Unique by Kriadydragon (Doppelganger challenge)
Title: Unique
Author: Kriadydragon
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: Elizabeth, Team, Lorne
Synopsis: She would know them anywhere.
SGA
They tell Elizabeth through Lorne, Stackhouse, and the other search teams not to bother. People on other worlds: old men who know too much, women who gossip, and men who prefer if everyone just dropped the matter before it brings about trouble. The stories are the same, which means they're on the right track. Alien people telling her to turn away and forget only incites more hope.
“They don't really have a name,” Lorne tells her at the next debrief. After a month of searching she's stopped caring for the details, but they're important so she lets the major talk. “Most call them the Faceless ones. They're pretty indifferent toward visitors but seem to have this finders/keepers rule or something. They'll take people they come across to add to their population. Not all the time. Usually after a cull. If you want them back...” Lorne shrugs helplessly, “you have to find them.” He talks confidently as he explains that the Faceless reside in one massive city on one continent in order to keep tighter control over their citizens.
“Shouldn't be too hard to find them,” Lorne says. “So I don't know what the big deal is.”
Elizabeth wants to share in the major's certainty so badly it hurts, but past disappointments have put up defensive walls caging her enthusiasm and stumbling most of her hope.
-----------------------
They step through the gate into an artist's dream and nightmare. The buildings look as though they've been carved from a single mountain, chiseled in curved, flowing shapes like wind or water, or pictures that could be real if not for the same striated colors of red, brown, cream and quartz. Stain-glass windows flash prismatic and stone fountains as detailed as the structures glitter with silver water. The people... it doesn't matter where Elizabeth turns, every single citizen is dressed in identical robes of velvet black with gold embroidery so fine and intricate it should have been impossible for there to be so many.
All the beauty is monotonous. There is too much of it and not even its creators seem aware of its existence. Elizabeth wonders what the point is, if there was a time when it was appreciated before desensitization made it nothing more than a tradition for the sake of having traditions. She wonders if these people are aware of anything beyond the hoods hiding their faces. No one will answer when she tries to speak, and no matter how she cranes her neck or tries to crouch without seeming to, she can't see through the narrow gap of the cowls. The Faceless speak only to each other and only in whispers.
“So how do we do this?” Lorne asks only to be shushed for it. He lowers his voice before what passes as authority has a chance to chase them away. “How do we do this?”
Elizabeth searches the crowds that might as well be one entity divided into many. She can't fathom how anyone can exist like this and still keep their sanity, which is probably the point. Make everyone one, everyone lost, until they forget where they really belong or if they had belonged anywhere to begin with. It scares the hell out of her. She and Lorne wander the streets like outcasts, asking in hushed voices of the four people who may have come to this world. The natives simply shrug at the physical descriptions, so Elizabeth changes tactics.
“Do you have a hall of learning? A library or school?”
Sometimes it is all a matter of asking the right questions. They are literally pointed toward a structure like a great temple that echoes hollow on the inside. No library on earth can match its size or the number of books stacked ceiling high on the countless shelves. Elizabeth and Lorne weave among hunch-back and contrite scholars who speak as though afraid to be overheard, barely moving and trying to shrink into themselves.
Rodney McKay is, and has always been, lightning quick movements and words, cutting the air with sharp gesticulations. Elizabeth hears his rapid finger-snaps reverberating sharp as nearby thunder, and sees his pale hands flash in the sea of black and gold. He speaks in harsh whispers that rise above all other whispers, demanding attention without asking for it. And the timid scholars listen, flocking around the one who is not like them, burying him in their awe and uncertainty, their questions and pleas for him to keep his voice down.
Elizabeth's heart pounds and she hurries forward, pushing through the masses until she able to place her hand on the soft cloth of the robe. The gesturing and hissing stutters to a stop when the hooded head whips her way.
“Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth smiles, wiping stinging moisture from her eyes. “Hi, Rodney.”
McKay pushes his cowl back. His face is pale, his hair a little longer, but the constant spark of ever-burning thought-processes continues to flicker in his wide, bewildered blue eyes. “Hi... Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth takes his hand and pulls him away from his entourage before they have a chance to pull him back and smother his noise with their numbers.
They find Ronon among the day laborers hauling sacks of supplies, wheel-barrows of wood or stone, and rolls of carpet as the craftsmen chisel out another structure. Thick-bodied workers lumber, muscles bulging like hills beneath the dark fabric. Elizabeth thinks she can almost feel the ground vibrate every time one of them walks by. They are slow, ponderous, like beasts of burden. Ronon moves among them swift and sure, a leopard lost within the ox and elephants. He is too sinuous and lean to be a part of them. Elizabeth hurries ahead of Rodney and Lorne, stepping in front of Ronon's path just as he goes to carry the next rock to load into the cart. He halts, just standing there, staring.
“Ronon?” Elizabeth asks, twining her hands until they are numb.
The Satedan pushes his hood back and grins. “Dr. Weir.”
Elizabeth smiles back as another layer of tension is stripped away.
Teyla is among the nobles of the tea house where the women of a higher class (it seems impossible that there should even be castes of any kind on this world) walk stiff and methodical as though the world owes them everything. Their arrogance makes them rigid as trees. Teyla flows through them like a river. She stands tall with a natural pride that has nothing to do with being anyone's better. She is a light, an example, were these people to pay attention. She gives freely of her strength, her calm, her compassion, allowing it to ripple from her and move the air. Elizabeth senses her before she sees her, then sees her walking with the kind of grace that makes these other women nothing more than caricatures. Their scorn scorches, but it has yet to touch the woman who really is their better.
“Teyla?”
Teyla stops, turns, stares for a moment, then lowers her hood. Her pure smile is the first feature revealed to Elizabeth. “Dr. Weir.” She moves forward and they touch forehead to forehead.
The Faceless have their government, their armies, and a place where the soldiers meet hissing strategies and plans. They are men carved from stone: solid, broad and imposing. They crowd around stone tables in a stone room, sitting rod-straight in stone chairs as they pour over maps and lists of weapon inventory . They could crack the rock-floor with their heavy footfalls. Sheppard walks around them lighter than air, as though his bones really are hollow and the slightest breeze will carry him away. He eases into a chair, melting against it, spine curving and limbs unhinging.
Elizabeth stops beside him. “John?”
John's hood twitches when his head perks, lifting to meet her gaze. He's not fragile, never has been, but it feels as though he could be easily crushed among these moving boulders. Elizabeth becomes anxious to take him away from this place.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. “John? It's me.”
His head lifts a little higher as though looking up, then he shoves back his hood and blinks confused but sharp, hopeful hazel eyes. “Elizabeth?”
She places her other hand over her mouth to hide the fact that she is biting her lip to keep from crying. She nods.
Sheppard stands abruptly - a bird taking to the skies. “Are we going home, now?”
Elizabeth nods again and finds her voice. “Yes, we're going home.”
She leads the way from the building, through the streets and its flood of black and gold bodies to the gate. Her people gather so close she can feel their warmth, their individual presence. Lorne dials the gate and, when the event horizon pools, they step through it to home.
The End
Author: Kriadydragon
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: Elizabeth, Team, Lorne
Synopsis: She would know them anywhere.
SGA
They tell Elizabeth through Lorne, Stackhouse, and the other search teams not to bother. People on other worlds: old men who know too much, women who gossip, and men who prefer if everyone just dropped the matter before it brings about trouble. The stories are the same, which means they're on the right track. Alien people telling her to turn away and forget only incites more hope.
“They don't really have a name,” Lorne tells her at the next debrief. After a month of searching she's stopped caring for the details, but they're important so she lets the major talk. “Most call them the Faceless ones. They're pretty indifferent toward visitors but seem to have this finders/keepers rule or something. They'll take people they come across to add to their population. Not all the time. Usually after a cull. If you want them back...” Lorne shrugs helplessly, “you have to find them.” He talks confidently as he explains that the Faceless reside in one massive city on one continent in order to keep tighter control over their citizens.
“Shouldn't be too hard to find them,” Lorne says. “So I don't know what the big deal is.”
Elizabeth wants to share in the major's certainty so badly it hurts, but past disappointments have put up defensive walls caging her enthusiasm and stumbling most of her hope.
-----------------------
They step through the gate into an artist's dream and nightmare. The buildings look as though they've been carved from a single mountain, chiseled in curved, flowing shapes like wind or water, or pictures that could be real if not for the same striated colors of red, brown, cream and quartz. Stain-glass windows flash prismatic and stone fountains as detailed as the structures glitter with silver water. The people... it doesn't matter where Elizabeth turns, every single citizen is dressed in identical robes of velvet black with gold embroidery so fine and intricate it should have been impossible for there to be so many.
All the beauty is monotonous. There is too much of it and not even its creators seem aware of its existence. Elizabeth wonders what the point is, if there was a time when it was appreciated before desensitization made it nothing more than a tradition for the sake of having traditions. She wonders if these people are aware of anything beyond the hoods hiding their faces. No one will answer when she tries to speak, and no matter how she cranes her neck or tries to crouch without seeming to, she can't see through the narrow gap of the cowls. The Faceless speak only to each other and only in whispers.
“So how do we do this?” Lorne asks only to be shushed for it. He lowers his voice before what passes as authority has a chance to chase them away. “How do we do this?”
Elizabeth searches the crowds that might as well be one entity divided into many. She can't fathom how anyone can exist like this and still keep their sanity, which is probably the point. Make everyone one, everyone lost, until they forget where they really belong or if they had belonged anywhere to begin with. It scares the hell out of her. She and Lorne wander the streets like outcasts, asking in hushed voices of the four people who may have come to this world. The natives simply shrug at the physical descriptions, so Elizabeth changes tactics.
“Do you have a hall of learning? A library or school?”
Sometimes it is all a matter of asking the right questions. They are literally pointed toward a structure like a great temple that echoes hollow on the inside. No library on earth can match its size or the number of books stacked ceiling high on the countless shelves. Elizabeth and Lorne weave among hunch-back and contrite scholars who speak as though afraid to be overheard, barely moving and trying to shrink into themselves.
Rodney McKay is, and has always been, lightning quick movements and words, cutting the air with sharp gesticulations. Elizabeth hears his rapid finger-snaps reverberating sharp as nearby thunder, and sees his pale hands flash in the sea of black and gold. He speaks in harsh whispers that rise above all other whispers, demanding attention without asking for it. And the timid scholars listen, flocking around the one who is not like them, burying him in their awe and uncertainty, their questions and pleas for him to keep his voice down.
Elizabeth's heart pounds and she hurries forward, pushing through the masses until she able to place her hand on the soft cloth of the robe. The gesturing and hissing stutters to a stop when the hooded head whips her way.
“Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth smiles, wiping stinging moisture from her eyes. “Hi, Rodney.”
McKay pushes his cowl back. His face is pale, his hair a little longer, but the constant spark of ever-burning thought-processes continues to flicker in his wide, bewildered blue eyes. “Hi... Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth takes his hand and pulls him away from his entourage before they have a chance to pull him back and smother his noise with their numbers.
They find Ronon among the day laborers hauling sacks of supplies, wheel-barrows of wood or stone, and rolls of carpet as the craftsmen chisel out another structure. Thick-bodied workers lumber, muscles bulging like hills beneath the dark fabric. Elizabeth thinks she can almost feel the ground vibrate every time one of them walks by. They are slow, ponderous, like beasts of burden. Ronon moves among them swift and sure, a leopard lost within the ox and elephants. He is too sinuous and lean to be a part of them. Elizabeth hurries ahead of Rodney and Lorne, stepping in front of Ronon's path just as he goes to carry the next rock to load into the cart. He halts, just standing there, staring.
“Ronon?” Elizabeth asks, twining her hands until they are numb.
The Satedan pushes his hood back and grins. “Dr. Weir.”
Elizabeth smiles back as another layer of tension is stripped away.
Teyla is among the nobles of the tea house where the women of a higher class (it seems impossible that there should even be castes of any kind on this world) walk stiff and methodical as though the world owes them everything. Their arrogance makes them rigid as trees. Teyla flows through them like a river. She stands tall with a natural pride that has nothing to do with being anyone's better. She is a light, an example, were these people to pay attention. She gives freely of her strength, her calm, her compassion, allowing it to ripple from her and move the air. Elizabeth senses her before she sees her, then sees her walking with the kind of grace that makes these other women nothing more than caricatures. Their scorn scorches, but it has yet to touch the woman who really is their better.
“Teyla?”
Teyla stops, turns, stares for a moment, then lowers her hood. Her pure smile is the first feature revealed to Elizabeth. “Dr. Weir.” She moves forward and they touch forehead to forehead.
The Faceless have their government, their armies, and a place where the soldiers meet hissing strategies and plans. They are men carved from stone: solid, broad and imposing. They crowd around stone tables in a stone room, sitting rod-straight in stone chairs as they pour over maps and lists of weapon inventory . They could crack the rock-floor with their heavy footfalls. Sheppard walks around them lighter than air, as though his bones really are hollow and the slightest breeze will carry him away. He eases into a chair, melting against it, spine curving and limbs unhinging.
Elizabeth stops beside him. “John?”
John's hood twitches when his head perks, lifting to meet her gaze. He's not fragile, never has been, but it feels as though he could be easily crushed among these moving boulders. Elizabeth becomes anxious to take him away from this place.
She puts her hand on his shoulder. “John? It's me.”
His head lifts a little higher as though looking up, then he shoves back his hood and blinks confused but sharp, hopeful hazel eyes. “Elizabeth?”
She places her other hand over her mouth to hide the fact that she is biting her lip to keep from crying. She nods.
Sheppard stands abruptly - a bird taking to the skies. “Are we going home, now?”
Elizabeth nods again and finds her voice. “Yes, we're going home.”
She leads the way from the building, through the streets and its flood of black and gold bodies to the gate. Her people gather so close she can feel their warmth, their individual presence. Lorne dials the gate and, when the event horizon pools, they step through it to home.
The End