Spontaneous Fic Amnesty
I ran across this recently and it still amuses me, though sadly nothing more ever came of it.
***
The facts are these:
Late one lazy summer’s afternoon, Dr. Daniel Jackson arrived at the Annabelle Hotel, located in downtown Lakeshore. His bills for two nights’ stay were to be paid by the Department of Archaeology and Assorted Soils, Delft University, in exchange for his willingness to consult with Dr. Artemisia Soeur on what she insists are spectacular archaeological finds confirming past alien tourism in the local town of Coeur d’Coeurs.
At half-past eight the next morning, Dr. Soeur arrived at the hotel and attempted to collect Dr. Jackson for a working breakfast at Der Waffle Iron. When he failed to appear, she convinced hotel staff to provide access to his room, where they were shocked to discover him stone-cold dead, face-down in a bowl of cold minestrone.
As of this moment, Dr. Jackson has, by one count, been dead for seventeen hours, three minutes, and twenty-two seconds. Unusually, in his case there are alternative accountings available, depending on your attitude toward the falsification of records, the definition of the word “dead,” and several other issues of a metaphysical nature.
In most places, this would be not so much “unusual” as “unique.” Dr. Jackson, however, is not in most places. Dr. Jackson-or rather, the collection of molecules known as Dr. Jackson when they are somewhat more animate than they are at this moment-is in Papen County. And while still unusual, in Papen County his personal history with death, life, and philosophically difficult mathematics is by no means unique.
***
(Okay, I have two more paragraphs, and a fairly clear picture of the comedy chase scene that is Daniel waking up in the morgue--dude is going to recover from "you're kind of dead" faster than the average bear--but alas, I don't think I ever had any plot. So no meeting Emerson Cod for Teal'c. Teal'c so wants to be Emerson Cod when he grows up.)
***
The facts are these:
Late one lazy summer’s afternoon, Dr. Daniel Jackson arrived at the Annabelle Hotel, located in downtown Lakeshore. His bills for two nights’ stay were to be paid by the Department of Archaeology and Assorted Soils, Delft University, in exchange for his willingness to consult with Dr. Artemisia Soeur on what she insists are spectacular archaeological finds confirming past alien tourism in the local town of Coeur d’Coeurs.
At half-past eight the next morning, Dr. Soeur arrived at the hotel and attempted to collect Dr. Jackson for a working breakfast at Der Waffle Iron. When he failed to appear, she convinced hotel staff to provide access to his room, where they were shocked to discover him stone-cold dead, face-down in a bowl of cold minestrone.
As of this moment, Dr. Jackson has, by one count, been dead for seventeen hours, three minutes, and twenty-two seconds. Unusually, in his case there are alternative accountings available, depending on your attitude toward the falsification of records, the definition of the word “dead,” and several other issues of a metaphysical nature.
In most places, this would be not so much “unusual” as “unique.” Dr. Jackson, however, is not in most places. Dr. Jackson-or rather, the collection of molecules known as Dr. Jackson when they are somewhat more animate than they are at this moment-is in Papen County. And while still unusual, in Papen County his personal history with death, life, and philosophically difficult mathematics is by no means unique.
***
(Okay, I have two more paragraphs, and a fairly clear picture of the comedy chase scene that is Daniel waking up in the morgue--dude is going to recover from "you're kind of dead" faster than the average bear--but alas, I don't think I ever had any plot. So no meeting Emerson Cod for Teal'c. Teal'c so wants to be Emerson Cod when he grows up.)