The soft scratching of stylus against papyrus was an odd counterpoint to the hum of of the cicadas, their song indicating that the midday heat would continue without relief. Though it didn't seem to affect the boys very much, Hamakto's fur pelt made the midday heat miserable. At times like this he almost wished that they were still confined to their underground cell, though it was, at most, a fleeting whim of a thought.

The rat was taking a short break while his turtle children continued progress on the wall that they were currently decorating. True to his word, Orakusakmet had put them to work. Two days after over-hearing their pre-dawn conversation, Anubis had ushered them, along with some of the other remaining animal-man prisoners, out of their cells and outlined their duties along with thinly veiled threats about the consequences of disobedience. Their first weeks were spent hauling blocks and other heavy labor. Within his rat body, Hamakto was slowly being transformed, from the softer body his quiet life of a priest had afforded him, to one of corded muscle. He accepted the tasks without complaint, except when the children were being pushed too hard. On such occasions, he would take the blows meted out for his defiance but never pressed his case so far that he or the boys would be in danger of greater punishment. The former priest was just thankful that the majority of the heavy construction had been finished before the heat of the dry season had fully set in.

Once the majority of the heavy work was done, he and the boys had be reassigned to sketching out, chiseling, and painting the reliefs and glyphs that would eventually cover nearly every wall and pillar. It was work that they were all suited to, with the exception of Lemu, whose talent for the arts was somewhat limited, though his writing was slowly improving. While Mik, Rapi and Dhoune would work on enhancing the images and spells Hamakto would sketch out for them, following the plans he was given, Lemu would make sure that they were stocked with sharpened chisels, paints, water and any other supply they might require. At the moment, the eldest sat next to Hamakto in companionable silence while bringing a dulled copper chisel back into working order by honing it carefully against a whetted stone.

"Two pink, left side." Lemu muttered so softly that anyone without the supersensitive hearing of the rat-man beside him had no chance of catching it. "Small grub."

Hamakto shifted his eyes to the left and noted the Kraang patrol. Without a noticeable pause he made a cryptic mark to the side of his scroll. He frowned a bit at what the columns of deceptively simple scribbles told him, there was still no evidence of their overlord's diligence slacking off. Though they had gained some privileges over time, a larger space to lay at night being foremost, along with ample food, it was obvious that they were still not trusted. It was not a mistaken assumption, Hamakto knew that it would only be a matter of time till their usefulness reached it's limit, so he always had thoughts of escape in the back of his mind.

The rat-man was careful not to allow such ideas into the forefront of his conscious mind. His daily waking thoughts were not a safe place for him to plan. Instead he took his cryptic notes and then tried his best to forget about them. He returned to the record he was making with just that intention. Focusing on the past instead of planning for the future was a safer venture, one less likely to bring punishment down upon him and his turtle children should the 'Master of Rats' chose to sample his thoughts.

"Neb-it" Lemu said in that quiet, reflective tone he had when something was bothering him. Hamakto stopped his writing but said nothing, waiting for the boy to voice what was bothering him. After a few moments of stillness between them, the youth spoke again. "Why?" He looked up to the guardian with disappointment and hurt thinly veiled behind his questioning gaze. "Why are we still here?"

"Because the temple is not yet done," he answered, knowing that it was not what the boy was asking at all. "Once it is we will be at the king's pleasure as to where we go or what we do next."

There was a sound of disgust and the boy now had Hamakto's full attention. All the boys could be cranky at times. It came with living in stressful conditions and the closeness they now shared, but he had never seen such blatant disrespect from Lateef-pamu directed at him.

"I read the scrolls," Lemu was now openly glaring at the adult. "The ones you keep in the pots buried in the corner."

It was Hamakto's turn to glare back before schooling his features. Everyone in the family knew of his writings, it was hardly something that he could hide when making them, but he had thought that an expectation of privacy about their contents had been understood. He wrote many things, about his past, about their time together but mostly about his dreams. Trying to tease out the meanings behind the imagery that continued to fill his nights, hoping to find a way to overcome the horrors that now encompassed their lives.

"Oh," he drawled with feigned calm. "and what has your study revealed?"

The pensive turtle looked away with a frown. "That bad things are happening or will happen. Not only to us, but all across Egypt. That someone needs to put a stop to it!" Lemu's voice had risen and Hamakto put a hand on his shoulder reminding him that they still in the open. He continued sullenly. "That we should be doing something about it."

Despite the attitude, Hamakto couldn't have been more proud at the sentiment "Lemu," he entreated but the young turtle refused to look up at him. "My son," he called again finally getting him to look the rat in the eyes. "You have always had a noble heart. You are right," the boy smiled slightly "but the time is not yet at hand."

"But…"

"You and your brothers are still young. No matter how noble the cause, rushing to it without proper preparation will only make you unmarked martyrs to it. We are not ready to take up this mantle. And I love you boys too much to risk the consequences of premature rebellion." Hamakto sighed. He was not happy with their predicament but knew it was the right path, for now. "Grow, learn, and become stronger. What we do now is no worse that what we have done in the past. And while we are here we can learn more of our enemies, that we may one day exploit their weaknesses."

He could tell that Lemu was struggling with the concept. "But what if something bad happens before we're ready?" He looked into Hamakto's eyes and they glistened with fear. "What if yo… one of us doesn't last till the time is right?"

Hamakto caught the change in what Lemu was about to say and understood the boy's fear. Just three days ago Hamakto had been returned to their space from a rather intense session with the 'Master of Rats'. He was exhausted from the exercises he had been forced to perform, both mentally and physically. The entire time trying to hide all the things he didn't want the priest to know. It had affected him in frightening ways, the boys had told him later. He was a true animal, feral and snapping at them, straining weekly against their attempts to hold him still to the point of causing himself more injury. Apparently in the end it was Mi-kyky who was able to soothe him with a calming song and gentle hands. It had scared them all. One day, he may be a real threat to the turtle children or not come out of the experience altogether whole.

He squeezed the boy's shoulder, sure that his own eyes were damp now. "Lemu, something bad may very well happen. But that does not matter. It is how we respond to it that will make the true difference." He smiled, his whiskers twitching with pride. "You led your brothers before we ever met. You will become an even greater leader after I am gone. It is a privilege that you and your brothers look to me now, one that I do not take lightly. But until that day comes that I can no longer be with you, I must ask that you trust me." The mottled leaf-green face gave a small smile and nod of agreement.

"Now," he clamped the boy on the shell and motioned for them to rise, rolling his parchment tightly to finish later, making note that he would need another storage pot in his not so secret corner. "Let's bring your brothers some water before they think we've left them to roast." Lemu nodded and gathered his supplies.

On cue Mi-kyky rounded the corner at full tilt laughing maniacally while brandishing a paint ladened reed brush. Shortly afterwards came Rapi in a full rage armed with a chisel and mallet. Dhoune was not far behind shouting for the both of them to stop running before they got in trouble. Mik immediately took shelter behind Lemu, who was hard pressed to keep his fuming brother at bay. Dhoune stopped outside the circle of conflict and begged them all not to ruin his good tools.

Hamakto saw the rude drawing on Rapi's shell and stayed free of the argument knowing that it would blow over quickly. Though they would have to ask for permission to go down to the baths later, most likely Mik's ultimate goal. Hamakto let the scene seep into his heart. They would grow strong by leaning on each other. They would someday face insurmountable odds, dangers they could not yet image. They would overcome. They would save Egypt from the blight it was now afflicted with.

But right now they were just his sons.

The soft clink of glasses being placed on the hard oak desk might have well have been a death knell for the impact it made on the room.

"Well… then what?"

Not bothering to pause from gently massaging his own brow the haggard, but distinguished, older gentleman addressed his younger and wearingly enthusiastic assistant. "What do you mean, 'then what'?" his British accent noticeable in his agitation, despite working Stateside most of his career.

"What happens next? What becomes of the rat priest and the turtle children?"

The stupidity of the young was a constant amazement to him, it must be some fault with the current trend towards reliance on technology over common sense, and therefore he did not dignify the query with a verbal response. With gloved fingers he gently tapped the end of the scroll he had just finished translating, the fragility of such an ancient document ingrained in his movements desipite his annoyance. He did, however, reach over and turn off the digital recorder with more effort than was absolutely lol necessary.

The two looked at each other for a moment, the stale air of the museum basement becoming thick with tension before the grad student lowered his gaze in ashamed embarrassment. "Oh... that's right, that was the only intact vase logged for that site."

"Indeed." The chair creaked as the senior eased himself out of it, not bothering to conceal his complimenting moan as stiff vertebrae popped back into almost normal alignment.

Not quite willing to let the subject fall, the temptation to dig up the mysteries of past, which had lead him to his archaeological studies in the first place, the young man challenged his superior. "There should be more though, this is a completely unknown mythology, at least one that I've never come across. What if this scroll is the only surviving mention of it? That's another thing, intact papyrus from this era is almost unheard of, that in and of itself is significant. You have to have to admit that much at least Dr. Wentworth."

Dr. Karl J. Wentworth took a moment to pause and consider the intern's points, deemed them valid and dismissed their relevance just as quickly. "It is a most unusual document to be sure but it will soon no longer be our concern. In two days, it will be on it's way to Cairo along with the rest." He gestured to the twenty-three wooden crates stacked near the freight elevator, most already nailed shut, their ancient treasures safely cocooned inside. "Now finish with the photography and pack it away. Make sure the pot is properly cushioned, wouldn't want it to shatter in route. We'll catalogue the last of the statues this afternoon. The Akhenaten bust is still on the maybe list, so we won't prep it till I hear from the director." The old professor chuckled to himself as he tidied up his work surface and made a few notations to be entered into the database later. "Though honestly, if he thinks he's going to get anywhere with Minister Hawass, he's kidding himself. Zahi is not known for making exceptions."

"Really, that's it. An archaeological mystery falls into your lap and you act like you're filing tax returns?!" The desperation laced resentment was plain to hear.

Wentworth quietly picked up his glasses and cleaned them with precision before restoring them to their accustomed perch. "And what is it that you would have from me, Mister Gates?" he asked in an even voice.

"Well some enthusiasm would be a nice start. How can you just let this go? Aren't you curious? Think about the implications! This could open up entirely new avenues of exploration surrounding the collapse of the Old Kingdom. Obviously it's full of myth and allegory, but it's also a new perspective. Think of the shift it could cause in established theories!" Gates was fully immersed in his visions of world renowned breakthroughs, pacing the floor and gesturing wildly when a more sinister thought made him pause. The older gentleman had a reputation for being a stickler to accepted theories and had failed more than a few students in his day for straying outside proven parameters. "Or is that the problem? Tell me, Dr. Wentworth are you so mired in your established academia that you would rather not 'rock the boat' and risk your reputation?" The tenacity of youth bucking against the system colored his accusation.

The older man took a deep breath before meeting his young colleagues' gaze, an unfamiliar spark of anger in the eyes that peered past thick burgundy frames. "Would a dissertation on the use of carapaces as mixing bowls after their ritualized slaughter because turtles were associated with Set, the enemy of Ra, please you? Or perhaps an article on the popularity of Sobek because, though he was a fierce and powerful deity, he was also considered a protector of the innocent? Maybe a paper presenting the hypothesis that brains were in fact destroyed during the mummification process, not because their function was misunderstood, but to prevent the resurrection of these supposed Karaang beings. Would that satisfy you? How about I chop off a corner of the papyri and send it to the nearest CSI lab. I'm sure they could tell us exactly what about the scroll's composition has contributed to its preservation. Shouldn't take more than an hour or two." The aging historian's voice, which had remained steady and calm throughout his rebuttal, was now gaining some heat of it's own. "And please, tell me, Mister Gates. What gives you the right to lay such a burden of proof at MY feet? Do you think that I can just take it upon myself ignore the orders of curators, countries, and international edicts simply because I found something interesting? Hell, you wouldn't even know what was in that damn scroll if I hadn't translated it FOR you, you self-pretentious little whelp!"

"Pro.. profess.."

"Don't professor me. Eager to change the world are you?" He huffed and pulled his hands free from the protective gloves with vigor. "Well no one's stopping you. Take the pictures for the insurance and as many others as you see fit. Make a copy of the audio file for all I care. I'm positive it will make a wonderful topic for your final thesis. Do what you will, just make sure you lay your own name, not mine, on the gallows for the vultures to pick apart." He stared at the young man, now properly quelled, who was barely past his mid-twenties, so full of enthusiasm but really little more than a babe when it came to understanding how the world really worked, and had a pang of compassion. He used to be that young and naive, devoted to changing history, he'd paid the price for his indiscretion. One did not become relegated to the basement without reason. Taking a deep breath, Dr. Wentworth reined in his temper, and attempted to make peace.

"Mark, my lad, I know you mean well, but sometimes the fates just don't align. Sometimes you can do nothing more than lay the groundwork for another's success. Just remember, your role isn't diminished even if no one knows the part you played." He spoke softly and smiled letting his assistant know that all had been forgiven.

"I understand Dr. Wentworth."

"I'm sure you don't, Mister Gates, but perhaps someday you will. Take the copies, with my blessing, just make sure you examine them on your own time." Mark nodded his agreement, the gleam of excitement returning to his eyes and Karl was glad to see it. He grabbed his jacket and a simple brown sack and headed towards the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, Maggie said she made me tuna salad for lunch and I don't intend to let it go to waste."

Time passed as it inevitably does. The old makes way for the young and the present decays into the past. Dr. Karl Wentworth retired to a small town outside of Phoenix, living peacefully with his wife Margaret and their two cats Sphynx and Shard. He left the basements behind, doing his small part to preserve the legacies of others and a heritage for the future to learn from. The Professor did, however, on occasion volunteer at the local library, finding the long rows of shelves a familiar and comforting environment. Though his favorite activity would always be when he got to be the guest reader at storytime.

Mark Gates received his masters degree, with an impressive but safe thesis on the use of satellite photography in discovering potential dig sites. Finding some success, he eventually secured a position as media liaison for the egyptology department at the Met. What it really meant was that in return for being able to spend his winters on digs and his summers cataloging and writing, he would have to sit for interviews, construct press releases, and give the occasional tour.

So it was that one summer afternoon, when a weather worn reporter found his way to Mark's small cubical, he was not particularly surprised. That changed when the journalist handed over his business card and the egyptologist felt a barely contained thrill, a swelling hope that maybe they had something in common.

"Thanks for seeing me Mr. Gates. I was wondering if I maybe I could have a minute of your time. I came across an interesting piece of info regarding something called the Panyamer Scroll and thought that maybe you could help me out."

"Yes. The rat-priest scroll. I've heard of it."

"Maybe you've also heard of certain creatures mentioned in it. Go by the name of the Kraang."

He couldn't help but smile. Suddenly, the six years he had spent slowly and secretly amassing info from across the ages didn't seem so wasted. He had never forgotten his old mentor's words. Mark had guarded his name and reputation, playing a good public game and biding his time. Maybe now he had finally found someone who could distribute his findings. Bending down to retrieve something from the bottom drawer of his desk, he straightened again and passed his fellow truth-seeker a thick notebook.

"Mr. Kurtzman, I think you may want to look at this."

THE END