," he thought, frustration bubbling up inside him. "I remember the basics, but the details? All of that is just... fragments."

  The thought of being reborn as a Jedi or the captain of a Star Trek starship seemed far more appealing now. At least he’d binged those shows religiously and could navigate those universes with some level of competence. But this? This felt like stepping onto an alien battlefield with a broken compass.

  Still, he forced himself to focus. Complaining wouldn’t change anything. If this really was the Stargate universe, he’d need to figure things out—fast. The memories of his host, however fragmented, might give him a fighting chance.

  "Well, I guess I’ll just have to improvise," he thought grimly. "Let’s see how long I survive it."