a Primeval fanfic: "Isolation herself"
------------------
Title: Isolation herself.
Author: Keenir.
Summary: The thoughts of a woman literally living in the past.
Note: this was written after reading an article about Primeval, and between when eps 1 and 2 were released in Britain; I haven’t seen the series at all yet.
------------------------
Contamination is a myth.
Downtime, in the 20th and 21st centuries, there was a concern - nay, a terror - that the germs which accompany humans would, if released into the past, overwhelm the local microorganisms. Bollox, sheer utter bollux. Bacteria were bacteria, regardless of which era’s species they were, and bacteria had always been tough bastards. The microbial communities were self-correcting, killing off the temporally-introduced strains.
She has a name, of that there is no question. But a name serves to distinguish one from another - and, as there are no others of her species here (and she avoids coming into contact with her species whenever they show up) she essentially has no need to use her name these days. She might be said to be hiding, but truthfully the fact is that she prefers it back here.
High strained sound crack the silence of this dune-islanded lagoon, of which her sandstone hillock is but one of many dotting above the shallow sea. Heavy-bodied amphibians tussel one another for prime spots of beach; a comparison with bull sea lions is fair, but also falls short. They aren’t even really amphibians, not in the truest sense: with either toes on each paw, they’re one try among many by the fish to gain access to the rich diversity emerging on the land.
Time has no markets. She knows that now. Once, she’d thought maybe people could harvest the past. Kill a seismeosaur, feed a village in the midst of a famine. But, alas, time didn’t work like that. It allowed for the existence of time-travelers, but only - she was privately sure - to drive those travelers mad.
-----------------
The End.
Title: Isolation herself.
Author: Keenir.
Summary: The thoughts of a woman literally living in the past.
Note: this was written after reading an article about Primeval, and between when eps 1 and 2 were released in Britain; I haven’t seen the series at all yet.
------------------------
Contamination is a myth.
Downtime, in the 20th and 21st centuries, there was a concern - nay, a terror - that the germs which accompany humans would, if released into the past, overwhelm the local microorganisms. Bollox, sheer utter bollux. Bacteria were bacteria, regardless of which era’s species they were, and bacteria had always been tough bastards. The microbial communities were self-correcting, killing off the temporally-introduced strains.
She has a name, of that there is no question. But a name serves to distinguish one from another - and, as there are no others of her species here (and she avoids coming into contact with her species whenever they show up) she essentially has no need to use her name these days. She might be said to be hiding, but truthfully the fact is that she prefers it back here.
High strained sound crack the silence of this dune-islanded lagoon, of which her sandstone hillock is but one of many dotting above the shallow sea. Heavy-bodied amphibians tussel one another for prime spots of beach; a comparison with bull sea lions is fair, but also falls short. They aren’t even really amphibians, not in the truest sense: with either toes on each paw, they’re one try among many by the fish to gain access to the rich diversity emerging on the land.
Time has no markets. She knows that now. Once, she’d thought maybe people could harvest the past. Kill a seismeosaur, feed a village in the midst of a famine. But, alas, time didn’t work like that. It allowed for the existence of time-travelers, but only - she was privately sure - to drive those travelers mad.
-----------------
The End.