A fanfic! Holy crap, she's writing again!
Yes, I seem to have written something again, and I like it well enough a week later to post it here and in a few other places as well. As always, constructive criticism is sought.
Title: Alone
Author: persephoneflame
Disclaimer: Characters and settings don't belong to me. Joss Whedon is my master now (but FOX can suck it).
Rating: G
Summary: Who are we when we're alone? How much of who we are comes from the perceptions of others?
Warnings: Mild Serenity spoilers.
Silence. In the Black, when she’s alone in the eternal night at Serenity’s helm, when the others are deep in the rhythms of phase four sleep, River enjoys the blissful silence of thousands of voices at rest.
It’s in these moments, when she’s stolen from her bed and slunk silently on bare feet through the newly-welded corridors of the ship-- somehow changed and exactly the same-- it’s in these precious, silent moments that she finds the clarity to focus on the girl behind the weapon and on the woman that girl became while no one was looking. Alone with her thoughts, and only her thoughts, she is free to contemplate herself without the heavy veneer of everyone else’s perceptions.
Alone on the bridge, she can be just River. Along on the bridge, she’s not an unpredictable but useful ally-- not an albatross, but a person. Alone on the bridge, she’s not an interloper sitting in someone else’s seat, surrounded by someone else’s toys, stark reminders of someone else’s life. Alone on the bridge, she’s not a little sister still in stockings to coddle and protect and to try desperately to revert to a normal that ceased to exist years ago. Alone on the bridge, she’s not an object of pity, a woman made machine and broken, a girl trapped in time by scientists, never to blossom into grace and maturity. Alone on the bridge, she’s not a hoped-for-friend to disappoint and terrify. Along on the bridge, she’s not just a weapon to covet and admire.
Alone on the ridge, she is River Tam: unpredictable, brilliant, pilot by necessity, weapon by design, woman by nature, and part of this family by choice and not simply by circumstance of genetics.
Alone, River can just be, and so she steals these moments and reminds herself who she is so she won’t forget by the light of artificial day and let herself be lost in the others’ thoughts of who, of what, she should be.
---
The sound of metal slamming against metal is an almost meditative rhythm. It’s a background against a physical grounding, muscles straining and relaxing over and over, burning up excess energy that makes him anxious. Antsy. Stupid, sometimes.
It’s in these moments, muscles burning with the effort of lifting the lead weights, grounded in the very real sensations of hard work, that Jayne feels he can think with a clear mind. Only then can he even own up to the change in his thoughts and feelings about the crew. Only then, away from their various kinds of looks, glares, and stares, can he try to figure out what it means to be him in this strange new ship-- the same ship, but different all the same.
By himself, in the cargo bay, the sound of the weights blocking out the every day sounds that keep him on edge, his hand always a short move away from a weapon, by himself is he still the hired gun likely to go off and get everyone dead with some hare-brained, selfish plan of his own? By himself, with the tension that keeps him on edge being worked out by the steady press of metal, is he still the barely-trusted muscle kept around to help things go smooth? By himself, with his body focused by exertion, is he still just a mercenary to be ignored whenever possible? By himself, worries pounded away by the heavy weight of simple metal, is he still nothing but a rude, crude necessity of back-of-beyond living? By himself, working hard enough that each breath burns in his lungs, is he more than just an occasionally amusing bully? By himself, with his heart rate up so high he fears the organ will burst from his straining chest, is he more than an object of study to think on in a fearfully cold and unsettling manner?
When he’s by himself, who is Jayne Cobb? Mercenary? Warrior? Uncivilized? Or is he more than the others imagine him to be? Who is he, in this strange new family he’s found himself in, with no ma to knit for him, but bonds stronger than money all the same?
By himself, he can consider these questions, he can think on it hard, like he hasn’t thought on anything else in years, and he can start to come to some decisions that don’t always involve the bottom line, even if everyone else is still half waiting for him to add up the costs and profits on his fingers.
Title: Alone
Author: persephoneflame
Disclaimer: Characters and settings don't belong to me. Joss Whedon is my master now (but FOX can suck it).
Rating: G
Summary: Who are we when we're alone? How much of who we are comes from the perceptions of others?
Warnings: Mild Serenity spoilers.
Silence. In the Black, when she’s alone in the eternal night at Serenity’s helm, when the others are deep in the rhythms of phase four sleep, River enjoys the blissful silence of thousands of voices at rest.
It’s in these moments, when she’s stolen from her bed and slunk silently on bare feet through the newly-welded corridors of the ship-- somehow changed and exactly the same-- it’s in these precious, silent moments that she finds the clarity to focus on the girl behind the weapon and on the woman that girl became while no one was looking. Alone with her thoughts, and only her thoughts, she is free to contemplate herself without the heavy veneer of everyone else’s perceptions.
Alone on the bridge, she can be just River. Along on the bridge, she’s not an unpredictable but useful ally-- not an albatross, but a person. Alone on the bridge, she’s not an interloper sitting in someone else’s seat, surrounded by someone else’s toys, stark reminders of someone else’s life. Alone on the bridge, she’s not a little sister still in stockings to coddle and protect and to try desperately to revert to a normal that ceased to exist years ago. Alone on the bridge, she’s not an object of pity, a woman made machine and broken, a girl trapped in time by scientists, never to blossom into grace and maturity. Alone on the bridge, she’s not a hoped-for-friend to disappoint and terrify. Along on the bridge, she’s not just a weapon to covet and admire.
Alone on the ridge, she is River Tam: unpredictable, brilliant, pilot by necessity, weapon by design, woman by nature, and part of this family by choice and not simply by circumstance of genetics.
Alone, River can just be, and so she steals these moments and reminds herself who she is so she won’t forget by the light of artificial day and let herself be lost in the others’ thoughts of who, of what, she should be.
---
The sound of metal slamming against metal is an almost meditative rhythm. It’s a background against a physical grounding, muscles straining and relaxing over and over, burning up excess energy that makes him anxious. Antsy. Stupid, sometimes.
It’s in these moments, muscles burning with the effort of lifting the lead weights, grounded in the very real sensations of hard work, that Jayne feels he can think with a clear mind. Only then can he even own up to the change in his thoughts and feelings about the crew. Only then, away from their various kinds of looks, glares, and stares, can he try to figure out what it means to be him in this strange new ship-- the same ship, but different all the same.
By himself, in the cargo bay, the sound of the weights blocking out the every day sounds that keep him on edge, his hand always a short move away from a weapon, by himself is he still the hired gun likely to go off and get everyone dead with some hare-brained, selfish plan of his own? By himself, with the tension that keeps him on edge being worked out by the steady press of metal, is he still the barely-trusted muscle kept around to help things go smooth? By himself, with his body focused by exertion, is he still just a mercenary to be ignored whenever possible? By himself, worries pounded away by the heavy weight of simple metal, is he still nothing but a rude, crude necessity of back-of-beyond living? By himself, working hard enough that each breath burns in his lungs, is he more than just an occasionally amusing bully? By himself, with his heart rate up so high he fears the organ will burst from his straining chest, is he more than an object of study to think on in a fearfully cold and unsettling manner?
When he’s by himself, who is Jayne Cobb? Mercenary? Warrior? Uncivilized? Or is he more than the others imagine him to be? Who is he, in this strange new family he’s found himself in, with no ma to knit for him, but bonds stronger than money all the same?
By himself, he can consider these questions, he can think on it hard, like he hasn’t thought on anything else in years, and he can start to come to some decisions that don’t always involve the bottom line, even if everyone else is still half waiting for him to add up the costs and profits on his fingers.