SGA: Snapshot
Title: Snapshot
Fandom: SGA
Rating: G
Notes: I've had this half-finished for more than half a year, and ignored it until a couple days ago. Fail. :P An experiment in some wacky POV thing or other (zooming in! zooming out! fixed camera! idk). 325 words, x-posted to AO3.
More Notes: This was written about/for/with THIS SONG (Magalenha - Sergio Mendes) in mind. Listening to it will help!
The sounds of chanting and syncopated drum beats roll through the cobbled streets of a small town that wouldn't look out of place somewhere in rural France. The planet, however, is M38-978, and the people are far more Bollywood than anything that ever came out of Europe. The sounds of revelry draw closer and closer until the parade turns a corner into view, a flurry of orange and pink against the stones.
At the center of the throng, surrounded by drummers and garlanded with bright orange flowers, is none other than SGA-1. Teyla is smiling: these people have been a good ally to the Athosians in the past, and she is fond of the fruit they offer in trade. She walks serenely, petals scattered on her P-90. Behind her, John smirks at Rodney beside him, who's bitching quietly about a) pollen, b) John's puddlejumper antics that had been necessary to take down the Wraith dart that ambushed them coming through the gate, leading to c) the overly enthusiastic (and thankful) natives and their stupid parade, especially d) the ones currently leering at Rodney's team leader and e) his hair. His garland slips slowly down his forehead, unnoticed, as he rants. John's got his pushed back at an angle, engaged in a war of visual volume with said hair. Ronon brings up the rear, twirling his gun and looking bemused (and possibly mildly pained) at the flowers stuck in his dreds.
Behind him, more drummers keep the time as dancers swirl around them, followed by streams of chanting townspeople. The crowd gets thinner as the parade winds by, until the only ones left are children, questionably in the procession at all as they play some version of tag involving leaves, chasing each other through the streets after their parents. Soon enough, they too are out of sight. The street is empty after they pass, leaving behind only echoing drumbeats and orange petals strewn across the cobblestones.
Fandom: SGA
Rating: G
Notes: I've had this half-finished for more than half a year, and ignored it until a couple days ago. Fail. :P An experiment in some wacky POV thing or other (zooming in! zooming out! fixed camera! idk). 325 words, x-posted to AO3.
More Notes: This was written about/for/with THIS SONG (Magalenha - Sergio Mendes) in mind. Listening to it will help!
The sounds of chanting and syncopated drum beats roll through the cobbled streets of a small town that wouldn't look out of place somewhere in rural France. The planet, however, is M38-978, and the people are far more Bollywood than anything that ever came out of Europe. The sounds of revelry draw closer and closer until the parade turns a corner into view, a flurry of orange and pink against the stones.
At the center of the throng, surrounded by drummers and garlanded with bright orange flowers, is none other than SGA-1. Teyla is smiling: these people have been a good ally to the Athosians in the past, and she is fond of the fruit they offer in trade. She walks serenely, petals scattered on her P-90. Behind her, John smirks at Rodney beside him, who's bitching quietly about a) pollen, b) John's puddlejumper antics that had been necessary to take down the Wraith dart that ambushed them coming through the gate, leading to c) the overly enthusiastic (and thankful) natives and their stupid parade, especially d) the ones currently leering at Rodney's team leader and e) his hair. His garland slips slowly down his forehead, unnoticed, as he rants. John's got his pushed back at an angle, engaged in a war of visual volume with said hair. Ronon brings up the rear, twirling his gun and looking bemused (and possibly mildly pained) at the flowers stuck in his dreds.
Behind him, more drummers keep the time as dancers swirl around them, followed by streams of chanting townspeople. The crowd gets thinner as the parade winds by, until the only ones left are children, questionably in the procession at all as they play some version of tag involving leaves, chasing each other through the streets after their parents. Soon enough, they too are out of sight. The street is empty after they pass, leaving behind only echoing drumbeats and orange petals strewn across the cobblestones.