Wojelah: Better Late (Thirteen/Jack) [G] - SUMMER HOLIDAYS PROMPT 5
Title: Better Late
Author: wojelah
Prompt: 5 - a demigod - crashes - a game - while watching a street show.
Rating: G
Pairing: Thirteen/Jack
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: What he knows is he's been someone's lab rat.
**
When he's asked, later, Jack never really can explain that it doesn't feel like a lie. He might be pushing six hundred, but that doesn't mean he remembers it all even when there hasn't been someone affirmatively screwing with his head. But he can't forget this life he's lived, somewhere, with people he knows are out there, just not where they'd all thought they'd been.
What he knows is that he’s spent nine and a half years in a stasis pod, linked into a neural network that had established itself in multiple galaxies, dropped into a scenario with dozens of others, and left to muddle through as if it were real. With every moment recorded into the network and used for study. What he knows is that he's been someone’s lab rat, and he never knew it.
What he knows is that he's currently in an infirmary wars. That he's being weaned from stasis, his muscles restored and his eyes and ears and general nervous system coddled into accepting actual stimuli in small doses, so the real world doesn't kill him with the shock of it. Bandages cover his eyes, letting in only a dim glow. They'd covered his ears, before, but it seems he's making progress.
What he remembers is this:
He'd been running a show. A circus. A carnival. Something slightly more choate than a gang of affiliated street performers. They were entertainers. And they'd been good at it.
It had been an honest show. You paid your entry, you got your afternoon - or day - or evening - of delight and awe and mystery and maybe, because this was his show, a bit of flirtation. You left with a little bit of shine to carry with you, for however long it would last you.
His people had been… marvels. An organically, unexpected coalescence of the ugly, the kind, the beautiful, and the unique. They'd been his. And he’d been theirs. They kept each others’ care, and they'd traveled the
asteroid belts of the Janerian Cluster, putting on a show for mining colonies and manufactory planetoids and for a time, a glittering, too-short time, he'd felt whole. He'd felt… home.
He’s old enough to know that immortality requires mutability. That all homes, over time, fade or wither or evolve into something that no longer offers comfort. That eventually, always, he will move on in search of the next version. The saving grace is that there is a next. He can let the old go, if he's sure the next is out there.
He's no longer sure.
Finding out that you’ve lost a decade to the malicious whim of an intergalactic psychologist with impressive telepathy and delusions of grandeur does tend to cut faith off at the knees.
It had all been a construct.
The people who had left the troupe, over the years? They'd been jettisoned. Removed from the network, stripped from their pods, and abandoned in whatever served for a dank alley in their corner of their galaxy. The authoritiws still haven't found the mastermind behind it all. Just the peons doing the dirty work.
They’d been fighting for their lives and he hadn't even known. They'dhis, and they'd been murdered, and he'd never even suspected.
They were his, and he'd failed them all.
A hand wraps around his, slender fingers tightening when he startles, heart racing.
“Oh, now. I wouldn't say that.” It's a woman, then. Humanoid, he guesses, based on the hand. With broad vowels he remembers from hundreds of years ago, from the small third planet he’d loved for its people.
Jack swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and forces a steady breath. “I didn't hear anyone come in.”
“Cats’ feet, me. Not actual cats, mind, and I've checked. But a decent metaphor. And I wouldn't say you failed.”
The hand lets go and he hears the lightning tap of fingers against data pad. “Mmm,” she says. “According to this, the bandages come off your eyes today. Right.” There's the click of pad against table, and then he feels the pressure of the bandages slowly start to unravel against his skin. “I'd keep them closed till this is done,” she says. “Don't want to overwhelm things. And any rate, you kept them together, didn't you. Your merry band.”
“It wasn't real,” he rasps. His eyes are tight shut, but it's more to stop the images. Odelpha’s flying disks, glittering at night. Antoine’s plumage, rippling as he sang. Panora’s lightning-quick hands, arranging and rearranging zanir shells and never losing track of the pebble underneath. “And some still left.”
“It was. And you tried to keep them. Wheedled and flirted and cajoled them to stay. And succeeded more often than not, I'm guessing. Why?”
The light is growing behind his eyelids. His eyes are watering at the brightness. “Because the Cluster was dangerous for an unaffiliated. Because it was my job to keep them safe.”
The hands at his head pause, and one moves to brush his cheek before they resume, removing the final length of fabric. “There. Give it a moment, now. And you know you can't keep them all safe forever. Don't rub,” she chides, as he cups his face, freed skin itching with the sudden lack of pressure. She presses a watm, damp cloth into his hands. “This will help.”
He dabs at each eye, feeling the sleep and tears loosen, and slowly cracks one open, then the other. The light doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's starting against the darkness of the last two weeks, against the eternal twilight skies of the Cluster. His eyes are streaming. He lets them.
Eventually the blur before him resolves into a slim blonde. There's a blue overcoat he hasn't seen in centuries on the chair behind her. And dark eyes he's known anywhere - and still would - are watching him with an empathy that hurts. “Does that actually help?” he asks, and regrets it. He hadn't meant to make her flinch. “Hello, Doctor. Love the new look.”
“Never,” she allows. “Hello, Jack. I've brought clothes - stop it.” Her smile is bright and sad. “You can't go hunting naked. Well,” she considers, head cocking to the side, “if anyone could, it’s you, but it would rather slow things down.” She tosses a bundle at him and turns her back.“Come on, then. We’ve got a neural mastermind to find.”
He does reach out then, and the touch of hand to hand is another home. “Doctor.”
She turns around. “I can't always, Jack. No more than you can.” She cups his cheek. “We both know that. But I always try. Even if I get there too late.”
He does smile then, looking at her, and the anger in her face, and feels it turn from quiet to hungry. “Well then,” Jack says to the Doctor, “Let's go “
xpost: https://wintercompanion.dreamwidth.org/259842.html
Author: wojelah
Prompt: 5 - a demigod - crashes - a game - while watching a street show.
Rating: G
Pairing: Thirteen/Jack
Spoilers/warnings: none
Summary: What he knows is he's been someone's lab rat.
**
When he's asked, later, Jack never really can explain that it doesn't feel like a lie. He might be pushing six hundred, but that doesn't mean he remembers it all even when there hasn't been someone affirmatively screwing with his head. But he can't forget this life he's lived, somewhere, with people he knows are out there, just not where they'd all thought they'd been.
What he knows is that he’s spent nine and a half years in a stasis pod, linked into a neural network that had established itself in multiple galaxies, dropped into a scenario with dozens of others, and left to muddle through as if it were real. With every moment recorded into the network and used for study. What he knows is that he's been someone’s lab rat, and he never knew it.
What he knows is that he's currently in an infirmary wars. That he's being weaned from stasis, his muscles restored and his eyes and ears and general nervous system coddled into accepting actual stimuli in small doses, so the real world doesn't kill him with the shock of it. Bandages cover his eyes, letting in only a dim glow. They'd covered his ears, before, but it seems he's making progress.
What he remembers is this:
He'd been running a show. A circus. A carnival. Something slightly more choate than a gang of affiliated street performers. They were entertainers. And they'd been good at it.
It had been an honest show. You paid your entry, you got your afternoon - or day - or evening - of delight and awe and mystery and maybe, because this was his show, a bit of flirtation. You left with a little bit of shine to carry with you, for however long it would last you.
His people had been… marvels. An organically, unexpected coalescence of the ugly, the kind, the beautiful, and the unique. They'd been his. And he’d been theirs. They kept each others’ care, and they'd traveled the
asteroid belts of the Janerian Cluster, putting on a show for mining colonies and manufactory planetoids and for a time, a glittering, too-short time, he'd felt whole. He'd felt… home.
He’s old enough to know that immortality requires mutability. That all homes, over time, fade or wither or evolve into something that no longer offers comfort. That eventually, always, he will move on in search of the next version. The saving grace is that there is a next. He can let the old go, if he's sure the next is out there.
He's no longer sure.
Finding out that you’ve lost a decade to the malicious whim of an intergalactic psychologist with impressive telepathy and delusions of grandeur does tend to cut faith off at the knees.
It had all been a construct.
The people who had left the troupe, over the years? They'd been jettisoned. Removed from the network, stripped from their pods, and abandoned in whatever served for a dank alley in their corner of their galaxy. The authoritiws still haven't found the mastermind behind it all. Just the peons doing the dirty work.
They’d been fighting for their lives and he hadn't even known. They'dhis, and they'd been murdered, and he'd never even suspected.
They were his, and he'd failed them all.
A hand wraps around his, slender fingers tightening when he startles, heart racing.
“Oh, now. I wouldn't say that.” It's a woman, then. Humanoid, he guesses, based on the hand. With broad vowels he remembers from hundreds of years ago, from the small third planet he’d loved for its people.
Jack swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and forces a steady breath. “I didn't hear anyone come in.”
“Cats’ feet, me. Not actual cats, mind, and I've checked. But a decent metaphor. And I wouldn't say you failed.”
The hand lets go and he hears the lightning tap of fingers against data pad. “Mmm,” she says. “According to this, the bandages come off your eyes today. Right.” There's the click of pad against table, and then he feels the pressure of the bandages slowly start to unravel against his skin. “I'd keep them closed till this is done,” she says. “Don't want to overwhelm things. And any rate, you kept them together, didn't you. Your merry band.”
“It wasn't real,” he rasps. His eyes are tight shut, but it's more to stop the images. Odelpha’s flying disks, glittering at night. Antoine’s plumage, rippling as he sang. Panora’s lightning-quick hands, arranging and rearranging zanir shells and never losing track of the pebble underneath. “And some still left.”
“It was. And you tried to keep them. Wheedled and flirted and cajoled them to stay. And succeeded more often than not, I'm guessing. Why?”
The light is growing behind his eyelids. His eyes are watering at the brightness. “Because the Cluster was dangerous for an unaffiliated. Because it was my job to keep them safe.”
The hands at his head pause, and one moves to brush his cheek before they resume, removing the final length of fabric. “There. Give it a moment, now. And you know you can't keep them all safe forever. Don't rub,” she chides, as he cups his face, freed skin itching with the sudden lack of pressure. She presses a watm, damp cloth into his hands. “This will help.”
He dabs at each eye, feeling the sleep and tears loosen, and slowly cracks one open, then the other. The light doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's starting against the darkness of the last two weeks, against the eternal twilight skies of the Cluster. His eyes are streaming. He lets them.
Eventually the blur before him resolves into a slim blonde. There's a blue overcoat he hasn't seen in centuries on the chair behind her. And dark eyes he's known anywhere - and still would - are watching him with an empathy that hurts. “Does that actually help?” he asks, and regrets it. He hadn't meant to make her flinch. “Hello, Doctor. Love the new look.”
“Never,” she allows. “Hello, Jack. I've brought clothes - stop it.” Her smile is bright and sad. “You can't go hunting naked. Well,” she considers, head cocking to the side, “if anyone could, it’s you, but it would rather slow things down.” She tosses a bundle at him and turns her back.“Come on, then. We’ve got a neural mastermind to find.”
He does reach out then, and the touch of hand to hand is another home. “Doctor.”
She turns around. “I can't always, Jack. No more than you can.” She cups his cheek. “We both know that. But I always try. Even if I get there too late.”
He does smile then, looking at her, and the anger in her face, and feels it turn from quiet to hungry. “Well then,” Jack says to the Doctor, “Let's go “
xpost: https://wintercompanion.dreamwidth.org/259842.html