fic: taman shud
Title: taman shud
Summary: An alternate universe, and an alternate ending.
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis is not mine, obviously.
The house is dark. At the kitchen table a woman sits; a glass of red wine untouched in front of her. A door opens behind her, but she doesn’t look up.
“We didn’t plan for these consequences,” she offers quietly. The figure behind her remains silent. “We’re not murderers. We were just doing what we thought was right.”
A step forward and she turns her head slightly towards the noise. Her eyes, red and irritated, narrow in anger at the silence of her intruder.
“Who the hell are you to judge me anyways?! You only know what they told you, not the full story.” Another step and she hears a familiar click, cold and sterile sounding. She counts the steps till they stop and she can feel the body heat behind her. Her head drops dejectedly, and her sigh sounds like someone knocked the wind from her. A fly has landed in her wine, and she watches the ripples crash against the side of the glass. The feeling of cold metal against the back of her head is both sobering and saddening.
“Everything dies, you know.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
It goes like this:
There is screaming, and the high-pitched screech of the Darts flying overhead. Little babies crying pitifully in the street where they were dropped. Withered bodies bake in the heat of the sun while people stumble over them, a reflection of the fate that awaits those who do not run fast enough.
A group of people watch the chaos from afar. There is no emotion on their faces, and one by the one they turn away and head back towards their ship.
_____________________________________________________________________________
MEMORANDUM FOR [CENSORED] 5 Feb 09
ATTENTION: [CENSORED]
FROM: IOA Regulatory Board
SUBJECT: RE: Practicality of [CENSORED] Continuation
IT IS AFTER MUCH CONSIDERATION THE DECISION OF THE IOA REGULATORY BOARD TO END THE [CENSORED] EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY AND FOR THE RECALL OF ALL CREW, CIVILIAN AND MILITARY, BACK TO EARTH EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. IT HAS BEEN DECIDED, IN LIGHT OF RECENT ACTIONS TAKEN BY THE SENIOR STAFF, THAT THE RISKS AND COSTS OF CONTINUING [CENSORED] FAR OUTWEIGH THE BENEFITS TO MANKIND.
_____________________________________________________________________________
In a dingy motel room, a phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Elizabeth’s dead. It’s all over the papers here in DC.”
Silence and a man runs a hand over his unshaven face.
“Well?! Don’t you care at all that they’re picking us off one by one?! “
A sigh and then, “You knew this was coming, McKay. Don’t act so shocked.”
He can hear an angry huff on the end of the line.
“Do you think we deserve to die?”
“Everything dies, Rodney.” Click.
_____________________________________________________________________________
General O’Neill sits behind a large oak desk, and usually does his best to look imposing whenever someone enters his office. Most days, the door is open and even though his face is gruff, he always offers an ear to anyone who needs an opinion.
Today, though, the door is shut and the blinds drawn closed.
There are mounds of reports sitting on his desk, all offering a slightly different account of the events that took place. On top of one stack sits a copy of the Washington Post, with Elizabeth Weir’s picture and a huge (tasteless, he thinks) headline splashed across the front page.
The sword of Damocles is swinging lower and lower over his head, and the Stargate program.
There’s just never enough time, he thinks and picks up his phone.
“Yes sir?” a female voice asks.
“Get me Richard Woolsey, please.”
____________________________________________________________________________
One not-so-special day, a letter comes for Rodney McKay. He notices it while going through his mail; it’s normal enough looking with no return address listed. Usually he rips through each piece of mail, but this one is different. Rodney places it, face up, on the kitchen table and then sinks down into a chair in front of it. He doesn’t know what’s in it, but he has an idea and would rather continue living in blissful ignorance for a few more hours. So, the letter sits and Rodney sits too, staring at the crisp envelope.
Finally, Rodney thinks he’s built up enough courage to open the damn thing. Trembling fingers, usually so quick and nimble, gently pry the envelope open. Out of habit Rodney scans through the contents of the letter inside.
…Recommendation of the IOA…Jack O’Neill…immediate suspension of Stargate Program…indefinitely…
Rodney doesn’t read anymore after that. His body crumples back into the seat, shoulders slumping under the weight of his relief and despair. After a few moments, he reaches for his cell.
____________________________________________________________________________
In a dingy motel room, the phone rings again.
There’s no answer this time.
To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.
-Samuel Butler
Summary: An alternate universe, and an alternate ending.
Warning: Character death
Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis is not mine, obviously.
The house is dark. At the kitchen table a woman sits; a glass of red wine untouched in front of her. A door opens behind her, but she doesn’t look up.
“We didn’t plan for these consequences,” she offers quietly. The figure behind her remains silent. “We’re not murderers. We were just doing what we thought was right.”
A step forward and she turns her head slightly towards the noise. Her eyes, red and irritated, narrow in anger at the silence of her intruder.
“Who the hell are you to judge me anyways?! You only know what they told you, not the full story.” Another step and she hears a familiar click, cold and sterile sounding. She counts the steps till they stop and she can feel the body heat behind her. Her head drops dejectedly, and her sigh sounds like someone knocked the wind from her. A fly has landed in her wine, and she watches the ripples crash against the side of the glass. The feeling of cold metal against the back of her head is both sobering and saddening.
“Everything dies, you know.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
It goes like this:
There is screaming, and the high-pitched screech of the Darts flying overhead. Little babies crying pitifully in the street where they were dropped. Withered bodies bake in the heat of the sun while people stumble over them, a reflection of the fate that awaits those who do not run fast enough.
A group of people watch the chaos from afar. There is no emotion on their faces, and one by the one they turn away and head back towards their ship.
_____________________________________________________________________________
MEMORANDUM FOR [CENSORED] 5 Feb 09
ATTENTION: [CENSORED]
FROM: IOA Regulatory Board
SUBJECT: RE: Practicality of [CENSORED] Continuation
IT IS AFTER MUCH CONSIDERATION THE DECISION OF THE IOA REGULATORY BOARD TO END THE [CENSORED] EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY AND FOR THE RECALL OF ALL CREW, CIVILIAN AND MILITARY, BACK TO EARTH EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. IT HAS BEEN DECIDED, IN LIGHT OF RECENT ACTIONS TAKEN BY THE SENIOR STAFF, THAT THE RISKS AND COSTS OF CONTINUING [CENSORED] FAR OUTWEIGH THE BENEFITS TO MANKIND.
_____________________________________________________________________________
In a dingy motel room, a phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Elizabeth’s dead. It’s all over the papers here in DC.”
Silence and a man runs a hand over his unshaven face.
“Well?! Don’t you care at all that they’re picking us off one by one?! “
A sigh and then, “You knew this was coming, McKay. Don’t act so shocked.”
He can hear an angry huff on the end of the line.
“Do you think we deserve to die?”
“Everything dies, Rodney.” Click.
_____________________________________________________________________________
General O’Neill sits behind a large oak desk, and usually does his best to look imposing whenever someone enters his office. Most days, the door is open and even though his face is gruff, he always offers an ear to anyone who needs an opinion.
Today, though, the door is shut and the blinds drawn closed.
There are mounds of reports sitting on his desk, all offering a slightly different account of the events that took place. On top of one stack sits a copy of the Washington Post, with Elizabeth Weir’s picture and a huge (tasteless, he thinks) headline splashed across the front page.
The sword of Damocles is swinging lower and lower over his head, and the Stargate program.
There’s just never enough time, he thinks and picks up his phone.
“Yes sir?” a female voice asks.
“Get me Richard Woolsey, please.”
____________________________________________________________________________
One not-so-special day, a letter comes for Rodney McKay. He notices it while going through his mail; it’s normal enough looking with no return address listed. Usually he rips through each piece of mail, but this one is different. Rodney places it, face up, on the kitchen table and then sinks down into a chair in front of it. He doesn’t know what’s in it, but he has an idea and would rather continue living in blissful ignorance for a few more hours. So, the letter sits and Rodney sits too, staring at the crisp envelope.
Finally, Rodney thinks he’s built up enough courage to open the damn thing. Trembling fingers, usually so quick and nimble, gently pry the envelope open. Out of habit Rodney scans through the contents of the letter inside.
…Recommendation of the IOA…Jack O’Neill…immediate suspension of Stargate Program…indefinitely…
Rodney doesn’t read anymore after that. His body crumples back into the seat, shoulders slumping under the weight of his relief and despair. After a few moments, he reaches for his cell.
____________________________________________________________________________
In a dingy motel room, the phone rings again.
There’s no answer this time.
To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.
-Samuel Butler