Fic: Musings of the Mad: Hair of the Dog (SGA)
Title: Musings of the Mad: Hair of the Dog
Rating: G
Character: Rodney McKay
Genre: Introspection, humour
Disclaimer: Not mine or the boys would be otherwise occupied…
Word Count: 707
Summary: This is the third of Rodney McKay's 'journal entries' during his time on Atlantis. Set sometime early in the first season. McKay's not feeling so hot.
Personal Journal
Dr. M. Rodney McKay
CSO Atlantis Expedition
Third entry, City of Atlantis
I'm amazed I'm not dead yet. The pain shrouding my every thought in a foggy residue is enough to make death a little more attractive than usual. I'm quite certain I'm suffering from alcohol poisoning. Or something worse - God only knows what's actually in that crap Zelenka calls moonshine.
Oh my god, my head is going to explode. I've had migraines that were more pleasant than this.
I really can't allow myself to become so inebriated again. What the hell would we do if I was three sheets to the wind and something went catastrophically wrong with the city? I'd be too screwed up to save us, and everyone would die horribly. All because I was taking a night off to get pie eyed and shoot the shit with Sheppard, just like a regular guy.
No pressure or anything.
I think I resent the fact that everyone, essentially, depends on me to keep this place running. I know I'm arrogant, but this isn't just arrogance on my part - it's really true. There just *isn't* anyone else here who has a deep enough grasp of a sufficient number of different city systems and subroutines to jump in and troubleshoot problems the way I can. Added to that, I now have the nifty ATA gene - though of course, not nearly as strong and sure as the Major's - which makes me virtually indispensable. I have come to realize it is madness that Sheppard and I are not only both on away teams, but on the SAME team no less. God help Atlantis if something were to happen to one of us - but if they lost us both, I don't think the expedition could make it.
And that thought reminds me, even through the pain caused by the evil gnome in my brain attacking the back of my eye socket with an ice pick, *why* it was I got the hooch from Zelenka in the first place. And now find myself considering whether hair of the dog really does work as advertised. Because I really don't want to think about all of this right now.
At the rate I'm going, we're going to need to open our very own chapter of AA here. It'll be the triple A.
Oh my god, I need coffee, an ice pack and a dark room. I may never drink again.
Addendum to previous entry:
I don't believe this! I'm truly astonished, and that rarely happens to me for anything less than exciting new Ancient technology. Those *bastards* are going to pay.
I don't know who did it, but I *will* find out and kill them in their sleep. No, I won't. I'll kill them while they're awake, painfully and slowly. That is if Sheppard doesn't find them first. I have a feeling no one will ever find the bodies if he does.
I would bet next week's pay it was the marines who took those pictures of us as we staggered down the hall last night. I vaguely remember that stupid lampshade - well, it looked like a lampshade, who the hell knows what the Ancients really used it for - but I can't imagine what possessed me to put it on my head. Or maybe I do. I sort of recall that perhaps I was trying to convince Sheppard to wear it. Probably to hide his stupid hair.
Now, the picture of him flat on his ass *is* pretty funny. I will be sure to save that one to my private directory before I purge every copy and every backup of every picture taken last night from the mainframe - and from every single computer in the network. Oh, they think they can run, they think they can hide, they think they can keep their files safe from me. They have no *idea* what I am capable of. There won't be one single shred of digital photographic evidence by the time I am through, and then I'll search and destroy the perpetrator. Someone is going to fry for this, I'll see to it personally.
Just as soon as the jackhammer in my brain takes a break.
Rating: G
Character: Rodney McKay
Genre: Introspection, humour
Disclaimer: Not mine or the boys would be otherwise occupied…
Word Count: 707
Summary: This is the third of Rodney McKay's 'journal entries' during his time on Atlantis. Set sometime early in the first season. McKay's not feeling so hot.
Personal Journal
Dr. M. Rodney McKay
CSO Atlantis Expedition
Third entry, City of Atlantis
I'm amazed I'm not dead yet. The pain shrouding my every thought in a foggy residue is enough to make death a little more attractive than usual. I'm quite certain I'm suffering from alcohol poisoning. Or something worse - God only knows what's actually in that crap Zelenka calls moonshine.
Oh my god, my head is going to explode. I've had migraines that were more pleasant than this.
I really can't allow myself to become so inebriated again. What the hell would we do if I was three sheets to the wind and something went catastrophically wrong with the city? I'd be too screwed up to save us, and everyone would die horribly. All because I was taking a night off to get pie eyed and shoot the shit with Sheppard, just like a regular guy.
No pressure or anything.
I think I resent the fact that everyone, essentially, depends on me to keep this place running. I know I'm arrogant, but this isn't just arrogance on my part - it's really true. There just *isn't* anyone else here who has a deep enough grasp of a sufficient number of different city systems and subroutines to jump in and troubleshoot problems the way I can. Added to that, I now have the nifty ATA gene - though of course, not nearly as strong and sure as the Major's - which makes me virtually indispensable. I have come to realize it is madness that Sheppard and I are not only both on away teams, but on the SAME team no less. God help Atlantis if something were to happen to one of us - but if they lost us both, I don't think the expedition could make it.
And that thought reminds me, even through the pain caused by the evil gnome in my brain attacking the back of my eye socket with an ice pick, *why* it was I got the hooch from Zelenka in the first place. And now find myself considering whether hair of the dog really does work as advertised. Because I really don't want to think about all of this right now.
At the rate I'm going, we're going to need to open our very own chapter of AA here. It'll be the triple A.
Oh my god, I need coffee, an ice pack and a dark room. I may never drink again.
Addendum to previous entry:
I don't believe this! I'm truly astonished, and that rarely happens to me for anything less than exciting new Ancient technology. Those *bastards* are going to pay.
I don't know who did it, but I *will* find out and kill them in their sleep. No, I won't. I'll kill them while they're awake, painfully and slowly. That is if Sheppard doesn't find them first. I have a feeling no one will ever find the bodies if he does.
I would bet next week's pay it was the marines who took those pictures of us as we staggered down the hall last night. I vaguely remember that stupid lampshade - well, it looked like a lampshade, who the hell knows what the Ancients really used it for - but I can't imagine what possessed me to put it on my head. Or maybe I do. I sort of recall that perhaps I was trying to convince Sheppard to wear it. Probably to hide his stupid hair.
Now, the picture of him flat on his ass *is* pretty funny. I will be sure to save that one to my private directory before I purge every copy and every backup of every picture taken last night from the mainframe - and from every single computer in the network. Oh, they think they can run, they think they can hide, they think they can keep their files safe from me. They have no *idea* what I am capable of. There won't be one single shred of digital photographic evidence by the time I am through, and then I'll search and destroy the perpetrator. Someone is going to fry for this, I'll see to it personally.
Just as soon as the jackhammer in my brain takes a break.