H is for harbinger
General Hammond Alphabet Soup fic, in honor of Don S. Davis. Godspeed, General.
Rating: G
Set in Season 2, 1969
281 words
AN: I'm not sure I really want feedback, since this is so lame. I never should have signed up knowing that I was on vacation the week prior to the due date. I just didn't have the time or focus to do it properly. Ah well. Lay it on me.
In his younger days, George Hammond didn't believe in that hippie "destiny" mumbo-jumbo. He was, after all, just an average boy from a small, dusty town in western Texas, and he lived by the words of his father: "You are what you make yourself to be, son." No, if George Hammond were to become a fighter pilot it would be by his own doing, not by anything predetermined by the universe.
And that's the way it was all through university, OCS, War College, and flight school. Until the day in late summer, 1969 when, still reeling from his father’s heart attack the month before, and in between postings before starting another flight school, George came face-to-face with Fate.
Fate, it seemed, was four strange people with fantastical words of the future, words in George’s own handwriting. Fate was a pretty blonde with a nasty cut on her hand, and an admonishment to keep quiet about ray guns and gold tattoos, and everything he had witnessed that day.
George Hammond wasn’t thrilled with Fate.
For the next 25 years, those four strangers, those harbingers of destiny, were always close in his thoughts. And George second-guessed himself like he had never done before. If I do this, will it change the future? He was never very good at doing nothing. The end he knew (sort of); it was the middle he could only imagine.
Now, he waits - a solitary figure high above the gateroom, wondering if he had read the signs correctly, if he should have been more proactive and less cryptic. He waits for the four harbingers (strangers no longer) to find their way home, and for destiny to resolve into reality.
Rating: G
Set in Season 2, 1969
281 words
AN: I'm not sure I really want feedback, since this is so lame. I never should have signed up knowing that I was on vacation the week prior to the due date. I just didn't have the time or focus to do it properly. Ah well. Lay it on me.
In his younger days, George Hammond didn't believe in that hippie "destiny" mumbo-jumbo. He was, after all, just an average boy from a small, dusty town in western Texas, and he lived by the words of his father: "You are what you make yourself to be, son." No, if George Hammond were to become a fighter pilot it would be by his own doing, not by anything predetermined by the universe.
And that's the way it was all through university, OCS, War College, and flight school. Until the day in late summer, 1969 when, still reeling from his father’s heart attack the month before, and in between postings before starting another flight school, George came face-to-face with Fate.
Fate, it seemed, was four strange people with fantastical words of the future, words in George’s own handwriting. Fate was a pretty blonde with a nasty cut on her hand, and an admonishment to keep quiet about ray guns and gold tattoos, and everything he had witnessed that day.
George Hammond wasn’t thrilled with Fate.
For the next 25 years, those four strangers, those harbingers of destiny, were always close in his thoughts. And George second-guessed himself like he had never done before. If I do this, will it change the future? He was never very good at doing nothing. The end he knew (sort of); it was the middle he could only imagine.
Now, he waits - a solitary figure high above the gateroom, wondering if he had read the signs correctly, if he should have been more proactive and less cryptic. He waits for the four harbingers (strangers no longer) to find their way home, and for destiny to resolve into reality.