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.

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.

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.

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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, guttural, and entirely alien.

Well, I guess I got my sci-fi wish, he thought, flexing his new body. But as he processed this revelation, a wave of frustration hit him.

"Stargate? Really? Of all the universes, why this one?" he muttered to himself, or at least thought he did. He bemoaned his scattered knowledge of the show, the kind picked up from sporadic reruns on late-night TV or half-watched episodes on streaming platforms. Sure, he’d caught glimpses of the SG-1 team battling Goa’uld or exploring alien worlds, but his understanding was hazy at best. The intricacies of the universe—the alliances, the tech, the hierarchies—were a blur.

He groaned inwardly. "I should have paid more attention," he thought. "I remember the Stargates, the Jaffa warriors, the snarky lines from O'Neill. But System Lords? Tok'ra? Ancient tech? 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.