Holiday, by Sophonisba
-title- Holiday
-author- Sophonisba (saphanibaal)
-warnings- None, really. Suitable for general audiences.
-disclaimer- Not my people, not my setting, not my world, not my holiday; I did all of the research for the last via Wikipedia and the links given thereof. Oh, and I seem to have lifted "if logs could sleep" from Tolkien, LotR, tFotR, "In the House of Tom Bombadil." Reason #528 why to avoid posting when sleepy if possible, I suppose.
-spoilers- I don't think there are any that aren't general knowledge. Set in mid-first season.
-word count- 1282
Holiday
Dr. Rodney McKay was having, in defiance of the statistics, a good morning.
The winter cold had broken several days ago. The more at-large (read: inessential) population of the city had begun plans for a celebration at once; last night many of the Athosians had joined the Atlanteans for a bonfire on the end of the East Pier. (Rodney had initially presumed the proper place for a bonfire was the mainland, but he quite understood Elizabeth's point that the East Pier was comparatively fireproof -- unlike the mainland, full of inflammable items such as trees, grass, small children, etc.) He had even seen two soldiers carrying something that looked disturbingly like an effigy of a Wraith queen out to it yesterday.
The annoying schroedinbug (redundant) in the air circulation circuitry had been finally tracked down (by the diligent efforts of McKay and Zelenka) and fixed, fixed, fixed late yesterday afternoon. Rodney McKay had then hit the dining hall, wolfed down something that might or might not have been dinner, staggered off to bed, fallen into it, and slept like a log, if logs could sleep.
After that solid fourteen hours of sleep, he had woken up calm, peaceful, and refreshed; taken a desperately needed shower, changed into clothes freshly warmed by virtue of one of the lesser, previously malfunctioning, auxiliary functions of the air circulation system, and consumed a cup or two of coffee in a leisurely manner; and was now strolling towards his lab, where several interesting but nonessential projects awaited him, when he was struck in the right side by a loud splortch.
Far more slowly than he probably should have, he looked down. A large quantity of something purple and gloppy was either adorning his right torso or slowly dripping down his hip. His gaze moved slowly up and to the right.
From one of the crossing hallways, Sheppard, Teyla, and one of the biologists -- Kusar or Kermit or something like that -- were grinning widely. All three looked as if they'd gone a few rounds with Flora and Merryweather and Aurora's sixteenth birthday gown and lost, or possibly had been testing out a new rainbow-colored camouflage paint for sneaking around during Mardi Gras -- they still had buckets of, presumably, glop in one hand.
"What," Rodney demanded, "do you idiots think you're DOING?"
"We are throwing paint for the festival," Teyla said reasonably. "Good fortune to you, Dr. McKay, on this day of celebration."
"And what made you think," he snapped, "that the Atlantis halls were a proper place for your messy celebration? Isn't that what the mainland is for?"
"It is my celebration," Kumiss said indignantly. "The feast of Holi. Last night we lit the Holika bonfire; this morning we throw paint made with medicinal herbs on our compatriots, to bring them health and long life. Dr. Weir kindly declared it a citywide celebration last night."
"Yes, and how much of the Athosian slivovitz had she had before that?" Rodney wondered aloud.
"Aw, c'mon, McKay," Sheppard said, leaning against one wall in a fashion someone had probably told him once was boyishly appealing (depressingly, it actually was) and depositing a layer of probably non-water-soluble paint over the myriad-year-old-ceramic. "It's a holiday where you get to run around and throw alternative-medicinal colored mud on your friends. What's not to like?"
Kurama looked, for a moment, as if something he'd eaten last night was disagreeing with him. Rodney could sympathize.
"I don't know, the mud?" he retorted.
"The paint-throwing is only until noon," Teyla offered.
A shout of laughter made Rodney half-turn in time to see Jinto and Wex running down the corridor, dripping in multicolor, holding what appeared to be spray bottles of the sort used to hold cleaning supplies, and laughing. Hastily, Rodney folded his arms in front of him and set his sternest You Are All Morons And I Think The Drains Really Need To Be Personally Investigated And Regrouted, Preferably With Hand Tools, Especially The Chemical Disposal System expression on his face.
The boys skidded to a stop, looked around for a moment, raised their squirt bottles, and spritzed the Three Muddeteers with what appeared to be a much-diluted form of the glop. Probably water-soluable, then. Good. Rodney hastily moved aside as the adults retaliated, neatly evading Brownian-borne splatter with the slight exception of one orange spot on a shoe.
Everyone cheerfully wished each other health, long life, prosperity, and confusion to the Wraith, and the adults trotted off, commenting on the lack of group spirit on the part of one Rodney McKay while apparently in search of more victims/combatants.
The boys were poised to follow them when Rodney called "You two -- wait!"
He checked his watch as they cautiously approached. More than enough time. Good.
After retrieving some of the used one-shot rifles, whatever they were called, from the quartermaster (who had looked gratifyingly unconcerned at whatever a scientist and two pubescent boys might want with some slightly-used portable pipes), sending Wex off for more of the dye makings (never mind what they were called either), and unearthing the mangled device with the intact pneumatic pumps from one corner of the lab storage closet -- and airtight was by definition watertight -- Rodney felt he was in business.
Zelenka came in partly through the fitting of the last to the former, green dripping down his shirt, and raised his eyebrows.
"Revenge," Rodney hissed.
"Yes, yes, exactly," Zelenka said, disappeared, and came back in a few minutes with some lengths of curled tubing that proved to be just what was wanted.
Jinto, as befitted a boy in the presence of greatness, held parts together, handed tools over when called for, and was permitted to try the firing mechanism with water when the scientists were doing the pressure test.
"Now, don't aim these where you could hit somebody in a vulnerable spot directly," Rodney instructed the two boys as they stepped into the transporter. Jinto, after a brief squabble with Wex, had claimed the privilege of carrying the other device, leaving Wex to carry the ammunition refill tanks. "You could put somebody's eye out."
Then he hastily looked around to see whether anyone had heard him in the wholly unprecedented instance of turning into his mother, but the hallway and the gateroom balcony beyond it were deserted.
The gateroom itself seemed to be in use as some sort of central activity organizer; people were coming in, talking with others, and moving out.
Sheppard, even more color-layered than before, was talking with Elizabeth, whose face was neatly painted purple and pink and whose clothes were immaculate, near a pillar.
Jinto carefully poked his muzzle over the railing and pointed it this way and that, looking for a good shot.
In the sort of perfect gestalt of noticing and action that he never managed in the field -- and how unfair was that? Rodney wondered a moment later -- Dr. McKay saw the space of irregular pillar between Sheppard and Elizabeth, a narrow-but-spreading stream of highly pressurized paint struck the space in question before he registered that his arms had raised the watercannon, and the maple-red paint rebounded to douse the leader and commanding officer of Atlantis nearly from head to toe as the chief science officer turned, handed his watercannon to Wex on autopilot, and strode from the balcony.
There was a dead silence, and then an explosion of speech as Rodney started down the hallway.
"JINTO!" someone bellowed in a really fairly good imitation of Dave Seville.
Dr. Rodney McKay was having, despite a number of initial setbacks, a reasonably good morning.
(The OMC biologist's name, by the way, is Dr. Kumar.)
-author- Sophonisba (saphanibaal)
-warnings- None, really. Suitable for general audiences.
-disclaimer- Not my people, not my setting, not my world, not my holiday; I did all of the research for the last via Wikipedia and the links given thereof. Oh, and I seem to have lifted "if logs could sleep" from Tolkien, LotR, tFotR, "In the House of Tom Bombadil." Reason #528 why to avoid posting when sleepy if possible, I suppose.
-spoilers- I don't think there are any that aren't general knowledge. Set in mid-first season.
-word count- 1282
Holiday
Dr. Rodney McKay was having, in defiance of the statistics, a good morning.
The winter cold had broken several days ago. The more at-large (read: inessential) population of the city had begun plans for a celebration at once; last night many of the Athosians had joined the Atlanteans for a bonfire on the end of the East Pier. (Rodney had initially presumed the proper place for a bonfire was the mainland, but he quite understood Elizabeth's point that the East Pier was comparatively fireproof -- unlike the mainland, full of inflammable items such as trees, grass, small children, etc.) He had even seen two soldiers carrying something that looked disturbingly like an effigy of a Wraith queen out to it yesterday.
The annoying schroedinbug (redundant) in the air circulation circuitry had been finally tracked down (by the diligent efforts of McKay and Zelenka) and fixed, fixed, fixed late yesterday afternoon. Rodney McKay had then hit the dining hall, wolfed down something that might or might not have been dinner, staggered off to bed, fallen into it, and slept like a log, if logs could sleep.
After that solid fourteen hours of sleep, he had woken up calm, peaceful, and refreshed; taken a desperately needed shower, changed into clothes freshly warmed by virtue of one of the lesser, previously malfunctioning, auxiliary functions of the air circulation system, and consumed a cup or two of coffee in a leisurely manner; and was now strolling towards his lab, where several interesting but nonessential projects awaited him, when he was struck in the right side by a loud splortch.
Far more slowly than he probably should have, he looked down. A large quantity of something purple and gloppy was either adorning his right torso or slowly dripping down his hip. His gaze moved slowly up and to the right.
From one of the crossing hallways, Sheppard, Teyla, and one of the biologists -- Kusar or Kermit or something like that -- were grinning widely. All three looked as if they'd gone a few rounds with Flora and Merryweather and Aurora's sixteenth birthday gown and lost, or possibly had been testing out a new rainbow-colored camouflage paint for sneaking around during Mardi Gras -- they still had buckets of, presumably, glop in one hand.
"What," Rodney demanded, "do you idiots think you're DOING?"
"We are throwing paint for the festival," Teyla said reasonably. "Good fortune to you, Dr. McKay, on this day of celebration."
"And what made you think," he snapped, "that the Atlantis halls were a proper place for your messy celebration? Isn't that what the mainland is for?"
"It is my celebration," Kumiss said indignantly. "The feast of Holi. Last night we lit the Holika bonfire; this morning we throw paint made with medicinal herbs on our compatriots, to bring them health and long life. Dr. Weir kindly declared it a citywide celebration last night."
"Yes, and how much of the Athosian slivovitz had she had before that?" Rodney wondered aloud.
"Aw, c'mon, McKay," Sheppard said, leaning against one wall in a fashion someone had probably told him once was boyishly appealing (depressingly, it actually was) and depositing a layer of probably non-water-soluble paint over the myriad-year-old-ceramic. "It's a holiday where you get to run around and throw alternative-medicinal colored mud on your friends. What's not to like?"
Kurama looked, for a moment, as if something he'd eaten last night was disagreeing with him. Rodney could sympathize.
"I don't know, the mud?" he retorted.
"The paint-throwing is only until noon," Teyla offered.
A shout of laughter made Rodney half-turn in time to see Jinto and Wex running down the corridor, dripping in multicolor, holding what appeared to be spray bottles of the sort used to hold cleaning supplies, and laughing. Hastily, Rodney folded his arms in front of him and set his sternest You Are All Morons And I Think The Drains Really Need To Be Personally Investigated And Regrouted, Preferably With Hand Tools, Especially The Chemical Disposal System expression on his face.
The boys skidded to a stop, looked around for a moment, raised their squirt bottles, and spritzed the Three Muddeteers with what appeared to be a much-diluted form of the glop. Probably water-soluable, then. Good. Rodney hastily moved aside as the adults retaliated, neatly evading Brownian-borne splatter with the slight exception of one orange spot on a shoe.
Everyone cheerfully wished each other health, long life, prosperity, and confusion to the Wraith, and the adults trotted off, commenting on the lack of group spirit on the part of one Rodney McKay while apparently in search of more victims/combatants.
The boys were poised to follow them when Rodney called "You two -- wait!"
He checked his watch as they cautiously approached. More than enough time. Good.
After retrieving some of the used one-shot rifles, whatever they were called, from the quartermaster (who had looked gratifyingly unconcerned at whatever a scientist and two pubescent boys might want with some slightly-used portable pipes), sending Wex off for more of the dye makings (never mind what they were called either), and unearthing the mangled device with the intact pneumatic pumps from one corner of the lab storage closet -- and airtight was by definition watertight -- Rodney felt he was in business.
Zelenka came in partly through the fitting of the last to the former, green dripping down his shirt, and raised his eyebrows.
"Revenge," Rodney hissed.
"Yes, yes, exactly," Zelenka said, disappeared, and came back in a few minutes with some lengths of curled tubing that proved to be just what was wanted.
Jinto, as befitted a boy in the presence of greatness, held parts together, handed tools over when called for, and was permitted to try the firing mechanism with water when the scientists were doing the pressure test.
"Now, don't aim these where you could hit somebody in a vulnerable spot directly," Rodney instructed the two boys as they stepped into the transporter. Jinto, after a brief squabble with Wex, had claimed the privilege of carrying the other device, leaving Wex to carry the ammunition refill tanks. "You could put somebody's eye out."
Then he hastily looked around to see whether anyone had heard him in the wholly unprecedented instance of turning into his mother, but the hallway and the gateroom balcony beyond it were deserted.
The gateroom itself seemed to be in use as some sort of central activity organizer; people were coming in, talking with others, and moving out.
Sheppard, even more color-layered than before, was talking with Elizabeth, whose face was neatly painted purple and pink and whose clothes were immaculate, near a pillar.
Jinto carefully poked his muzzle over the railing and pointed it this way and that, looking for a good shot.
In the sort of perfect gestalt of noticing and action that he never managed in the field -- and how unfair was that? Rodney wondered a moment later -- Dr. McKay saw the space of irregular pillar between Sheppard and Elizabeth, a narrow-but-spreading stream of highly pressurized paint struck the space in question before he registered that his arms had raised the watercannon, and the maple-red paint rebounded to douse the leader and commanding officer of Atlantis nearly from head to toe as the chief science officer turned, handed his watercannon to Wex on autopilot, and strode from the balcony.
There was a dead silence, and then an explosion of speech as Rodney started down the hallway.
"JINTO!" someone bellowed in a really fairly good imitation of Dave Seville.
Dr. Rodney McKay was having, despite a number of initial setbacks, a reasonably good morning.
(The OMC biologist's name, by the way, is Dr. Kumar.)