Commission: Make it all burn!( Stargate Celestial forge self insert)

Mining, there are few things more body-destroying, more mind-breaking, more despair-inducing than mining, especially in conditions so cruel that even the most ruthless of men—billionaires who built their empires on the broken backs of countless workers—would hesitate, would shudder, would perhaps even feel the faintest tremor of guilt. My hands, covered in dust, the dirt and grime thick like a second skin, trembled as they clawed at the stone. The cracks in my fingers, etched deep like the fissures of a dry, lifeless riverbed, bled in places where the earth’s relentless bite had torn past the callouses. They seemed less like the hands of a man and more like the mummified remnants of something long dead. Yet, they continued to dig. ‘Keep digging,’ a voice inside whispered. ‘Keep digging if you want to live.’ Even when the pain was a constant, throbbing companion. Even when every tendon screamed for reprieve. Even when all I wanted was to close my eyes, fall into the embrace of rest, and never wake again.

‘This must be hell.’

The thought came unbidden, laced with the bitter tang of resignation. What had I done to deserve this? I wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t a saint, but nothing in my past could explain this descent into torment. The pain flared at my right side, sudden and sharp, stealing the breath from my lungs and the strength from my bones. This wasn’t just pain—it was a force so intense it robbed you of reason, of dignity, of the most basic instincts, leaving only a shell that knew one thing: make it stop.

When my vision returned, I found myself on the ground, face pressed into the cold, gritty earth. I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen. The world felt both hazy and painfully sharp, as though viewed through fractured glass. Sounds and sights blurred and clarified in turns, my senses grappling with the overload of agony. It was then I saw him—the source of my pain—a tall, imposing figure stepping through the mine’s shadows. An overseer, a sentinel, one of the harbingers of my suffering here. A Jaffa.

A shiver ran down my spine, not just of pain but of still a little bit of disbelief. A Jaffa. They weren’t supposed to exist. They were characters from a show, from stories penned by writers and brought to life by actors. They were a fiction, a piece of my mother’s past that we’d shared in rare moments when the world was kind enough to pause its cruelty. Yet here he was, flesh and bone, more real than the heartbeat hammering in my chest. I wished, desperately, that this was a fever dream, some cruel joke played by a mind frayed and failing. But reality held its ground, unyielding and brutal.

The Jaffa loomed closer, but my view of him was swallowed by a shadow that stepped into the space between us. I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The foolish, brave soul who risked everything to stand in front of me was the same one who had been at my side since I’d woken in this pit, since I’d clawed my way from the brink of death and into the nightmare that followed. Maatkheru.

Maatkheru, who had laughed in the face of despair, whose hands had lifted me when mine had failed, who had shared stolen crusts of bread and whispered stories of the sky he hadn’t seen in decades. Maatkheru, who had become more than a friend in this hellish place. He was, no… he is my brother.

I had never remembered how I came to be in this place—a world where gates spun men to the far reaches of the universe, where gods were parasites wrapped in flesh. Stargate, the word flickered in my memory, a distant echo of afternoons on the couch, my mother’s laughter like music, a time when life was simple. But whatever metaknowledge I had was fragmented, half-formed. What I did remember with frustrating clarity was that this world’s villains were called Goa’uld. Cruel, grotesque parasites, lords of suffering who had stolen names from gods and twisted them into their own grotesque mockery.

Goa’uld. They were supposed to be defeated. One day. But when? Was I trapped thousands of years before that victory? The weight of it sank into my chest like a stone, a bleak certainty that this was my life now—a slave, the lowest of slaves, tasked with mining Naquadah, a substance worth more than worlds to those who would wield power over galaxies.

Naquadah. The lifeblood of this empire, the bedrock upon which all their might rested. And to extract it, the Goa’uld didn’t build machines; they didn’t employ technology that could have made the process efficient, humane even. No. They had us. Humans. Millions, perhaps billions, across the stars, digging, breaking, suffocating in tunnels that seemed to stretch into infinity.

I’d heard the stories, whispered from cracked lips and bloodied throats. Of mines collapsing, entombing thousands in seconds, of air so thin it was a fight just to pull it into your lungs. Of the dust that invaded every breath, making death feel like a slow suffocation. It was said Naquadah itself was toxic, that the skin would break out in weeping sores, that the lungs would seize, that it was a slow, quiet poison.

But worse than the poison, worse than the dust, were the Jaffa. Overseers, guards, warriors who watched us with unfeeling eyes. They were stronger, faster, made so, modified by the Goa’uld to enforce their will. And they were armed—staffs that could turn flesh to vapor or deliver agony so profound that death would seem a mercy.

I had been dying before this, back in the world I once knew. My body had betrayed me, disease gnawing at my life piece by piece. Pain was an old companion, a cruel one, familiar. When the end had come, when exhaustion had stripped me of the will to fight, I had hoped for a quiet reunion with my grandparents, a soft end. Oblivion would have been acceptable enough too. But instead, I had woken up to the sound of rock splitting and the echo of my own despair.

They hadn’t cared that I was different, that I looked as if I wasn’t supposed to be here. The Jaffa had only seen another body, another pair of hands, and they’d treated me no differently than the others. At first, I had thought I would die. I should have. My body, already weakened, was pushed beyond its limits.

But I didn’t die. Not then. Not because of them.

The others, the slaves, saw me for what I was: a stranger. Yet they treated me as one of their own, propping me up when I stumbled, teaching me to dig in a way that saved breath and strength, sharing their scraps when punishment left me starving. They had saved me, shared their wisdom, taught me how to read the silent signs of the mine, how to avoid the wrath of the overseers, how to survive.

Maatkheru most of all. He had been here the longest, taken as a child like most here so many years ago that the sun was only a memory. But he had never let that break him. Even in the moments between shifts, when he could have stayed silent, he would talk of dreams. Dreams of a sky seen without pain, of food that filled you until you were bursting, of freedom.

He didn’t need to say it; I knew freedom was the heart of it.

Maatkheru’s voice had always held that rare kind of hope, the kind that stubbornly sprouted in cracks, even when everything around it screamed for surrender. I remembered how he once leaned against the jagged wall, the torchlight casting his shadow long and thin. It was during one of those rare moments when the Jaffa's attention faltered, when we were allowed to breathe without the fear of a lash or a staff pointed at our backs.

“I have a dream,” he had said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, as if to keep it secret from the shadows themselves. “One day, I want to see the sky again, to breathe air that doesn’t tear at my lungs, to eat until I can’t move.” His eyes, those weary, dark eyes, found mine, searching for something I didn’t know I could give. “And not just for me, Allen. For you, for everyone.”

He didn’t need to speak the rest of it, but I understood. Maatkheru’s true dream was freedom, the kind that reached into your soul and burned away the shackles with fire. In that moment, even though I knew how futile it was, even though every crack in the walls whispered impossible, I wanted to believe him.

I had tried, in my own way, to keep that ember alive. I’d told Maatkheru and the others, during stolen whispers and glances, that one day we’d be free. That we’d find a way out, see the sky together, live lives that weren’t measured by the weight of the Naquadah in our hands. I’d wanted to believe those words more than anything. But deep down, in the quiet corners of my mind, I feared it was just a lie—a pretty story told to dying children, men and women to make their last breaths less bitter.

Now, as I lay on the ground, broken and gasping, I realized with even more clarity how much of a failure I was. The others had tried to save me, to make me last longer, to keep me alive when I would have given up. They gave me parts of their own meagre meals that weren’t already enough for me. They were punished because of me, of my mistakes. All of that would be for nothing because I will surely die wasting all their sacrifices.

Worse, it seemed I would not be the only one with the way Maatkheru was standing between me and death, his back straight, his fists clenched, facing a Jaffa with a weapon that could turn him to nothing but mist. I didn't want this. I wanted him to live.

“Maatkheru,” I tried to call out, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth. My voice cracked, weak, swallowed by the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Move before being punished,” I wanted to say. “Get out of the way so you can see the sky one day.” But my throat felt like it had been scoured raw, each word a jagged, silent scream. The Jaffa’s cold eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, the weapon in his hands sparking with that telltale, lethal glow.

“Move,” the overseer demanded, voice like iron striking stone.

But Maatkheru didn’t move. Instead, he looked back at me, a small, sad smile lifting the corners of his cracked lips. His eyes, dark pools of defiance, met mine. “You’ll die this time if I move,” he said softly, and then, quieter still, as if he were remembering, “I wanted us all to experience it. How would that be possible if you die, Allen?”

The overseer’s patience fractured. The air seemed to thrum, thickening with dread as the staff-like weapon in the Jaffa’s hand glowed brighter. A sudden, sharp silence filled the space between heartbeats.

“No,” I tried again, my body straining to obey, but only pain answered. I felt trapped, helpless, watching through a lens of disbelief as the moment stretched and broke. The golden flare from the Jaffa’s weapon seared my vision, bright and unforgiving. Maatkheru’s body seemed to shimmer, muscles and skin unravelling into nothingness, bones exposed for a blink before dissolving into the void. And then, there was only red mist hanging in the air, a cruel, silent remnant of what had once been my friend, to what had once been my brother.

“Maatkheru,” the name tumbled from my lips, a prayer, a curse, a sound swallowed by the horror that followed. Around me, the other miners gasped, their cries raw with shock, fear, disbelief. But beneath that collective voice, a deeper, colder emotion twisted and coiled within me.

Hatred.

I watched as the Jaffa stepped forward, his weapon still aimed, now pointed at me, and that cold, empty rage crystallized. I hated that I’d woken from death only to find this, that I’d been given a second chance only to squander it. I hated that I was so weak, that in the end, my existence had only led to this—a death that made Maatkheru an example, a spectacle.

I hated the Jaffa, their obedience, their willingness to enact the Goa’uld’s will without question. And above all, I hated the Goa’uld themselves, parasites who played god and painted the stars with chains.

The overseer’s eyes met mine, his gaze as impassive as stone, unfeeling, uncaring. My voice, when it came, was a whisper, brittle and cold yet sharp as shattered glass. “I’m going to kill you.”

The words hung between us, daring him, defying him. The glow from his staff intensified, bright enough to carve shadows that danced in sharp relief on the walls of the mine. I could feel the charge in the air, the promise of death.

But as I stared down that light, something deep inside me shifted. I felt my mind unravel. I felt myself ascend. A barrier, old and unyielding, cracked, shattered, and the world around me folded inward. My mind stretched, expanding beyond the confines of my body, reaching into something vast, a sea of knowledge and power, an intricate web that hummed with energy.

Images flashed in my vision, symbols and blueprints, arcane formulas and the secrets of creation itself. It was overwhelming, and yet, in that moment, it felt right, as if I’d been born to wield this knowledge. Time slowed, each beat of my heart drawn out, the seconds stretching like veins of molten light. A forge ignited within me, and fear fell away, replaced by something stronger, something unbreakable.

I will not die here. No other slave will die here. I would not allow it.

The Jaffa's weapon discharged, the blast surging toward me with deadly speed. But my body moved, unbidden, faster than pain, faster than thought. The world dimmed at the edges, the sounds of the mine fading to a muffled, distant hum. There was only the Jaffa and the death he promised.

For the first time, I saw it: the glimmer of something other than apathy in his eyes. It made me both wonder what he saw at that moment and It sent a pulse of dark satisfaction through me, feeding the flame that burned in my chest. My hand rose, almost of its own accord, meeting the blast head-on. It was foolish, insane, and yet, as the beam touched my skin, it dissipated, harmless as smoke.

The silence that followed was suffocating, as if the mine itself held its breath. A laugh tore free from my throat, cracked and wild, tears cutting tracks through the grime on my face.

It had worked!

The power thrumming through me felt almost the same way as the one who had been my first friend, who had become my family, my brother had felt as if he was over my shoulder, as if telling me that everything would be alright, as if guiding me like he always did.

fThe miners around me stood frozen, their eyes wide, locked on me with a mix of disbelief and awe. I could feel their gaze, heavy and desperate, clinging to hope like a drowning man clutches to a broken piece of wood. I wasn’t sure what they saw—a fellow slave or something else, something more.

But in that moment, all of them ceased to matter. The mine, the darkness, the shadows—it all faded to a dull hum, leaving only the figure before me. The Jaffa. He wasn’t impassive now. His face twisted, his eyes flared wide, and within them, I saw a glint of something I’d never expected to see: fear. He had become so accustomed to being the terror in our lives, to holding our lives like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. Now he tasted what it felt like, just for a moment, to be on the other side of that gaze. To see death staring back at him.

I smiled. A thin, cold line of satisfaction curled at the edges of my lips, tasting like ash, bitter and beautiful. For the first time, I could look at him not with dread, not with helplessness, but with power. I felt it thrumming through my veins, surging like a firestorm held just under the skin, a gift ignited in the wake of Maatkheru’s death. A power born of hatred, of loss, and of a silent, relentless promise: I would avenge him.

The Jaffa’s weapon gleamed in his hand, the deadly staff aimed squarely at my chest, but my mind buzzed with new knowledge, crystalline and certain. I saw the forge of power ignited in me, as clear as if it had always been there, a star burning bright within my mind. A small yet potent point of light pulsed in the chaos of my thoughts—a fragment of that infinite source, a spark called

Fashion.

The name of it danced across my mind like a whisper in the dark, but I understood it instinctively. This power was strange, not a weapon in itself, but it was precisely what I needed to survive. It was from a world I vaguely remembered from long-forgotten fanfics and episodes posted on youtube : Highschool of the Dead, a gift that allowed me to make my body and clothes as indestructible as the strongest material in contact with me.

Equipped, it murmured, and I felt the weight of its meaning. Equipped could mean anything—something worn, held, something close enough to become a part of you. And here, lying just beside me, where Maatkheru had been working, was a thumb-sized piece of Naquadah. It was small, insignificant on its own, but Naquadah was stronger, more durable than anything I’d ever known.

The shards of Naquadah embedded in my skin, touching me, around me had been the ones I had bet on to survive the first strike. They had been enough but barely. It made me wonder, what would happen if I tool someone much more bigger?

I reached out, my hand brushing against the cool metal, and the change was instant. I felt the strength course through me, my skin hardened, my muscles fortified. The Naquadah’s essence wove into my very being, its impenetrable strength now a part of me, almost speaking, almost promising like a father making an oath to shield me from whatever death the Jaffa thought to deliver, to shield me from all the ugliness of the world.

He fired. The golden blast struck me squarely, a wave of heat and energy that should have ripped through my flesh, turned me to the same red mist that Maatkheru had become. But it passed over me like a warm breeze, leaving no more than a tingle, a trace of its deadly potential dissipating harmlessly.

A laugh clawed its way from my throat, ragged and edged with madness, dripping with the dark joy of survival. Tears mixed with blood as they ran down my cheeks, carving paths through the filth, leaving tracks of raw relief and the remnants of grief that seethed into anger.

The Jaffa had just done what I had wanted him to confirm. None of this was fluke or born from luck.

The Jaffa took a step back, eyes widening further. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He had come here expecting another slaughter, another broken body to be crushed under the weight of his strength. But now he was faced with something else, something unbending. Something that wouldn’t shatter.

Around us, the miners were watching, waiting, each breath held as though afraid to shatter this strange, powerful moment, as if bearing witness to something sacrosanct.

I stood, my movements slow, deliberate, savoring the fear I saw in the Jaffa’s eyes. My body still bore the marks of torment, the scars of days and weeks and years spent in this pit, but I was no longer the broken man they’d chained here. I was something more.

The overseer’s grip tightened on his staff, his face twitching between anger and fear. He raised his weapon again, desperate, reckless, but this time I didn’t flinch. I took a step forward, my gaze locked on his, my smile widening, baring teeth stained with the taste of iron and vengeance.

“It’s my turn,” I said, each word a cold promise that echoed in the silence of the mine.

The Jaffa hesitated, his face pale, the weapon faltering in his hands as he looked at me, truly seeing me for the first time. I took another step forward, the air feeling heavy with the weight of all that I’d lost, all that I’d suffered, every cut, every wound, every scar now a part of the power that surged through me. I would make him feel it all. For Maatkheru, for the others, for myself.

I would make them all pay. I would show them all.