Fiction: SGA - Triffid
Where the triffid fight was fought: Lab 4
“Good day, Dr. Dinh. As you formally requested, I am returning the Peltier assembly of inventory tag number 3RT257.“
“Thank you, Dr. Parrish. As agreed, your written receipt.”
“Thank you, Dr. Dinh. While I’m here, I might as well save you the trip.”
Dinh rolled his eyes. “How remarkably collegial of you.” He nodded at the freshly cleaned big white board and Parrish pulled it out the door, struggling to compensate for the off-balance wheel.
Bell stepped into the room and caught her hip on the wheeled tray. “Dinh, what the hell is the cooler set doing here?”
“It’s ours,” he ground out past a clenched jaw.
“Oh for God’s sake,” she muttered as she circled around it to the smaller white board.
Where the triffid fight was not fought: the puddlejumper bay
Lorne handed the clipboard to Sheppard. “I’m just staying out of the science areas as much as possible.”
“What is it now? Oh, the triffids? Still?”
“Don’t let Parrish or Brown hear you call them that. Apparently plants are passive energy intakers. Plants aren’t supposed to hunt their food; they are supposed to absorb it.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense, what about pitcher plants and Venus flytraps?”
“First off, sir, digestive juices and inward pointing hairs are not tooth and claw and second, sentience gets involved and most importantly, this is why I’m hiding in the jumper bay.”
“Botanists to one side, biologists to the other?”
“Oh yeah. And the anthropologists are watching both, talking about loyalty tests and over-riding alliances.”
“And the physicists?”
“Nose in the air, pretending it’s all beneath them.”
“Easy way to fix that.”
“With all respect, sir, may I remind you that the last time you started the string versus wave debate, it ended in the infirmary?”
Where the triffid was: MK3-PH1
It groomed itself again and sieved through the leaf debris in hopes of another morsel. A ravka crept close, judging from the languid motion that it was sated, and thus less a threat that the hoor swooping through the canopy. It wasn’t sated; it just wasn’t in the mood for ravka, not when it still had the lingering echo of whatever it was that had gotten away. Rich rich blood, stuffed with unctuous creamy lipids and spiced with a metallic tang. Delicious. Unique. Unknown. New. And utterly gone.
It slid a tendril over the ravka, pulling it into the air and dismembering it apathetically, popping bits into its maw and sensing the hoor fly off in frustration. The rodent fur and blood slid down with boring familiarity. It wondered where the tangy new meat had come from and eyed the trail they’d cleared in their flight.
Because triffids are always funny.
thanks or blame to beadslut, whichever you feel is appropriate