telepathicpixie's journal

[Gundam Wing] Retrospective

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 04:46:00 GMT

Title: Retrospective
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Relena Darlian
Word Count: 630
Notes: 100_women prompt #6 - past.
Summary: Outside of museums, collections of Before Colony artifacts were rare.

Outside of museums, collections of Before Colony artifacts were rare. It was not illegal so much as tedious; most citizens did not see the point in bothering. Anything that had been deemed worth keeping had been reprinted or rerecorded, dispensing of the need for musty old books or technology that did not even work with modern appliances. History books had been rewritten by supposedly neutral parties in order to provide a more accurate and less biased picture of Before Colony life.

Relena often wondered if a truly neutral history text was even possible; similarly, she wondered how future generations would regard their current records and accounts of the way things were.

She had encountered her first Before Colony history book after the wars, while she was helping her mother go through her father’s things. It was faded with age, its pages brown and brittle, and she had to smile at the passage about early space exploration, at the excitement of having gone to the moon. “Why did he have this?” she asked her mother, when her mother saw what she was holding.

“He never said,” her mother said quietly, frowning down at the book as though she were trying to decipher the mystery years too late. With a shrug and a sigh, she continued, “It’s yours, if you want it.”

Relena did take it with her, back to her apartment, placing it carefully on the shelf next to a family photo from happier times. She found herself looking for others on her travels, wandering into antique shops or used bookstores, places that generally had something old and interesting squirreled away in some dusty back room. Her friends noticed and did their part, passing along unique finds whenever they stumbled over something particularly unusual. Heero, who had never stopped traveling after the Eve Wars, sent her the most, books from all corners of the globe and space, some in languages Relena didn’t even know how to read.

It was Heero who sent her the first novel, binding creased and pages yellow and torn, a note tucked inside in Heero’s handwriting: “I thought you might enjoy this.” Rather than looking ever backwards, as the history books had done, this one looked forwards, at what might be. Relena thanked him and Heero sent her more; Relena found her own and sent them to him, a sort of book club where they never actually talked about what they were reading. There was a charm about the books, a sort of desperate longing that had been missing from the histories—histories that had tried to be dry and factual and ever so accurate, but even Relena knew history was written by the triumphant. In some novels, humankind reached the pinnacle of its potential; in others, it destroyed itself and left Earth a smoking ruin. They made it to Mars and beyond, or never went past that first trip to the moon; they met aliens, or they were alone in the galaxy; they learned just in time, or too late.

Relena looked for modern equivalents of these books, but found none. She wondered if they had lost their ability to look to the multi-faceted future and the possibility saddened her.

The collection had gone from one shelf to an entire bookcase, set to the side in her office where the aged bindings clashed with the pristine newness of the rest. Eyes would often stray to that corner, but it was Une who finally asked, in a tone that betrayed her bafflement, “Why do you keep those things?”

Relena had asked her mother the same question, in regards to her father. The difference now was she finally knew the answer. “To remember,” she said after a moment. “How far we’ve come; how far we’ve yet to go.”

Table here.

[Firefly] Jigsaw

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 02:55:20 GMT

Title: Jigsaw
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: River Tam
Word Count: 421
Notes: 100_women prompt #8 - future.
Summary: Man cannot create something from nothing, no matter how much he pretends to be God.

Law of conservation of energy—energy cannot be created or destroyed. Man cannot create something from nothing, no matter how much he pretends to be God. Something must be there to begin with; Man only isolates, examines, enhances, improves. Better. Faster. Stronger. Aptitude for learning and remembering manipulated into almost-perfect recall and mathematical precision, brain stuffed full with encyclopedias worth of knowledge (always something to do, always something to read—can’t say she didn’t learn anything). The athleticism, grace, balance of dancing turned to martial arts, going through the motions over and over and over and over until exhausted, until moves locked in muscle memory. She had been perfect, star pupil, all the right criteria, everything present for everything needed. Wouldn’t have to create anything from nothing. Energy conserved.

They hadn’t expected Something Else. It was only a little thing, hidden behind the rest—wouldn’t have been noticed if there hadn’t already been cuts and probes and little crawling hands sifting through gray matter; a curiosity, a marvel, something for Science to chart and understand and unmake to remake better.

She hadn’t known before, about what she could do—could have done, had she known to look. Maybe if she had put the pieces together, figured it out, she could have stopped the present, here and now and broken. (But what would she have become if she wasn’t who she was?)

“They were using dinosaurs,” she told Simon when she was eight, playing Browncoats and Purplebellies behind the couch in the sitting room, innocent of bloodshed and what the game meant. She thought she was playing, so Simon didn’t know any different and played along. A decade later, she learned the dinosaurs were on loan, sympathetic to the Independent cause but loyal to He of the Flowered Shirts. After the last war, before the next.

“I told you they had dinosaurs,” she told Simon with her newfound clarity, but he still thought they were playing and shushed her.

She anticipated adventure before leaving for the academy; she hadn’t understood it wasn’t the academy, but what was to come after.

She sees better now. When she looks, she looks with purpose. They hadn’t made a weapon from thin air; they forged the weapon from materials already there. (The same qualities to make a lady of grace and learning reconfigured to make an assassin.) She thinks how it is like a man sharpening a knife that will cut his own throat.

River looks to the future and sees things that make her smile.

Table here.

[Angel] Lunar Inspiration

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 00:24:33 GMT

Title: Lunar Inspiration
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Nina Ash
Word Count: 439
Notes: 100_women prompt #47 - paint.
Summary: Nina had always found comfort in her art.

Nina had always found comfort in her art. No matter how bad things got—fight with her sister, breakup with the latest boyfriend, anxiety about the future and did she even have one—there was stability in the slick wet coolness of the clay dribbling between her fingers as she coaxed and molded it with the potter’s wheel; in the steady scritch-scratch of her pencil against crisp, clean paper; in the sharp, acrid smell of the mineral spirits and oil paint she smoothed and slicked onto freshly-stretched canvas. The actions did not change after she became a werewolf; the meaning, the impact, did.

Clay smelled of earth, dirt wet after rain, a place to roam free; her pencils sounded like wind through brittle grass, foliage that hid prey. Turpentine stung her nose more than it ever had before, teasing and taunting enhanced senses, and the pictures she painted reflected the lurking desires of the monster. New moon—dark—meant landscapes, nighttime and open with grass and mountains and stretches of sky so unencumbered and black the stars were dazzling pinpricks of light. Every detail was sharply rendered, exact, seen-unseen with wolf eyes that had been—never been—someplace to run. Detail fled with the waxing of the moon—lines and colors blurred, patience for precision fleeing with anticipation of the oncoming hunt. In the late afternoon hours of those three days, before she went to let herself be locked away, the paintings became a frenzied whirl of color, the flurry and fury of a caged animal about to be set free. Her hands pressed to the canvas to feel the squish and squelch of paint, brushes carelessly discarded as she swiped and clawed and let the wolf out just as much as she dared, just enough to create.

Thirteen months after she got bitten, Nina sold her first painting. It was not the last. People were amazed and intrigued by the dramatic polarity of her paintings, and the range they ran in between; Nina found it amusing and entertaining to note which people were attracted to which side of the wolf, the calm quiet of the new moon versus the wild fever of the full. Some reactions were as expected, but Nina also saw sedate, solemn businessmen drawn to the chaotic abstracts while young rebels were taken by the tranquil landscapes.

Occasionally, people would ask why there was never a moon in her nighttime vistas; Nina would just smile and give no reply. If they had to ask, they would never understand: a moonrise was never a time for rest and reflection.

A moonrise was time to hunt.

Table here.

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 23:39:04 GMT

Finished a new outfit for Charlotte (finally), so we went out to the park for photos. <3

[Angel] Shades

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 01:54:07 GMT

Title: Shades
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Illyria
Word Count: 252
Notes: 100_women prompt #80 - blue.
Summary: She had been magnificent.

She had been magnificent, when the world had been young. Her eyes had been pooled midnight, dark and emotionless as a night sky without stars. The sky had learned its hues from the swirls of her tentacles—overcast and storm-grey, bright and severe and cloudless, and every shade in between; her emotions and whims had changed the weather to match her mood. Her scales had refracted sharp edges of light, like raindrops and dew and the tears of her fallen enemies. She had been the source of colors the soft, pathetic, powerless humans would eventually call cerulean and cobalt, indigo and aquamarine. Sapphires were piled in her honor, uncut ragged things that were a faint ghost of her power and glory and beauty.

“Blue. You coming?”

The bleached half-breed stood, waiting, axe-hilt clutched in an absent hand. There were more monsters to fight, more violence to be done, and he—infant, weakling, insignificant—called upon her to heel as though she were something to be commanded.

She had been magnificent; now she just was. Her name bounced readily from their unworthy lips and, when it did not, it was replaced with foolish, contemptible nicknames, as though she were one of their pitiful, mewling stock. Her greatness was reduced to one lonely word—a single, solitary color.

She followed without comment. I go because it suits me, she had said once, but there was nothing to suit her anymore. She, who had been the wellspring of all shades, was now merely a shadow.

Table here.

[Stargate SG-1] Z is for Zoo

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 19:46:23 GMT

Title: Z is for Zoo
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Word Count: 474
Notes: Written for the Jacob Carter Alphabet Soup.

I find the entire concept to be extremely… unusual.

Considering Selmak’s age, not to mention travel experience, Jacob thought that was saying something. They don’t have zoos anywhere out there? he inquired mildly, watching his grandchildren run on ahead. They stayed within eyesight, but were obviously eager to reach the penguins.

There was the briefest of pauses before Selmak replied, No. Jacob chuckled softly at her tone and a few passersby smiled, clearly taking his amusement to be the product of an indulgent grandfather herding his charges and not a semi-retired general constantly entertained by his alien symbiote’s opinions of Earth culture.

You do not find it unusual to imprison wild animals—predators, even—for the amusement of children? Selmak countered. Put like that, Jacob really couldn’t argue with her; it was a bit unusual, he supposed, particularly from the viewpoint of someone foreign to the planet. If he were being honest with himself, he’d always found it a bit strange to be standing across from a tiger pacing its way behind the sheet of glass separating them, a proud warrior relegated to a passing amusement. That same attitude was probably why he had always viewed the idea of retirement with such distaste—putting the old general out to pasture, only bringing him out for holidays and special occasions.

Whether or not it’s unusual isn’t the point, Jacob returned, finally catching up with Marybeth and Ryan as they plastered their faces against the penguin tank, occasionally shouting out in delight at some antic the penguins were displaying. Even with Selmak providing running commentary, this was some small bit of normalcy Jacob could appreciate. He had no memories of guiding Samantha or Mark around the zoo, smiling at their delight in the animals—probably because he’d always been away too often to find the time. Even once Marybeth and Ryan had been born, Jacob had been an absentee grandfather more often than not. It wasn’t until traveling offworld with Selmak that Jacob had fully realized everything he was missing; thankfully, it was also because of Selmak that he was able to repair some of that damage now.

Marybeth and Ryan peeled themselves away from the penguins to rejoin their grandfather, each child claiming one of Jacob’s hands in a set of sticky fingers. Marybeth began tugging them in the direction of the wildcats while Ryan made a bid for the reptile house, and Jacob caught a wave of understanding from Selmak that told him he didn’t need to explain anything.

C’mon, he said cajolingly to the symbiote while attempting to act as referee—the wildcats were closest and on the way to the reptiles. If you’re really good, I promise to buy you a stuffed cobra from the gift shop.

Selmak gave a silent snort and didn’t bother to dignify the bribe with a response.

[Angel] Read-Only

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 23:40:50 GMT

Title: Read-Only
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Gwen (Files and Records)
Word Count: 1064
Notes: 100_women prompt #45 - read.
Summary: Gwen read everything.

Gwen read everything. Books, magazines, menus, cereal boxes—anything with words. It had been that way ever since she was a little girl, walking to the public library down the street and maxing out her library card on a regular basis. She devoured each new batch of books as quickly as possible just so she could return them and bring home the next stack. The librarians smiled and patted her head and said, “Isn’t it cute?” to each other, absently fond of the solemn little girl who showed up every week like clockwork.

It was a small town; the library was of a size to match. Pretty soon, Gwen had read everything there was to offer, right down to the encyclopedias and local phone books, and the library couldn’t order new things fast enough to keep up with her. She stopped going. Her mother smiled faintly when she explained why and said, “Isn’t that nice?” and “Perhaps you could go outside and play with the other children, Gwen?”

Gwen didn’t.

School provided a momentary reprieve, since the teachers were always kind enough to hand her textbooks she hadn’t read before. She had them all finished before the second week of school, but it was nice to have new material for a while. At first, the teachers liked her: she always had her homework finished, always had done the reading, and always was looking for more to do. Except Gwen didn’t just read—she remembered. Absolutely every word that had ever passed in front of her eyes remained ingrained in her memory, accessible at a moment’s notice, complete with page citations and cross-references.

After she began correcting them, the teachers stopped liking her. New ones always arrived, ones that hadn’t been warned, but they learned soon enough. She was eventually told to stop speaking up in class and—eventually—she stopped bothering. The other students never came to her rescue, because she was a know-it-all and always shattered the curve, until the teachers stopped making her grade part of it.

Her father got a new job. Her family moved to a bigger city, one with a library significantly larger than the old one. The teachers and the students still hated her, but she had books to read, so she was content. She graduated high school early and picked up a few degrees and became a reference librarian, since it only seemed natural. She came to work every day and did her job and answered everyone’s questions; at night, she went home alone.

She read.

She didn’t even look up when the man in the expensive suit stopped in front of her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked automatically, attention on the catalog in front of her. He said nothing, just stood there, and finally she looked up, eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Can I help you?” she repeated.

He smiled. “I’m sorry. I was wondering, could you tell me the name of the person who invented Post-It notes?”

“Arthur Fry,” she replied automatically.

“Mmm.” His smile widened. “And do you happen to know the twenty-fifth line of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’?”

“‘Five miles meandering with a mazy motion’.”

“What do you know about Wolfram and Hart?”

“Wolfram and Hart. Law firm. Main offices located in Los Angeles, California; Washington, D.C.; New York City, New York; London, England—”

“Thank you,” he cut her off. The man glanced around, then leaned forward. “I have one more question for you, miss, but I’m afraid the answer isn’t one you can find in a book.”

Gwen blinked. Not in a book? Everything that mattered was in the books.

He smiled again, as if her reaction amused him. “Would you like a job?”

~*~

The man was a representative from Wolfram and Hart. He brought her to Los Angeles and helped her settle in to her new apartment before taking her to the downtown offices. Gwen was silent, contemplating, as they descended into the subbasements. Her new friend had said the firm was in need of her “unique talents” and that she would be paid better and challenged more than the library could offer, but he hadn’t specifically said what her job would be. Saying yes was possibly the most reckless thing she had ever done in her life; she was feeling fairly giddy and smug about it, at present.

Six levels below the ground floor, they got off the elevator. She followed him down a spartan hallway and they stopped in front of an equally boring door. He unlocked and opened it for her, waving her inside. As he flicked on the lights, rows and rows of file cabinets sprang from the shadows, filling the considerably sized room to capacity. In front of the door, there was a desk.

“This is Files and Records,” he said. “You are our new bookkeeper. The Senior Partners would appreciate it if you would familiarize yourself with the contents of this room.”

Gwen nodded vaguely, eagerly eyeing the file cabinets awaiting her and already looking forward to discovering their secrets. She barely noticed when the lawyer chuckled softly and left the room.

Files and Records proved to be something of a lonely place, since past files were not always necessary for current cases. Gwen didn’t mind; it gave her time to become acquainted with absolutely everything. By the time the first nervous, overworked, underpaid, over-caffeinated junior lawyer came down with a desperate request, Gwen knew the contents of the room as well as she had known the contents of any library.

~*~

Wolfram and Hart was not a friendly workplace. There were no baby showers or birthday parties and seemingly altruistic gestures typically had a knife hidden inside, metaphorical or otherwise. Even so, the firm did have certain assets—certain employees—that it paid to be nice to, just in case.

Gwen became one of those assets.

It surprised her, at first. She was accustomed to people disliking her for her talents, not the other way around. After a few months of flattery and bribery, however, she decided she completely and utterly deserved it. She was, after all, a valuable resource. Still, there was no sense letting on that she knew. Whenever another lawyer ended up stammering out thanks or leaving gifts of chocolate and expensive shoes on Gwen’s desk, she just smiled.

“I’m Files and Records,” she said calmly. “It’s my job.”

Table here.

[Buffy the Vampire Slayer] Second Chance

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 01:19:31 GMT

Title: Second Chance
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Characters: Willow Rosenberg & Tara Maclay
Word Count: 944
Notes: 100_women prompt #14 - hope. Post-series; AU.
Summary: It had been two years, six months, and twenty-four days since Tara left Sunnydale.

It had been two years, six months, and twenty-four days since Tara left Sunnydale. One year and seventeen days since Sunnydale had been destroyed. Two months and eight days since Willow had found a phone number for Tara’s current residence.

She still hadn’t gotten up the courage to call.

She’d only thought of trying to find phone numbers when she realized it had been over two years since Tara had left. It had hurt, at first, when Tara had gone, a heart-sore, soul-searing ache that seemed like it would never abate, because Tara was gone and Willow had driven her away and even the magic had lost its flavor. There would have been spells to find her, to call her back, but Willow had at least possessed enough presence of mind to realize that would have only made things worse. Somewhere around the time the pain started to lessen, the First Evil and a busload of Potentials arrived and they were all fighting for their lives and the safety of the world, and then Sunnydale was gone and they were struggling to assemble an updated version of a Council that hadn’t worked terribly well in the first place.

Two months and eight days ago, Willow realized she had forgotten about Tara, about her heartache, in the bustle and confusion. That had hurt, too, in an absent, regretful way. She’d looked up the phone number mostly to see if she could, to see if there was even a phone number to find. Actually having it had been the hard part, because then there were ten digits mocking her with the thing she’d lost, but could possibly regain.

While Tara leaving had made her seriously reevaluate her priorities, it hadn’t been until Warren nearly killed Buffy that Willow found herself confronting the edge and realizing how far she could fall. She hadn’t given up magic, because it wasn’t practical in their situation, but she was getting better. She was being responsible. She had learned her lesson and maybe Tara could forgive her and they could be friends again, at least.

Willow missed Tara, in all the obvious girlfriendy ways, but she missed her friendship, too.

Taking a deep breath, Willow picked up the phone.

~*~

“Hey, uh, Tara? This is, uhm, this is Willow. Rosenberg. Which—okay, I guess you could have guessed that. That it was me. I mean, how many other Willows do you know? A lot, maybe. Or, uhm—well. I hope you don’t mind me calling. I found your number the other day and—and—I wanted you to know we’re all all right. Well, not all, but—all of us that made it out. Anyway, I thought—I thought I should call you. To say hi. I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you’re… okay. If you want to talk—if you want to call back—you don’t have to, of course, I’ll totally understand if you don’t, but if you do…”

~*~

A series of numbers followed, numbers Tara had automatically written down the first time she had listened to the message. They sat innocently on the little white pad next to the phone, absent of even a name, since Tara didn’t need a reminder of who they belonged to. The message itself had appeared on her answering machine about a week earlier and Tara had lost count of how many times she had listened to it. The first time, after she’d written down the phone number in a daze, she had seriously considered just deleting it—and possibly throwing away the number, too, for good measure—but refrained at the last minute. Instead, she just walked away. In the days that followed, she found herself listening to it whenever she happened to pass by the machine.

Tara had done her very best to forget about Sunnydale after leaving. She had liked the friends she had made there; she really, really had. They were, without a doubt, the best friends she’d ever had and they’d given her the courage to go north instead of back southeast when she’d left Sunnydale. But she’d intended to move on and, in order to do that, she had to stop thinking about all that she was leaving behind, particularly since leaving Willow was the best thing she could have done in the situation.

Some Sunnydale lessons did stay with her. She carried a stake and holy water in her purse; she never invited anyone inside her apartment; she was always careful going around after dark. Still, Tara had gotten a job in a bookstore and she’d even started taking classes at the local college and, except for the occasional, innocent bit of spell casting, Tara thought she was doing a fine job of creating a normal life for herself.

The call from Willow had unsettled her more than she liked to think. Tara knew, if she returned the call, she would be swiftly drawn back into all the terror and danger and monsters she had left behind in Sunnydale, whether or not Willow intended it. She had heard enough—felt enough—to know that the balance of power had shifted drastically and that something major had happened in Sunnydale before it collapsed into a crater.

The part of her that wanted to stay safe told her to just delete the message and continue forgetting; the part of her that missed Willow, that kept coming back to listen to the stuttering, awkward message, wanted to reconnect.

The light continued to blink on the machine, reminding her of the saved recording. Tara looked down at the phone number on the memo pad and reached for the receiver.

Table here.

[Bubblegum Crisis Tokyo 2040] Epilogue

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 01:32:42 GMT

Title: Epilogue
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG13
Character: Linna Yamazaki
Word Count: 1851
Notes: 100_women prompt #95 - found. Tag for the last episode; spoilers for the entire series.
Summary: After the world doesn't end, its rescuers are rescued.

Three days after the explosion that must have been Galatea, Linna and Nene were rescued from their deserted island. It wasn’t until much later that Linna discovered how they had been found; how Leon had seen the same explosion and come to the same conclusion, how he had told the authorities everything, and how those authorities had used satellite tracking to find the trajectory of three small figures entering the atmosphere. After hearing this, Linna was surprised Sylia wasn’t furious—but then, Linna was also to discover that with the destruction of Galatea, Sylia was much calmer than she had been in the past. It helped that the world powers were so delighted at not being overrun by killer zombie robots, they politely ignored the illegalities of vigilantism.

When Linna first woke up in the hospital, however, she didn’t know any of this.

She opened her eyes and saw tubes and wires snaking away from her body, curling down over a blanket, with the dim pulse of mechanical lights blinking in the corner of her vision. Her immediate reaction was one of panic and terror and oh my God we lost, we lost and we’re going to die. The heart rate monitor jumped and spiked with a few alarmed beeps and Linna suddenly realized she was simply in a hospital. When nobody came running and the monitor quickly settled down, Linna figured her moment of hysteria had been brief enough to not cause alarm.

“You’re safe now, Linna.”

Apparently at least one person had noticed her momentary panic. Sylia was standing at the foot end of Linna’s bed, a chair abandoned against the wall behind her. A glance to the right showed Nene sleeping soundly on the only other bed in the room. Turning her attention back to Sylia, Linna tried to think of something to say, but her mouth felt dry and her head ached and words seemed like too much of an effort. Sylia didn’t seem to mind.

“They found Priss as well,” Sylia said after a moment, her long fingers twisting around the edges of Linna’s blanket. “It took longer. She was in the desert. She was injured and dehydrated—but she’ll be all right.” Sylia paused, her eyes going distant. “Everyone’s going to be all right,” she added, very softly.

Of course they will, Linna thought faintly. We saved the world, after all.

Sylia didn’t say anything else and Linna found herself drifting off again. It might have been worth it to try and stay awake, but everyone was going to be all right and they’d saved the world and now she could rest.

~*~

When she opened her eyes again, Sylia was gone and Nene was awake, sitting up in bed and watching the television. The steady patter of Japanese was occasionally interspersed with English and Spanish and German and other languages Linna didn’t care to identify; over the soft sound of the newscasters, Linna heard the crinkle of a snack wrapper and the crunch of chips. Looking over, she saw Nene was clutching a package from a vending machine, large letters proclaiming “super hot spicy snacks” peeping out from between her fingers. Even as Linna watched, Nene dug out a handful and shoveled them into her mouth.

“Are you supposed to be eating those?”

Nene looked over, a few reddish flecks dusting her cheeks. Hastily, she swallowed. “Leon-pyon brought them for me,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, but with evident pride. “For saving the world.”

“We’d already crash-landed when Galatea was destroyed,” Linna pointed out. “I don’t think we did the saving.”

Nene scowled at her. “We helped. It isn’t as though Priss could have done it without us!”

“No. I suppose not.”

Nene nodded firmly, satisfied with Linna’s admission, and settled comfortably back into her pillows, cradling her snack. “Priss is okay, you know.”

“I know. Sylia told me.”

Nene’s hand tightened on the bag with a crunch, her eyes intent on the television screen. “Mackey’s okay, too. Did she tell you?” Nene didn’t wait for a response. “Mackey’s okay.”

Linna wondered why everyone felt the need to keep saying how all right everyone was, when it plainly wasn’t true. She thought it was likely nobody would be completely all right or okay ever again; it was probably impossible to go through everything they’d gone through and come out fine.

“Aaa, can you believe they haven’t mentioned us at all?” Nene suddenly cried, waving animatedly towards the television like she hadn’t been brooding a moment earlier.

“Do you really want everyone to know it was you?” Linna asked.

“Well, no, not exactly…” Nene said, voice wavering with indecision. “But they could mention the Knight Sabers, at least!”

“I think it might be better this way,” Linna said after a pause, watching the men and women on television try to grasp at some semblance of normalcy. She had only been thinking of herself and her friends, but the whole planet had been confronted with some very unpleasant truths in the last few weeks. Even with the threat gone, some of the hazy panic remained, in the eyes and voices and body language of the reporters and the people being interviewed. We came close to the edge; but if we pretend things are going to be fine, maybe the monsters will stay dead.

“I still think some acknowledgment would be nice,” Nene pouted into her empty chip bag, but her protest sounded hollow and she didn’t press it further.

~*~

Linna and Nene were released from the hospital a week and a half later; Priss remained under observation. The world had changed quite a bit in two weeks. Genom Corporation was under severe scrutiny from authorities all over the world—and without Chairman Rosenkroitz or Brian Mason at the helm, it was doubtful Genom would have the strength to withstand the investigation. According to news reports, several discoveries had already been made to turn public opinion against Genom; the newscasters predicted the company would be out of business before the year’s end and Linna had to hopefully agree.

Sylia and Leon had visited often, which had alleviated some of the monotony. Daley had even returned from wherever he had gone, bringing them flowers as though they had been friends before everything went to hell. Nene had still been bouncing off the walls before the end of the fourth day and Linna hadn’t been far behind. She knew part of Nene’s nervous energy was due to concern for Mackey, despite assurances that his memory had returned. Mackey did not come to visit them in the hospital; boomers were on the verge of being completely outlawed and nobody wanted to risk Mackey’s safety should anyone discover his true nature.

The day they were released, Nene fled the hospital with more enthusiasm than even she typically mustered. Linna found herself wandering back through the hallways, in search of Priss. She found the correct room after asking directions from a few friendly nurses, but when she got there, she almost turned back; the room was dark and Linna didn’t want to wake Priss if she was asleep.

“You can come in,” Priss said lowly from the shadows, startling Linna as she lingered in the doorway.

“I thought you might be sleeping,” Linna said as she went in. There wasn’t a chair, so she sat on the edge of the bed after checking to make sure she wouldn’t disturb anything.

“No.” Priss was sitting up, reclining on a pile of pillows. One hand lay limp on the covers, a few inches from Linna’s own and gleaming ghastly pale in the light from the hallway. Priss was staring towards the window, even though the curtains had been drawn tight, and she hadn’t turned her head even when Linna walked in and sat down.

Minutes ticked by. “Nene and I were released today,” Linna said at last, just to say something. Priss didn’t respond. “She went to go see Mackey. I thought—I mean, I wanted to come see you. See how you were doing.”

Priss made a soft noise that might have been a murmur to acknowledge Linna had spoken. It really shouldn’t have bothered Linna, Priss not talking. Most of their conversations had involved Linna doing all the talking and Priss not even pretending to look like she was listening. It was habit with them—it was normal—but somehow it didn’t comfort her any.

“I suppose I’ll have to figure out what to do now,” Linna continued anyway, gamely keeping up appearances—pretending everything was all right, because hadn’t enough people told her they were now? “I suppose I’ll go back home. My parents were trying to set me up with a nice guy there—did I ever tell you that? I ran out on him on our last date, so he probably doesn’t want to see me again, but maybe he’ll understand. It isn’t as though I can go back to Tokyo just now.” Possibly, she couldn’t ever go back to Tokyo, considering there might never be a Tokyo to go back to. Tokyo was a problem even the intrepid newscasters hadn’t dared to broach, with most of the buildings twisted and warped past all recognition, inhabited by some hardy boomers that hadn’t quite deactivated when Galatea was destroyed. The rubble of their shattered civilization mingled with the broken pieces of the machines that had built and then destroyed it, while the mysterious underground monsters slunk to the surface in the nighttime and fed on the remains.

Clearing and then rebuilding Tokyo would be a monumental, if not impossible, task, particularly considering boomer assistance was completely out of the question.

Her monologue had no noticeable impact on Priss. Linna sighed. “What about you, Priss? You think you’ll find your band and continue your bid for stardom?” Maybe if she asked a direct question, Priss would answer.

“I wonder what happened to our suits.”

Linna blinked; Priss had answered, at least, even if it had nothing to do with the conversation she’d thought they’d been having. “Ours were pretty well destroyed when we landed. I suspect yours would have been, too.” Priss should have known the answer to that better than she would.

“Of course.” Priss’ voice was soft and there was a sigh at the end of the words, as though Linna had reminded her of something. “It was. Motoslave, too.” She paused and Linna wasn’t sure what to say.

Suddenly, Priss turned her head to look at Linna, her hair making a soft swish against the pillowcase. “Do you think Nigel could rebuild it? Motoslave?”

‘Why would he want to?’ was Linna’s initial response, but she bit it back at the look in Priss’ eyes. “Maybe,” she said instead, even though it was probably a lie; she thought Priss should have recognized that, but the other woman just nodded slightly and turned her gaze back towards the covered window.

Linna moved her hand the necessary inches and gently wrapped her fingers around Priss’. Priss’ hand tightened on Linna’s in response and the two remained silent, sitting in the dark.

Table here.

[Gundam Wing] Changes

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 01:26:51 GMT

Title: Changes
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Relena Darlian
Word Count: 397
Notes: 100_women prompt #23 - hair.
Summary: When Relena turned sixteen, she cut her hair.

When Relena turned sixteen, she cut her hair. Heero got her a teddy bear and a birthday card and the rest of the Earthsphere went ballistic because Princess Peacecraft no longer had her long, flowing gold locks. Dorothy immediately hauled her to a hairdresser for extensions, saying, “I like conflict as much as the next warmonger, but renewing tensions over your hair length would be absurd.” Relena had to agree and submitted to the fashion-forward torture in the interest of world peace, although she grumbled during the entire procedure. It had never occurred to her, in the course of bringing about global pacifism and reinstating the Cinq Kingdom, that her entire life—down to her hairstyle—would suddenly and inexplicably become an item of utmost interest to the entire planet.

Four years later, she had successfully negotiated herself out of the world government. It had been fine for a while—to smooth universally ruffled feathers—but Relena hardly wanted to be trapped in the position forever. She had particularly outrageous expectations of having a life of her own at some point, which necessitated putting someone else in charge. Having gleefully escaped the reins of leadership, she was thinking about furthering her education—perhaps a law degree, since while she was sick of politics, she did enjoy a good argument.

Also, rather vindictively, she chopped her hair into a chin-length bob.

Thankfully, by then, the media had better things to worry about than Relena’s grooming habits and, this time, Dorothy was the only one who noticed. The public was not nearly as enamored of the woman as they had been of the girl and seemed fairly content to simply forget about Relena, except in the occasional past tense.

“Your glory days are over, you realize,” Dorothy told her over coffee. “And it’s tragic, really. You could have been marvelous.”

Relena sipped her latte. A woman passing by their sidewalk table did a double take before moving on, apparently unable to reconcile the diamond-encrusted queen or the childlike ambassador with the young woman in plain black slacks and a white blouse and dark blonde hair framing her jaw line. “I wouldn’t declare me to be completely washed up just yet,” Relena said dryly. “We’re still young.”

Dorothy snorted. “You think you can top being queen of the world?”

Relena smiled. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

Table here.

Mon, 11 May 2009 22:20:03 GMT

Some long-overdue pictures of Charlotte today. :) She got a couple of new things; I bought her a pair of Cheerydoll jeans from a DoA member awhile ago, so she's wearing those, and the marvelous, wonderful cauldroness found us a pair of NS Delf girl hands. :D

[Stargate SG-1] Fugitive 1/2

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 18:12:04 GMT

Title: Fugitive
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG/PG13
Characters: Jolinar, Daniel
Word Count: 14091
Notes: Written for phoenix_gate spring ‘09.
Prompt: 42. Jolinar didn't take Sam as a host, but Daniel, who (as he didn't visit Cassie at the hospital) leaves Earth. Jolinar finds a new host.

Explosions roared behind him and, given the amount of dirt and small rocks that pelted his back as a result, the shots were getting entirely too close for Daniel’s comfort. Through the dust and debris, he could see Sam and Teal’c manning the stargate and ushering the Nassyans through as fast as they were able. Half the medical team had already gotten through to prepare the embarkation room for incoming wounded and the rest were out in the field with Jack and Daniel, dodging blasts from death gliders and trying to drag the rest of the Nassyans to safety. Trying to ignore the noise and dirt, Daniel hurriedly continued his search; with all the confusion and wreckage, it would be far too easy to accidentally leave someone behind and he didn’t want that.

“We need to get going, Daniel!” Jack snapped, appearing at Daniel’s shoulder and cradling a child with a wounded leg. The gliders shrieked as they came around for another run and Daniel had a feeling Jack was probably right. They were halfway back to the stargate when Daniel noticed a man sprawled in the dirt, his clothes torn and bloodied to the point it was impossible to tell how badly he was wounded.

Letting Jack run on ahead, Daniel fell to his knees beside the man, flinging his boonie aside and feeling for a pulse. Grimacing at the result and at the sound of the approaching gliders, Daniel hastily began CPR. The man convulsed, one arm flailing up to grab the back of Daniel’s head. Dirty, bloody fingers caught in his hair and knocked his glasses askew, crushing Daniel’s face painfully against the Nassyan’s. Startled, Daniel shoved at the man’s chest, trying to push him away and choking as he struggled to breathe. Abruptly, the man went limp and Daniel fell back, coughing up blood.

“Daniel!” Jack was suddenly beside him, hauling him up by one arm. “When I said we needed to go, I meant now.” He paused, staring hard at Daniel, who was wiping blood from his mouth. “Are you all right?”

Daniel shook his head slowly, the explosions ringing in his ears. “I think so.” His mouth was still salty and slick with blood; he’d thought it was somehow his own, but he must have been mistaken. “I think he bit his tongue,” Daniel said numbly and Jack bent down briefly next to the man.

“Well, he’s dead. Now let’s go.” Jack grabbed his arm again and Daniel stumbled along behind him. Teal’c was the only one left in front of the gate and he turned as Jack and Daniel approached, the three of them diving through the wormhole together.

~*~

Daniel was silent throughout the briefing. Normally, he would have been eager to offer his opinions on the Nassyan culture—and his concerns over the attack—but he just felt tired and muddled, straining to even follow the thread of conversation. Jack and Sam seemed to be handling things just fine, in any case, their voices reinforcing the dull ache in his temples. He found himself wishing they would just hurry and wrap things up so he could go find someplace quiet.

“The Nassyans have had virtually no contact with the Goa’uld for the last thirty years,” Sam was explaining. “And their level of technological advancement was nowhere near a point where the Goa’uld would have felt threatened. We have no idea what instigated the attack.”

Teal’c inclined his head towards her. “I have seen the Goa’uld wipe out entire civilizations for no reason beyond their own pleasure. It is possible the attack was without provocation.”

Daniel lifted his gaze from the folder in his hands and frowned at Teal’c. “You may have witnessed attacks that appeared to have no motivation, but it isn’t as though Apophis would have explained the complexities of his reasoning to a mere Jaffa.”

The table fell silent as everyone stared at him. Daniel closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “I mean, the Goa’uld believe they are gods,” he explained, trying to soften his tone and offer an explanation for his sudden outburst. “Gods would hardly have a reason to explain their actions; culturally, it makes sense that the Goa’uld would not see the point in explaining themselves, even to their First Primes.”

General Hammond, Jack, and Sam seemed satisfied by this explanation and resumed the briefing. Daniel sank a bit lower into his seat and wished, once more, that the meeting would end. Glancing across the table, he saw that Teal’c was still watching him with a vaguely puzzled, hurt expression, and he felt a stab of irritation. Why should Teal’c be offended by Daniel making a completely rational, accurate assessment of Goa’uld and Jaffa relations? It wasn’t as though Daniel had meant it as a personal attack. A small, bitter voice in the back of his mind added that even if Daniel had meant it personally, it wasn’t as though Teal’c didn’t deserve it. Sha’re would be here if it wasn’t for you.

Immediately, Daniel felt guilty for even thinking such a thing. The stress of the bombardment and evacuation must have taken more out of him than he had thought. His headache was manifesting into a dull throbbing at the base of his skull, both explaining and intensifying his ill temper. He tried to muster up a faint smile of apology for Teal’c’s sake, but the attempt fell flat and it was clear Teal’c was not convinced. Struggling to suppress a fresh wave of annoyance, Daniel was abruptly aware General Hammond was speaking to him.

“Dr. Jackson? Do you have anything to add?”

“Uh. No,” Daniel said, shaking his head and looking blankly down at the file in front of him.

There was a slight pause before General Hammond nodded. “Very well then. Dismissed.” He stood and returned to his office, Sam and Teal’c leaving soon after, the latter casting a final, backward glance in Daniel’s direction.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Daniel looked up to see Jack watching him, even more intently than he had on the planet. “I’m fine,” Daniel said after a moment, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

“Uh huh.” Jack paused, scratching at his chin and studying Daniel. Daniel grimaced and broke eye contact, gathering up his things from the briefing and moving to go.

“Doc tells me you haven’t gone in for your post-mission checkup yet,” Jack said to Daniel’s retreating back and Daniel stopped, glancing back at him. Jack’s face was unreadable. “Might want to do that.”

Daniel forced another smile, this one no more convincing than the one he had offered Teal’c. “Right. Of course. Must have slipped my mind.” Jack was still watching him. “I’ll… go do that right now.”

“See that you do.”

As if he needed Jack ordering him around on top of everything else. Daniel finally escaped the briefing room with considerable relief, taking his notes to his office before heading for the infirmary. Maybe once Janet was through with him, everyone would finally leave him alone and let him get some peace and quiet.

~*~

“Well, everything looks all right,” Janet said, her fingers digging uncomfortably at the back his neck. For some reason, it reminded him of the way the Nassyan man had grabbed at him and Daniel had to resist the urge to pull away from her. Janet finally backed away and made a note on her clipboard before holding up a tongue depressor. “Open,” she instructed with a faint smile and Daniel sighed.

“Have you had a sore throat lately?” Janet asked, shining her flashlight into his mouth. Daniel wondered why she had to ask him questions while holding his tongue down.

“No,” he said, once she had taken the depressor away. “Why?”

“Mmm,” she said, writing something else on her clipboard. “There’s a slight abrasion on the back of your throat. I’m going to need to take a swab.” Daniel grit his teeth as she prepared it, but let her dab the back of his throat without complaint. The swab made him gag and the touch of the cotton on the back of his throat hurt.

“But you’re feeling all right?” Janet pressed, sealing the swab away to be tested.

“I’m just tired,” Daniel replied, rubbing at his throat. “I’ll be fine once I get some sleep.”

Janet nodded. “I’d prefer it if you stayed on base—and you need to promise to let me know if you get worse.”

Daniel echoed the nod absently as something else occurred to him. “Am I going to be clear for gate travel? We need to start searching for a new world for the Nassyan refugees.”

Janet hesitated. “If you get some rest; provided you feel better, it shouldn’t be a problem,” she said at last.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Daniel told her, standing up and heading for the door. Normally, he would have preferred to go home after such a long day, but the idea of driving back to his apartment just then only intensified his exhaustion. The beds on base were much closer and it was a small price to pay to get Janet’s permission to return through the gate.

~*~

When Daniel woke up, his head felt better and the scratching in his throat had gone away. The agitation of the previous day appeared to have departed with them and Daniel thought he probably should make sure to apologize to Teal’c, at least, for his behavior. They were all still feeling the physical and emotional aftereffects of thwarting Apophis’ attack on Earth and no one had expected the attack on the Nassyans, but that was hardly an excuse for inexplicably losing his temper over something so trivial.

At least he would be able to tell Janet in perfect honesty that he was feeling better.

A trip to SG-1’s locker room provided him with a shower and clean BDUs and he was just sitting down in the commissary with pancakes and a mug of coffee when Jack found him.

“Feeling better today, Daniel?” Jack prompted as he scraped a chair back and sat down.

“Much, actually,” Daniel said, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug to warm them. “I was going to report to Janet after breakfast.”

“Don’t bother,” Jack replied, eyeing up Daniel’s breakfast as though he wished there was something on Daniel’s plate he could easily snatch. “Fraiser’s over at the Academy Hospital today—most of the refugees had to be transferred there.”

“Oh.”

Jack’s gaze had shifted from Daniel’s breakfast to Daniel. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” Yesterday’s irritation was coming back—what a surprise that Jack was behind it. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Jack shrugged, either not noticing or disregarding the edge in Daniel’s voice. “You just seemed kind of out of it yesterday. You barely said anything in the briefing—and usually we can’t get you to stop talking.”

Daniel glared at him over the rim of his mug.

Jack ignored that, too. “Just want to make sure everything’s fine.”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine.” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. “We’ve got a mission this afternoon. Hammond thinks it would be best if we found the Nassyans a new world ASAP. Briefing’s at fourteen-hundred. You gonna be up for it?”

“I said I was fine.”

“I know,” Jack said, giving him a tight-lipped smile. Daniel wondered if he knew Daniel had said it or if he knew Daniel was fine. “I’ll let you eat your breakfast.” Jack left without waiting for a reply and Daniel finished his coffee, taking a few half-hearted bites of his pancakes before returning his tray with the remainder.

For some reason, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

~*~

The rest of the morning dragged by. Daniel tried to work on half a dozen translation projects littering his desk, but none of them held his attention. The previous day’s weariness had been replaced by an anxious restlessness and even the briefing, when it came, was only an irritating ordeal to be suffered through, his attention already skipping forward to the mission itself. He ignored the sideways glances the rest of the team gave him as they prepared for the mission, pausing only when he found himself tucking one of the newly-acquired zat’ni’katel’s into his jacket pocket as they retrieved their weapons from the armory. A glance around showed that no one had noticed the action and Daniel thought he should probably put it back before anyone did. They had only managed to bring a few back from Apophis’ ships and the weapons weren’t even exactly authorized for off-world missions yet.

The others were already heading for the embarkation room, however, and Daniel decided to keep it, with a vague thought that it might prove useful.

“Are you all right?” Sam asked once they were gathered at the foot of the ramp, waiting for the address to be dialed. She glanced sideways at him as he shifted his weight, his fingers tapping out a jittery rhythm against one leg. Daniel bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her.

“I’m fine,” he repeated for the upteenth time. The wormhole wooshed open and Jack adjusted his sunglasses, giving the rest of the team a faint, lopsided grin. “Let’s go,” he said, striding up the ramp.

Daniel followed him, his steps stumbling and quick. Finally, he thought, with more force than seemed strictly necessary. They stepped out onto P3X-347, Sam and Teal’c a few steps behind them. The event horizon winked out and Jack walked over to where the MALP sat, having been sent through earlier. “Carter, you start getting your dirt samples.” Sam was already kneeling on the ground, pulling supplies out of her pack. Teal’c paced a few feet away from her, scanning the immediate area. “Daniel, look around and make sure this place doesn’t have any previous residents—”

On it, Jack, was what Daniel meant to say. Instead, he felt himself reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the zat gun. The first blast caught Jack mid-sentence, dropping him to the ground and, before Sam or Teal’c could even react, Daniel spun and shot the both of them as well. Then he was running towards the DHD, furiously punching in an address he didn’t even recognize, and he suddenly remembered his face being crushed against the dying Nassyan’s, something slithering into his mouth and throat and the way he’d been coughing up blood, and felt the twist of something around his spinal column.

Oh, he thought dumbly, even as the Goa’uld sprinted his body through the event horizon, leaving the rest of his team unconscious behind him.

~*~

The moment they stepped through to the first planet, the Goa’uld turned and dialed again, staying only briefly enough for Daniel to get a vague impression of trees. On the second world, it stopped, unclipping Daniel’s pack from his back and dumping it out on the ground. The patches were stripped from the shoulders of his BDUs and carelessly discarded. It crouched on the ground, swiftly going through the contents of the pack and pockets, flicking some things away to join the patches and keeping others to be repacked. Food—a handful of energy bars and a couple of MREs, brought along just in case—remained, while packets of allergy medication and his GDO were abandoned.

Even with the Goa’uld’s attention focused on its work, Daniel caught blurry and fleeting glimpses of their surroundings, like he was trying to look at something far away and without his glasses. The stargate stood in a deep bowl, rock walls stretching high up on three sides. The ground was rough yellow stone, the same as the cliffs, running down into a blue-green ocean. The air was warm and still, the only sounds coming from the water lapping at the beach and the Goa’uld’s wordless perusal of the bag.

Not being able to focus his own vision or direct the movement of his hands was an unnerving experience and it only served to further cement the reality of the situation. The idea that he had brought the parasite into the SGC, had been walking around with it lurking in the back of his skull for the last twenty-four hours, was—alarming wasn’t a strong enough word for it. It must have been influencing him quietly from the background—his snappishness with Teal’c and Jack, his uncharacteristic anxiety to get through the gate—but it had overthrown his control in a split second and Daniel wasn’t sure how to get it back. To make matters worse, it had shot the others—with a zat, at least, not bullets, and Teal’c had said one shot only stunned, but they had been left unconscious on a strange planet and that was dangerous enough.

The Goa’uld repacked the bag and slung it back over his shoulders. Leaving the unwanted items on the ground behind them, it turned once more towards the stargate, punching in symbols with purposeful jabs.

Is this going to just be a sightseeing trip, then? Daniel demanded, unable and unwilling to keep quiet any longer. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to communicate with it—if he was supposed to communicate with it—but it was wrapped around his brain and thinking angrily at it was as good a plan as any.

He felt a ripple of surprise from the Goa’uld, like someone who had thought they were alone in a room only to be startled when someone else addressed them. Well, Daniel reflected peevishly, he had been there first.

My name is Jolinar of Malkshur, it replied. I am Tok’ra.

It said the last like it should have meant something to Daniel. Resistance, he translated after a moment, thinking it was an odd name for a Goa’uld to attribute to itself.

Again the surprise. Against Ra, literally, it corrected.

Well, you might want to rethink the name, Daniel returned snidely. Ra’s dead. We killed him. Daniel had no idea what prompted him to add the last part, except for a desire to antagonize the thing. He figured it was the tactic of responding to a new bully by announcing he’d already beaten up the bigger one.

You are one of the humans who defeated Ra? Apparently, he was going to have to get used to surprising it; he’d have thought it would be harder, all things considered. Of course. A flash—kneeling inside the pyramid on Abydos, looking at Jack across the flashing timer of the nuclear bomb.

Don’t, he said shortly and the memory retreated to its proper place in the back of his mind.

I am not Goa’uld, it said as it placed his hand over the red crystal. Daniel hadn’t called it a Goa’uld directly, but it was how he had been thinking of it, so he supposed it amounted to the same thing.

Could have fooled me.

It was angry now, waves of irritation rippling across his brain. I am Tok’ra, it repeated, more forcefully. We oppose the System Lords.

Of course. And this whole taking hosts thing is just a pesky necessity, isn’t it?

Our hosts are willing!

Daniel wondered if it was possible to laugh hysterically when something else was controlling his vocal cords. Willing? Willing? He didn’t care if it was angry at being called a Goa’uld; he was angry, too. Is that what you call hijacking my body against my will? Dragging me all over the galaxy? Shooting my friends?

This is an unfortunate necessity—and your friends will be fine. It momentarily cut off the conversation by stepping through the event horizon, thoughts lost in the cold and rush of the wormhole. The new planet was inhabited and the Goa’uld—Tok’ra—immediately began walking away from the gate, keeping Daniel’s head down and apparently trying to avoid contact with the natives. It was an unremarkable world, as worlds went, not too far removed from Nassya; rough wooden and stone buildings made up a settlement several yards from the stargate, with people in coarse linen clothing hurrying about their business. Something that looked like a marketplace was set up between the gate and the buildings and there was enough variation of clothing amongst the shoppers that Daniel figured visitors through the gate must not have been entirely uncommon.

I suppose the Nassyan man was an unfortunate necessity as well, he said, unwilling to let the previous thread of discussion drop and uncertain he wanted to continue discussing the welfare of the rest of SG-1 with the thing. As for the Nassyan, Daniel didn’t even remember the man’s name. Maybe he had never learned it. But if he was asking questions and demanding answers and just talking to it, then he didn’t feel quite so much like he was trapped inside his head, helpless and doing nothing.

He was. The Tok’ra fell silent for several minutes, looking around and studying both the surroundings and the people intently. This is only temporary, it said at last, tone almost apologetic. Once I find a new host, you will be free to return to your world.

Is that supposed to make me feel better? The idea of you inflicting this on some other unsuspecting person?

There was the anger again. Daniel was getting very good at pissing it off. I do not understand you! You wish me to be gone and yet you object when I explain to you that I intend to leave.

I object to you planning to enslave another person.

The next host will be willing. It seemed to anticipate his argument before he even made it. Willing hosts do exist; you find the idea repugnant, but this is not true for others. There are many living among worlds controlled by the System Lords who would willingly accept the blending in order to save their lives or escape a life of slavery.

As much as Daniel hated to admit it, he suspected the Tok’ra was correct. The idea was sickening to him, but he had seen worlds held in slavery under Goa’uld rule—and he suspected he had not seen the worst of it. Never mind that living as a host was a more complete form of enslavement; he supposed there were people who would blindly accept the offer without thinking of the consequences.

I promise you, the next host will be willing, the Tok’ra said. There was a fierceness to the thought that surprised Daniel. I do not enjoy taking an unwilling host.

Then why did you? He remembered the Nassyan man lying on the ground, mouth covered in blood. Something else, as well—a flicker of memory, of a blonde woman sprawled in the dirt. She would have been pretty, except for the bruises on her face and the drying blood smeared on her lips and the fact that she was dead. How do I know you won’t kill me, jumping into a new host?

It is possible to change hosts without killing the original one, the Tok’ra replied. At great risk to myself, I might add. It ignored his first question, turning its attention outward as one of the local men came up to speak with it.

~*~

Daniel had thought about what it would be like to be taken as a host by a Goa’uld—he’d had nightmares about it—and he was willing to bet the same was true of most, if not all, of the staff at the SGC. It was a threat that hung unspoken over their heads every time they went through the gate.

The reality was worse than he’d imagined.

Granted, the snake in his head insisted it wasn’t a Goa’uld and it wasn’t acting entirely… Goa’uld-ish, but that was a small consolation. The point was, he still had a snake in his head and he was stuck as a silent, unwilling passenger. It wasn’t like two people inhabiting one body; it was like one coming in and completely overthrowing the rightful owner without so much as a by-your-leave, leaving the original mind adrift and disconnected from the outside world. Daniel had to concentrate on seeing or hearing whatever was going on and if he wanted any clarity from the information, he had to try and second-guess where the Tok’ra’s attention was going to turn to next. He was getting better at it, the more he tried, but he hadn’t expected it to be so difficult trying to process information from his own senses.

It is because I do not wish a full blending, the Tok’ra offered unexpectedly. Normally, there would be more harmony between ourselves, but joining with you to that extent risks my being unable to safely leave you for a new host when the time comes.

How thoughtful, Daniel muttered. I don’t suppose you could just give me control for a while?

It would be unwise, the Tok’ra replied shortly and Daniel wondered if it knew that he was likely to head for the stargate the moment he regained the ability. Most likely, it did. Daniel considered trying to convince it he would behave himself like a good little hostage, but he had an equally compelling suspicion the Tok’ra already knew better than to trust that.

The Tok’ra apparently had quite a bit of practice at befriending suspicious locals, considering the man that had approached them with rather pointed questions hadn’t called upon his neighbors to chase them off the planet. Daniel certainly couldn’t imagine Apophis or Ra acting in such a manner, which seemed to be a point in the favor of the Tok’ra being what it said it was.

Daniel did wonder at the locals not reacting more strangely to the Tok’ra’s voice, but after some time and some careful listening, he realized that the Tok’ra was not speaking in the hollow alien echo of the Goa’uld, but in Daniel’s normal voice. The others appeared receptive to the Tok’ra’s questions, after initial reservations, but the answers were evidently not what the Tok’ra was hoping for, as they departed through the stargate shortly thereafter. The next planet was hardly distinguishable from the previous one, if slightly more crowded, and Daniel quickly got the impression that they would be traveling quite a bit.

Tell me about the Tok’ra, he said as it began prowling through the marketplace.

It paused, lingering over a clothing stall. Why do you wish to know? it replied at last, a trace of suspicion in the thought.

It’s my job to learn about the cultures we encounter through the stargate, he said, which was the truth, if not the only reason he was asking. We haven’t encountered the Tok’ra before—haven’t even heard of you, to be honest. I’m curious. He was also hoping he could learn something that could be used against it, but that was a motive he was planning to keep hidden if at all possible.

Again, it didn’t respond right away and Daniel worried it had guessed his ulterior motive. He wasn’t sure how completely it was able to read his thoughts and reflected it was probably pointless to try and devise a plan against the thing without it knowing.

Very well.

Daniel had been hoping for agreement, but he hadn’t expected the Tok’ra to give in quite so easily or calmly. On the surface, it was a sort of victory, but something about the swiftness of it left him uncertain.

If the Tok’ra had its own ill intentions behind giving Daniel information, it was not readily apparent. It told him, with a minimum of prompting, about the origins of the Tok’ra—about Egeria and her hopes for the movement, her capture and execution by Ra, and, in general terms, what the Tok’ra themselves were currently doing to carry on the fight. Daniel asked questions and the Tok’ra provided answers to anything that did not involve their immediate situation. Whenever Daniel approached the subject of what the Tok’ra had been doing on Nassya, what it had been doing before arriving on Nassya, or what sort of information it was carrying, the mask of cooperation slipped and the symbiote fell silent until Daniel approached a different, less specific line of inquiry.

Despite himself, he was intrigued. The existence of the Tok’ra challenged a good deal of what Earth thought they knew about the Goa’uld. Daniel hadn’t honestly thought the species possessed the moral capacity to make the kind of decision Egeria had—although, considering his current situation, he thought the message either hadn’t filtered through properly to her offspring or had been corrupt to begin with. The Tok’ra, as far as he could tell, still felt themselves to be superior to the human race and perfectly justified in taking a host by force if necessary. Not considering themselves to be gods and preferring a willing host were two very tiny distinguishing marks in their favor.

Their internal dialogue did nothing to slow the Tok’ra’s outward movements. It would often break off mid-thought to speak with someone or gate to another planet, and it hadn’t escaped Daniel’s notice that it was also slowly trading for items to replace the SGC-issue clothing and supplies with more generic—less noticeable—ones. Tactically, it made sense; the Tok’ra wished to avoid attention and the best way to do that was to look like everyone else, rather than one of the Tau’ri. Daniel also knew that Earth had no way of tracking him across however many number of worlds and wearing his BDUs hardly made the chances of rescue any more likely.

Knowing any of that didn’t keep him from feeling, with every trip through the gate and every item the Tok’ra traded away, he was getting further and further away from any chance of returning home.

~*~

They did not stop to rest for quite a while. Daniel was unsure of the exact timeframe; the Tok’ra had removed his watch, even if he’d had the means to look at it. Sleeping and eating were apparently not immediate concerns for it—which was yet another fun symbiote/host fact to file away for later, but not helpful or encouraging for the present.

It was obvious the Tok’ra was pushing itself to the limit, though; by the time it did stop, Daniel could feel the fatigue dragging at his body. It made him wonder just what it was hurrying towards—or running from—but he didn’t expect direct inquiries at that point would serve him any better than they had previously.

After the first few planets, the settlements were no longer in front of the stargate. Most sat back several miles, usually separated from the gate by a good many sheltering trees. The villages had fewer people and were clearly less accustomed to receiving visitors. Daniel did note the Tok’ra had not gone to any of these locations until their gear had been suitably replaced with less conspicuous materials, allowing them to blend in more easily; it had removed his glasses at some point, but had apparently also done something to his eyesight to compensate. Daniel was decidedly uncomfortable with the idea that it felt justified in tinkering around in his brain, making adjustments wherever it saw fit.

The world on which the Tok’ra chose to stop was either inhabited in a similar fashion or not inhabited at all; it made a cold, bare camp amongst the forest that began a few yards from the stargate, situating itself so that it could see the gate and still retain cover. Their conversation about the origins of the Tok’ra had ended several worlds back and the symbiote had apparently seen no need to offer further pleasantries. Daniel had run out of questions he had a vague hope of receiving answers to and, while he could have amused himself quite readily by asking less tactful ones, was momentarily content to let the symbiote ignore him. Forming any realistic plan still seemed to be out of the question and his inquiries into the organization and background of the Tok’ra had resulted in very little practical information, interesting cultural implications aside. He hoped that having some time to quietly think would get him somewhere. It was absurd to want time to think when he was currently in a position to do little else, but running from world to world was distracting and he was trying to remain (perhaps foolishly) optimistic.

The Tok’ra made use of one of the MREs for dinner and settled back against a tree, facing the stargate and keeping the strap of its bag looped around one arm. When it came to the symbiote’s rest cycle, Daniel vaguely expected something similar to kel’no’reem, or—at the very least—something unusual, but it just closed its eyes and went to sleep. Daniel had wanted peace and quiet and time to think, but after a few minutes passed, he realized this situation was far more frustrating than simply being a passive observer. It didn’t help that he wasn’t tired, not in the strictest, physical sense, which really was fascinating in an abstract way, but—again—not helpful. Also, his arm was falling asleep and he wished he could shift it a few inches.

Seemingly at his command, his arm did move and Daniel held his proverbial breath, initially presuming that the Tok’ra had simply overheard his internal grumbling. There was nothing from the symbiote and, after a minute, Daniel opened his eyes. From there, it didn’t take long for him to get to his feet, stumbling, retaking control of himself like someone trying to operate delicate machinery with winter gloves on—awkward, but managing. He moved slowly at first, fearing to wake the Tok’ra, but he quickly decided that the Tok’ra was likely to wake soon anyhow and swiftness overrode caution for the immediate moment.

He made it halfway to the stargate before the symbiote awoke with a jolt and a sharp coil around his spine. It seized control once more with a force that sent his body staggering to the ground, one shoulder hitting the dirt hard. Daniel felt himself flung back into compliance with a pain that wasn’t exactly physical.

I should have expected this from you, it said coldly, once it had reasserted itself and righted them once more.

What, that I would jump on any opportunity to escape? Daniel retorted. Can’t imagine why.

I am racing to find a replacement host so that you may return to your planet, it snapped. I am wasting time in this pursuit, time that would be well spent returning to my people. I refrain from completing the blending process so that I may safely leave your body once a new host is found. I am willing to find a new host, despite the fact that I place myself at great risk trying to leave a host and allow it to survive. I even provide you with information about the Tok’ra themselves, in response to your incessant questioning. And yet this is the way I am repaid?

I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you, Daniel said, tone thickened with enough sarcasm it was impossible for the Tok’ra to think his apology sincere. Has it ever occurred to you that you never asked my permission for any of this? That, despite all your talk about the differences between the Tok’ra and the Goa’uld, I have seen very little evidence of that fact? You think I’m being unfair, but I am the one making the sacrifice here!

Both of them were silent and Daniel could see his breath misting out into the cool night air.

Would it pacify you if I were in your debt? the Tok’ra asked, with no small amount of bitterness. If I found a way to repay you for this sacrifice, would you be more accommodating?

Do you know where Amaunet is?

There was a long pause. No, it said at last. But perhaps I could—

That is the only thing you could give me that would make any of this worth it. He was speaking with bitterness of his own—and he was speaking for himself. Perhaps there was a great deal it knew that would be of use to Earth as a whole, but just at that moment he wasn’t a citizen of Earth or a member of the SGC or even part of SG-1, but just Daniel. A very, very tired Daniel who was sick and tired of these arrogant, egotistical snakes thinking they could slither in and destroy his life just when he thought he was finally rebuilding things.

If the Tok’ra could give him back Sha’re, the last several days and however many more it needed beyond that would have been a price he was more than willing to pay. But it couldn’t even give him that.

You understand, then, why we fight the System Lords, it said, clearly having gleaned the importance of Amaunet’s location from Daniel’s thoughts.

I understand why I fight them, Daniel returned. I don’t even pretend to understand you.

Perhaps because you do not care to, the Tok’ra said scornfully. You ask questions and you feign compliance—sometimes—but you have no desire to truly learn about the Tok’ra—or myself—or why we fight.

There was truth to that statement, more than Daniel really wanted to admit. How can I learn about you when you won’t answer my questions? All you give me is generalizations. You won’t even tell me why you were on Nassya. For all I know, you were the cause of the attack!

You refuse to even call me by name!

They descended into angry, frustrated silence, two dogs circling each other without the heart to even growl. Frankly, Daniel rather expected it to simply shuffle him away in the back of his own mind and continue on without paying heed to any further complaints—perhaps even return to the Tok’ra without bothering to find a new host and set him free, if that was even what it had intended in the first place. If the Tok’ra even existed.

You do not even believe I have the capacity for feelings, it said, with a weariness and disappointment that surprised Daniel. It sounded as though it had somehow expected better from him.

You took my wife, Daniel replied, without meaning to and with more hurt and grief and frustration than he had ever wanted to show the thing.

The Goa’uld took your wife, the Tok’ra corrected curtly.

Right now, I really can’t see a difference.

You refuse to see a difference, it said, again with a note of correction. Do you think I do not know about love or loss? I have lived over a thousand years and lost many—most recently, my host.

You left her to die, you mean. It was a cruel and unnecessary thing to say, since even as he said it, Daniel had a feeling it wasn’t true, but he couldn’t resist the urge to lash out at it for trying to make itself the victim.

It was her choice! The anger it had manifested previously was tame in comparison with its current temper. She was wounded past my ability to heal and she knew we were being pursued. Rosha sacrificed herself so that I might live; so that I might carry the information we obtained to the other Tok’ra and give our loved ones some solace as to our fate!

Daniel pulled back from the conversation, the Tok’ra’s—Jolinar’s—grief and anger mingling with his own in a complicated tangle. For a few moments, it was impossible to tell where he and his feelings stopped and where its began and the confusion was both frightening and disorientating.

It calmed itself, with apparent effort. Rosha and I were sent undercover to acquire information about Cronus. We succeeded, but were discovered—Cronus sent an ashrak in pursuit of us.

Hunter? Daniel translated, hesitant to interrupt it when it was finally being forthcoming.

Assassin, Jolinar returned, although Daniel was uncertain whether it was correcting him or explaining. The ashrak caught up to us and Rosha was… badly wounded. We made it to Nassya, but it was clear that remaining with Rosha would only lead to my own demise. I wished to at least try and heal her, but Rosha was insistent that our work not be lost. The Nassyan man came and I took him as a host. I remained dormant within him and, for a time, I feared I was trapped there. The Nassyans were not a gate traveling people.

The more Jolinar spoke of Rosha, the more Daniel found his perceptions of Jolinar tangled up in the fragments of memory of the blonde woman. In those glimpses, he thought he started to understand what Jolinar had meant by a true blending. Why didn’t you just… he began, only to falter. ‘Hijack him like you did me’ sounded awfully accusatory, if true.

I do not believe he could have found his way home, Jolinar said after a beat. But perhaps it would have been kinder—he might have lived.

Away from his people and everything he had ever known? He wondered if it was perverse that he was trying to comfort it.

Jolinar didn’t respond to the question. I believe the ashrak followed us to Nassya and reported our location to Cronus. So, yes, Rosha and I were likely the cause of the attack.

Daniel was quiet as he thought this over. Where is the ashrak now? he asked at last, not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.

Jolinar seemed reluctant to reply. I fear it was taken to Earth with the rest of the Nassyan refugees. It might have been mistaken for one of them in the chaos.

Clearly, he had been right in not wanting to know. Are my friends in danger? he asked slowly; starting an argument all over again would solve nothing and he almost understood why Jolinar had been reluctant to give him details before.

The ashrak’s mission is to find and kill me, Jolinar replied. If the ashrak discovers that I have made it off the planet, it will attempt to follow.

The SGC will never allow it to go through the stargate.

Unless they continue to believe it is simply another refugee, Jolinar countered. If it is patient and waits for the refugees to be relocated, it will attempt to follow us at its earliest convenience. If it finds us, it will try to kill us.

If it isn’t patient? If the SGC figures out what it is? Daniel prompted impatiently.

It will try to kill anyone that gets in its way.

It really wasn’t an answer he wanted. You didn’t think this was something you should have warned us about?

How could I? Jolinar said dryly. Attempts to do so would have revealed my existence and we would have never been allowed offworld.

It was right, of course, but it really didn’t mean he had to like it. Daniel hated the idea that there was an unknown threat possibly on Earth, possibly within the SGC itself, that the others had no way of knowing about.

Your friends—your memories seem to indicate they are very capable. I believe they will be all right.

They had to be. It was the same conclusion he had come to when worrying about the aftereffects of the zat gun: he had to believe they were okay, because if he started allowing himself to think otherwise, he would go insane. He made himself ask the next question. Once you find a new host, I will be free to go?

Yes.

It was so far beyond a leap of faith, he didn’t even think it was fair to call it that. Except wasn’t that what he did—leap into the unknown with crossed fingers and a vague hope everything would work out in the end? He’d done in back in California with his disastrous—completely accurate, but disastrous— presentation and again with the stargate, opening it up, walking through, and putting his trust in Jack and Sha’re and Skaara with the hope of salvaging the mission. Again putting his trust in Jack—in SG-1, in the SGC—with the hope of finding Sha’re, and countless other times since then.

All right, Daniel said at last. We’ll do it your way.

Part Two

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 23:45:57 GMT

Finally got a chance to take some Pullip photos today! Mercu, Nomado, and Cornice modeling. <3

[Gundam Wing] Keeping Distance

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 23:43:24 GMT

Title: Keeping Distance
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Iria Winner
Word Count: 600
Notes: 100_women prompt #41 - wealth.
Summary: There were days when she wished there was more distance between her and her family.

There were days when she wished there was more distance between her and her family. People always acted like the name and the fortune should have been some great asset to her, but Iria often found it to be the opposite. It was an expectation and, not infrequently, a ball and chain around her ankle she couldn’t escape from. (Perhaps if she got married, she could change the name, but she knew she would never be certain it was a marriage of love and not opportunity.)

She remembered sitting in her university classes, pursuing a medical degree with a single-minded tenacity only slightly derailed by the sidelong looks and whispers she could see and hear and feel in her peripheral vision. The other students generally resented her and some had even spread rumors that Iria was only in that school, in that program, and getting those grades because her father had donated some unnamed and exorbitant amount of money to the university. It stung, even though she tried to ignore it, and sometimes she stared at her high marks and wondered if she’d really earned them or if the instructors had given them to her out of preemptive fear.

She’d had very few friends at the university, separated from her classmates by the rumors and the name and the distance she imposed herself, because even when some girls would try and be friendly, she never knew their real motives. Somewhere amongst twenty-eight sisters, there should have been someone to be a friend with—someone who would understand, by virtue of similar situation—but they were as distant from each other as they were from the rest of the world.

Once she had gotten her degree (she’d earned it, she had), Iria banished herself to the furthest flung resource satellite her family owned. The satellites always needed medics and there were never enough properly trained doctors to go around. Something so remote was often lucky to have anyone with medical training at all, much less a professional, and while all satellites were equipped with the best medical equipment the Earthsphere boasted, it was never an adequate replacement for a real doctor.

She wasn’t sure what she had been hoping for, removing herself as much as possible from civilized space. It wasn’t as though the people on the satellite had never heard of her family—they were employed by her family—and all the preconceived looks and notions followed her there as surely as they would have followed her anywhere else. The only real advantage was that there were fewer people around to scrutinize her.

For months after she joined them, the men and women of the resource satellite regarded Iria with the same apprehension as her former classmates and Iria found herself keeping the same defensive distance. The situation didn’t change until a drill suffered a mechanical malfunction, shorts and explosions firing back upwards into the control booth. They’d nearly lost one man to vacuum exposure when the faceplate of his suit cracked, the other to blood loss as his legs were crushed under twisted metal. There had been no time for distance when they were trying to save lives and at some point when she was bloodied up to her elbows, her hair dirty with dust and mussed into disarray, and shouting orders at anyone who would listen, Iria discovered she wasn’t as detached from the others as she had thought—and looking into their eyes, it was plain they felt the same.

It was strangely liberating to realize she had finally earned respect based solely, unquestionably, on her own merits and nothing else.

Table here.

[Gundam Wing] Distraction

Sun, 25 Jan 2009 20:14:31 GMT

Title: Distraction
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Characters: Relena Darlian & Dorothy Catalonia
Word Count: 437
Notes: 100_women prompt #36 - kiss. Relena/Dorothy.
Summary: “I’ll never know why I adore you so.”

“So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Relena didn’t bother to look up from her book, even when the door to her hotel room clicked shut and Dorothy flounced over to drop into the armchair next to her. Elbows on the arm of the chair, Dorothy cradled her chin in both palms and stared intently at Relena; Relena kept reading.

“It’s Friday night, we’re in one of the most delightful cities in the Earthsphere, we’re young and beautiful and rich, and you’re sitting in your hotel room reading a book!”

“We’re here for work, Dorothy—or at least I am. Not to go out on the town.”

Dorothy heaved a dramatic sigh and got up from the chair in order to rifle through the mini-bar Relena had not touched. “All work and no play makes Relena a dull girl,” she sniffed. “And it makes me bored.”

“Poor darling,” Relena replied, turning a page. “It’s been a long day and I happen to find this relaxing.”

Dorothy returned to her chair with a bottle of white wine and a glass. Pouring herself a drink, she set the bottle down on the table between them, next to a dish of chocolates Relena had been nibbling on throughout her stay. “Sitting in a bar drinking strawberry daiquiris and breaking the hearts of silly young men is relaxing.”

“Don’t let me keep you from it, then.”

Dorothy huffed to herself and drank her wine, occasionally interspersing sips with a chocolate. Content Dorothy was being relatively quiet, Relena returned her full attention to the book. Silence reigned for several minutes, until Dorothy set her glass down on the table, clinking it softly against the wine bottle.

“You’re desperately boring,” she said, getting to her feet and planting her hands on the armrests of Relena’s chair, bending over so they were nose to nose. Her hair draped over her shoulders, obscuring the pages of Relena’s book. “I’ll never know why I adore you so.”

Before Relena could respond, Dorothy ducked forward and pressed her lips to Relena’s, their noses bumping before Dorothy found the correct angle. She tasted of wine and chocolate and she pulled away just as Relena was thinking about giving in and returning the kiss.

“I’ll leave you to your reading,” Dorothy purred, smiling her cat-in-the-cream smile. Shoving away from the chair, she languidly flipped her hair over her shoulder and headed for the door.

Relena watched her go with a bemused smile and a raised eyebrow. After a few minutes passed and it became clear Dorothy had no intention of returning, Relena shook her head and continued reading.

Table here.

[Angel] Four Walls

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 03:11:41 GMT

Title: Four Walls
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Faith
Word Count: 346
Notes: 100_women prompt #4 – insides. Takes place sometime after “Sanctuary.”
Summary: Faith had never liked being cooped up.

Faith had never liked being cooped up. It reminded her too much of when she was little, spending summer days locked indoors without air-conditioning because her deadbeat mother had drunk herself unconscious. Combined with the Slayer’s basic aversion for being trapped, prison was a special sort of unique hell, even beyond what she’d expected. Still, suffering was pretty much required for any hope of redemption, so it figured she had to let herself be locked up in a narrow little cell—alone, because no matter how good her behavior, everyone knew she was dangerous.

At least the cell was air-conditioned.

It was equal parts comforting and maddening to know she could have broken out at any time, from any part of the prison, and they wouldn’t have been able to stop her. Some days, she was tempted to try—just forget her foolish hope of redemption, because how could she really be redeemed for the things she’d done? Those days, the days when the guards yelled at her for no reason and the other inmates picked fights with her just to try and prove something, she hung on simply because quitting wasn’t an option, not for her, not anymore.

Night provided its own challenges; lying in the darkness, listening to the others breathing, she had to struggle to stay inside her four walls, her hands clenching—denting—the sides of her bunk, her skin crawling and her blood singing with the Slayer’s desire to be outside.

…outoutoutoutoutHUNT…

At night, she had to focus everything on control, on lying there and slowing her breathing and relaxing herself enough to keep still, if not to sleep. Forcing her insides to become as cool and orderly as her surroundings, all the while keeping herself—her, the Slayer, the monster, the murderer—locked up tight where she belonged. It was never easy—not that she deserved easy—and most nights she had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming aloud in frustration and anger.

It was worth it when morning came and Faith knew she’d managed to keep herself inside for another day.

Table here.

[Angel/Stargate SG-1] Interference

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 03:17:55 GMT

Title: Interference
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Characters: Winifred Burkle, Skaara
Word Count: 1454
Notes: Stargate SG-1/Angel crossover. Takes place sometime after the SG-1 episode “Full Circle” and after the Angel episode “A Hole in the World.”
Summary: Burned up or snatched away, it’s all the same as not being there.

Why can’t I stay? I want to stay! I want to--

Heat and fire welling up, like someone had stuck a flamethrower in her gut and was incinerating everything. Lungs, liver, heart, kidneys--the soul, that most important organ, her soul was on fire, scorched, turned inside out and sideways, torn apart, ripped at the seams, birthing pains, oh my God…

And then jerked away so fast, like a poker pulled from the fire. It was suddenly soft and cool and blissfully quiet.

The faint spark of humanity that had once somehow been Winifred Burkle curled in on itself and wept.

~*~

When she awoke, it was warm. Not burning, searing heat like lava boiling her from the inside out, but a pleasant warmth that came from the outside. She could feel a slant of sun on her face and rough blankets under her cheek. A faint breeze rustled her hair and brought with it the smell of sand and animals.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Without moving her head, she looked straight ahead at the unfamiliar tent walls. Something was wrong, somehow; she had a feeling she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Where she was or where she thought she should be, she didn’t remember; all she did remember was the gut-wrenching pain that was no longer there.

As long as the pain was gone, she didn’t care where she was.

“Are you feeling better?”

She rolled over towards the voice, brushing hair away from her face as she did so. A young man was sitting cross-legged next to her, dressed in long sandy robes. His dark hair hung in lanky dreads around his face, which was sun-worn and friendly.

She took a long, shuddering breath, trying to find the words to answer, but none came. He smiled at her and reached out, clasping a hand over her shoulder.

“It is all right. You will feel better with more rest.”

She thought she’d rested enough, but a dragging weariness remained. Resigning herself to the fact, she nodded faintly and shut her eyes once more. As she drifted off, she heard the man speak again.

“Do not worry, Winifred. I will keep watch over you.”

Winifred, she thought faintly. That’s me…

~*~

She awoke again and he was gone. The sun was sinking and it was colder, but she felt better. Slowly getting to her feet, she wrapped one of the scratchy blankets around her shoulders and made her way to the front of the tent. Pushing aside the flap, she looked out.

There was sand as far as she could see, with tents scattering the immediate area. People in robes moved about, talking and laughing and tending cooking fires. Faint, scattering bits of sunlight cast fiery shadows over everything.

Where am I? she meant to say, but the words didn’t come. The physical exhaustion was gone, but there was something more…

“Winifred. You are awake.”

She turned and saw the young man from before coming toward her, another smile on his lips. “I am glad to see you on your feet.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Fred,” she said at last and he blinked.

“What?”

“Fred. It’s what--they call me. My name.” She didn’t know who they were, not just yet. But Fred was better than Winifred, somehow.

“Fred,” he repeated. “I am Skaara.”

Fred looked back to the tents. “Where am I?” She managed to say it aloud that time.

Skaara frowned and put his hand on her shoulder, guiding her back into the tent. “You are safe,” he said, which really didn’t answer her question, but she was too tired to argue.

~*~

Later--days, perhaps--they sat together in the doorway of the tent, cross-legged, knees touching. The sun was setting again, low and swollen in the sky, colors whipping and swirling and burning out across the horizon. She heard the others, the ones she never spoke to, their voices a background babble of white noise. It felt sweet and sad like a memory, except it wasn’t hers.

She had a million questions racing through her head--well, possibly not a million, literally, but it certainly felt that way. He hadn’t answered, not really, the last time she’d tried asking and she was exhausted just thinking about trying to give voice to any or all of them. It was impossible to rank importance, to decide what was the most vital thing to know. The questions roiled and bounced in her head and her gut, making her insides as noisy as the outsides were quiet.

“Why?” she said at last, feeling like the word had burst out of her lips. It seemed as though she should have shouted it, even though she knew she’d spoken softly. It asked everything and nothing and she wanted to clarify just as much as she wanted to keep quiet and see what he would say.

Skaara looked over at her, frowning again. She figured he would just avoid the question or avoid directly answering the question, just as he had before, and that upset her, because she liked having answers to her questions.

“I was watching Earth,” he said at last and looked out at the sun. “I wanted to know what it was like. I had heard…” He was toying with something, tossing it between his hands. She heard a snap and a soft hiss of flame and looked at the lighter he was holding. She was still watching the flame when he snapped the cap shut. He looked at her again and smiled. “You reminded me of my sister. She was always asking questions. She always had to know more.”

“Where is she?” Fred asked and the words weren’t so hard to say.

Skaara’s smile faded. “She died.” He sighed. “I could not save her. Maybe that was why I had to save you.”

Fred frowned and looked at the sky. The sun was slipping away, a sliver on the horizon, and night was coming. She didn’t want the darkness; she wanted the sun to stay. “Am I?” she asked and could feel him watching her. “Saved?”

Skaara didn’t answer and Fred scolded herself for jumping right into the hard questions. He’d been willing to answer and there were so many easier ones to be asked before she got the hard questions and hadn’t she learned anything?

The moons rose, as if she needed a reminder of how this place was not her place, three in the sky like a triangle. She wondered about orbits and planetary motion and how three moons would affect the tides if there were any water to watch.

“What is this place?” It wasn’t Earth, she knew that--count the moons, Winifred, of course it wasn’t--but it wasn’t a demon dimension either, which she was glad for, because she hated those. She’d asked him before and he hadn’t answered, but maybe tonight would be different.

“Abydos,” Skaara said after several minutes. “The way we remember it.” He smiled again and it was distant and sad, as if he knew something he hadn’t ever wanted to know. “I wonder if this is the way it really was or if it is just the way we wished it could have been.”

Her legs were starting to tingle which she thought was odd, because somehow she wouldn’t have thought they could. Fred uncrossed them and drew them to her chest, hugging her arms tightly around them as her chin came down to rest on her knees. “It’s not real.”

“Not in the way you mean, no.”

“Sometimes if I look just right, if I tilt my head and squint, it’s not anything at all; it’s just energy. Lines and squiggles and equations that make up the sand and sky.” She could feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat and she wanted to swallow it down, because it would make her sound crazy and it was tiring to have everyone think she was crazy. “And somehow I know if I touch it, I’ll know everything I ever wanted to know and some things I didn’t even know I could want to know, and it frightens me because I’m done knowing. I learned too much somewhere and that’s why I’m here and I don’t want to remember what I learned much less learn anything else and I think most of all I don’t want to remember dying because I’m pretty sure it hurt.”

That was the problem with keeping words all tied up inside. When she finally let them out, they didn’t stop.

Skaara didn’t say anything and Fred didn’t blame him. He just reached over and put his hand on her shoulder and they watched the moons go through their phases.

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 20:23:31 GMT

Thanks to cauldroness and denebchan, a Mercu has been added to my Pullip family. :3 Her name is Cassiopeia.

Tue, 25 Nov 2008 22:41:34 GMT

Took a break from end-of-semester insanity to take Rowena out to play in the snow. <3

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 21:21:10 GMT

Had the afternoon off yesterday, so I meant to finish up some new clothes for Charlotte. Didn't actually get anything done, but I did take a picture. :)

[Firefly] Epic Battles

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 22:11:27 GMT

Title: Epic Battles
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Characters: Wash, Inara
Word Count: 1336
Notes: Pre-series. Wash/Zoe.
Summary: He wasn’t quite sure how to explain epic dinosaur battles to a member of the Companion’s Guild. Somehow, it had never come up before.

The war was epic and bloody; the carnage was truly awesome as causalities piled up on both sides. It seemed the warring tribes would stay at an eternal standstill, neither side willing to give ground or admit defeat.

“Accept your inevitable defeat and surrender, carrion fodder!”

“Never, vile corrupter, defiler of--”

“What is going on in here?”

Wash jumped with a yelp. Dinosaurs scattered from their intricately placed positions on the table, several of the unfortunate dead hitting the floor in an even more pathetic demise. Managing to avoid a tumble of his own as his chair teetered, Wash slowly looked up at the doorway. Their newest passenger--or crew member, he wasn’t quite sure which--stood there, a vision in silk, one immaculate eyebrow arched at the scene.

“Oh--I--ahh--” Wash stammered, fumbling for a snappy comeback and several members of the Jurassic period, and failing at both. “I thought you were gone. On a job.”

Inara’s lip curled ever so slightly as she picked up her skirts and delicately stepped into the room. “On this rock? Hardly.” She glanced over at him, kohl-lined eyes giving nothing away. “I could say the same.”

“Only Mal and Zoe went,” Wash replied, trying to decide if he should avoid her gaze or meet it. “Kaylee went into town for parts. I’m--guarding the ship.”

“I see,” Inara said blandly, picking up a tyrannosaurus rex by the tail and regarding it with a grimace.

Feeling as though he had to at least defend himself, Wash pulled a radio out of his pocket and held it up. “I can hear them if they call in.”

Inara set the t-rex down. “I never doubted you,” she replied, still in that ridiculously unflappable voice. Wash had yet to see her lose her cool. Granted, she had only been with Serenity a few weeks and he hadn’t spent much time with her. At all. In fact, this was the first time he had even been alone with her.

To be honest, Wash hadn’t thought about the Companion much. She was paying Mal for the use of the shuttle and was therefore bringing money into Serenity, which was good, but the woman had stayed secluded in her shuttle and Wash had forgotten about her for the most part. There was no allure of her profession to entice his imagination. Wash had always liked a little more adventure in his women and, besides, he had recently caught the one woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. As far as he was concerned, Zoe was a million times more alluring than any Companion could be, ever.

“So what exactly is all this?”

Inara repeated the question she had entered with and Wash looked over his desecrated battle scene. It had been a masterpiece, really, now all torn asunder. He wasn’t entirely sure such a masterpiece needed explanation.

That, and he wasn’t quite sure how to explain epic dinosaur battles to a member of the Companion’s Guild. Somehow, it had never come up before.

“I could hear you all the way in my shuttle,” Inara continued when he did not reply. Wash glanced up suspiciously; her tone had almost--almost--sounded awkward. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous.

“Epic dinosaur battle,” he said at last, deciding the bald truth was probably best. “The untold, tragic tale of the final showdown between herbivores and carnivores, fighting for freedom and survival in the dawn of time of Earth-That-Was…”

Inara was staring at him, her perfectly colored mouth hanging open just the slightest bit. Wash trailed off into silence. For a long moment, they just looked at one another until, finally, Inara managed, “… why?”

Wash blinked. “Why not?”

Clearly, it was not the answer she had been expecting. If Wash had ever wanted to see the Companion completely unmoored and flabbergasted, it appeared the time had come.

“Here, take a seat, I’ll show you.”

Inara looked down at the battered chairs, a pained expression crossing her face. Her gaze flickered from her expensive silk dress to the time-worn seat and Wash wondered if she would just turn and go.

Gingerly, she pulled the chair back from the table and sat with a grace Wash would have envied, had he been the type to envy such a thing.

“Choose your dino,” Wash offered magnanimously, waving his hands at the amassed toys.

“Choose my…?” Inara replied faintly, but carefully picked up the dinosaur closest to her hand. She examined it, much as she had examined the tyrannosaurus rex, though with less distain.

Wash snatched up another of his discarded friends. “Rawr!” he roared in his most fearsome dinosaur voice, menacing Inara’s poor brontosaurus with his velociraptor. “Concede defeat now or face my awesome jaws of death, miserable meat!”

Inara stared at him--and burst out laughing. It was a loud, hearty laugh, surprising him with its richness; she had to put her head down on the table, her shoulders shaking as she tried to compose herself. It was contagious, besides; Wash found himself laughing as well, with her and at himself.

After several minutes, Inara finally sat back up, a few stray chuckles escaping her lips as she wiped tears from her eyes.

“See?” Wash said with a grin. “Like that.”

~*~

For once in her life, Inara was failing at something. As much as she tried to affect an appropriately ferocious growl for a dinosaur voice, her paltry attempts were constantly interrupted by her own residual giggling. The entire situation was ridiculous and absurd and entirely something a Guild-trained Companion of her statute should Not Be Doing.

In other words, she was having the time of her life.

Her current dinosaur--the funny, long-necked one long been lost to the causalities of war--was locked in mortal combat with Wash’s when there came a discreet cough at the door.

Inara immediately dropped the dinosaur and sat back in her chair, collecting her grace and dignity with the air of long practice. Wash set his plastic toy down with much less haste and looked languidly over at the door. “Hello, lamby-toes. Job go well?”

Slowly, trying to look unhurried despite the embarrassment threatening to redden her face, Inara followed his gaze. Zoe stood there, shoulder propped up against the jamb. “Well as to be expected,” she said, glancing over to meet Inara’s eyes.

All the while relieved the captain was not with her--that man seeing her behave in such an undignified and… silly manner was not an idea Inara could tolerate--Inara vaguely dreaded what she would see in the other woman’s gaze. As innocent as their activities had been, she had met far too many women who would not relish the idea of finding their husband alone with a Companion.

Zoe appeared unconcerned; in fact, Inara imagined she saw a twinkle of amusement in Zoe’s eyes, completely contrary to her sober expression.

“Captain and Kaylee’s loading the cargo. Might want to get this cleaned up, ‘fore he sees you’ve made his mess a bit more literal.”

Wash was already collecting dinosaurs. “Sure thing, sweetie.”

Inara made a token effort to assist Wash with his dinosaurs, but he assured her he could take care of things and suggested she return to her shuttle to prepare for takeoff. How they would be taking off when the pilot was still picking up his toys was something Inara wondered, but chose not to ask; there was a slight, conspiratorial gleam in Wash’s eyes that made her think he was removing her from the scene before Captain Reynolds could stumble upon them and ask questions.

She appreciated the thought and hoped that meant neither Wash nor his wife would divulge her absurd antics to the captain. The entire affair had been nothing more than a momentary lapse of judgment on her part, after all; there was no reason for the captain--or any of them--to think she was becoming overly friendly with Serenity’s crew.

An afternoon of epic dinosaur battles hardly meant anything, in the long run.

[Stargate SG-1] Not Just a Footnote

Mon, 25 Aug 2008 15:43:53 GMT

Title: Not Just a Footnote
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Sha’re
Word Count: 872
Notes: 100_women prompt #46 - write. AU; takes place sometime after “Full Circle.”
Summary: When Sha’re first arrived on Earth and began to walk around in their world, the casual attitude towards the written word stunned her.

When Sha’re first arrived on Earth and began to walk around in their world, the casual attitude towards the written word stunned her. The Tau’ri thought absolutely nothing of it; language was everywhere—piled in books on shelves, scribbled on sticky-notes stuck to doorways, and transmitted electronically to little devices that beeped and twittered.

Three years later, she found herself carelessly moving a stack of magazines out of the way so she could sit down, completely unconcerned about all the writing contained within. Once, she had felt an uncertain thrill every time she picked up a pen, constantly stifling the urge to look over her shoulder and make sure there were no Jaffa waiting to haul her away for defying her (false) god; once, she had flipped through every book and magazine that came to hand, just to look at the words. What would Ra think to see her now, one of his ignorant slaves bordered on one side by glossy fashion and science magazines, on the other by thick physics books, and a stack of notebooks in front of her, stuffed full with her own scrawled writing?

He would have been furious and the thought made her smile, because he was dead and she continued to defy him every day of her life—made all the more satisfying because it no longer felt like defiance; it felt normal.

She had precious little to smile about, as of late. The entire last year had been one of constant emotional upheavals, beginning with the death of her husband and ending with the destruction of her homeworld. She had elected to remain on Earth when Daniel had died. They had asked, initially, if she wanted to go back to Abydos and assured her nobody would think the less of her for it, but on Abydos she would have been a widow and a former demon-god and, while she had always been too smart for her own good and for her people’s comfort, she now would have been too smart and in possession of knowledge enough to back it up. On Earth, she was simply Sha’re Jackson—still a widow, but the widowhood was incidental and only a portion of the greater whole.

Besides, she had come to the conclusion that, after a certain point, one could not go home again; there was a time when knowledge of the universe became too much to return to the solace of ignorance.

Instead, she had moved in with Samantha and tried to think about moving on. For a time, she had actually thought moving on would be possible, until she learned that Daniel had appeared to O’Neill and Teal’c—but not to herself or Samantha—and then to Skaara, until Anubis destroyed Abydos, until Oma Desala had saved her people the same way she had saved her husband—by taking them away from her.

She was happy they had survived, in a fashion; she was bitter about being left behind.

The bitterness was obvious, at least; beyond that, Sha’re could not decide if she was angry or upset or both in regards to the twists things had taken, so she lied and said “yes” whenever Samantha asked if she was all right. It might have helped to talk about it, but whenever she tried to find the words, Sha’re realized she was not as fluent in English as she would have liked to think. There might have been words in her native tongue to express the pain, but anyone who would have understood those words was gone.

Teal’c might have known her language, but Sha’re could not get past the resentment that Daniel had come to him and not to her and so could not consider speaking to him.

Instead, she wrote it down in her notebooks, where it did not matter if her thoughts were a chaotic tangle of languages. At some point, her emotions had turned into recollections; it was, perhaps, fitting, given she was the only one left. In the future, someone might wonder about the people of Abydos, if she and her people managed to become even a footnote in the history of the galaxy, and there should be some written record of them—of their hopes and dreams and struggles and victories, of the way they had made their clothes and baked their bread and found water and life in the desert. Her homesickness poured itself out onto her pages and she was able to bite back the bitter knowledge that she had only become truly, heart-wrenchingly homesick once there was no longer a home to return to.

Samantha came into the living room with two steaming mugs of tea, setting one down on the coffee table next to Sha’re’s stack of notebooks. She looked at the book on Sha’re’s lap, at the pencil Sha’re had stilled when Samantha had walked into the room, and asked the question that had obviously been on her mind for the last several weeks, while she had been helping to supply Sha’re with fresh notebooks and pencil sharpeners.

“What are you writing?”

Sha’re looked down at the curled page in front of her and across at the stack by her feet. “Everything,” she said at last, truthfully, with a faint, sad smile.

Revised/rewritten June 14, 2009.

Table here.

[Stargate SG-1] Present Tense

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 21:21:34 GMT

Title: Present Tense
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG
Character: Samantha Carter
Word Count: 515
Notes: 100_women prompt #7 - present. Spoilers for Continuum.
Summary: It’s funny, but she’s not laughing.

It’s funny how the past changed everything, but the present is the only thing that matters. The past, as important as it might be--or had been--or will be--in the grand scheme of things, might as well be a dream at this point. The future, for her, doesn’t exist, because even if she keeps on living and going forward in time, it will never cease to be anything but this never-ending hellish now.

She’s not going anywhere, physically, emotionally, intellectually…

She tries different jobs before giving up, because she can’t be a secretary or an insurance agent or a fry cook; she just lives on the government’s money and fills up stacks of notebooks with wormhole calculations and advanced astrophysics. She eats Fruit Loops just to prolong the aching place in her heart that tells her, once upon a time, Jack O’Neill wasn’t the man on the sub. She watches documentaries about herself and feels nothing when she sees footage of the crash where she died, but she turns her head at Southern accents and nearly chases after a dark-skinned man who almost looks like someone else and buys rhinestone barrettes she never wears. She purchases a discount book on the pyramids and never looks at the back cover, because having a picture of someone she knows but has never met is worse than not having any pictures at all.

Sometimes, she sits out in the yard and stares up at the sky and thinks about Abydos and Langara and Cimmeria and the Land of Light and wonders if they’re better or worse off for not having met anyone from Earth. She wonders if Sam-the-astronaut’s father died of cancer, if Mark is still married with kids, and if Jack would think Charlie was a fair trade for his team. She thinks about Jonas Hansen and Janet Fraiser and Charlie Kawalsky and considers trying to find them, because they weren’t on the list of people to never speak to again—only because nobody thought to mention them—but decides she would only feel more selfish, seeing them alive and still wanting things back the way they were.

She wonders if Sha’re is still alive somewhere and then wonders if Daniel ever wonders.

Mostly, she wonders how long it will take her to finally go completely crazy. She thinks she’ll just start screaming the truth in the middle of the grocery store one day and the government will come and lock her away forever. Ba’al couldn’t have dreamed up a better punishment for SG-1—or almost half of them, anyway—if he’d orchestrated the whole nightmare himself, but giving him credit for this particular hell would be too generous. He’s the reason behind it, but he didn’t create it.

At the moment, though, she’s still pretending this reality is really real—which it is, after all, but it’s not and it never will be reality to her. She thinks she can keep on managing, so long as she focuses on living in the present she’s been confronted with instead of remembering the past and future she no longer has.

Table here.

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 20:50:27 GMT

Took some pictures of Rowena today. She's still a fussy poser, but I've been having a lot easier time with her now that she's been restrung.

[Gundam Wing] Peacetime Desires of a Black Queen

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 17:10:25 GMT

Title: Peacetime Desires of a Black Queen
Author: telepathicpixie
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Character: Dorothy Catalonia
Word Count: 2945
Notes: 100_women prompt #17 - lust.
Summary: “I helped give them a glorious war that led to peace, didn’t I? I’m afraid that’s as much goodwill as I can muster for humankind.”

The ceiling fan turned lazily above her head and her gaze followed the blades in their endless circle. Light from the window flashed off the false brass accents and the chain dangling down, sending sparks scattering across the walls. The couch pillow was lumpy under her head and she thought about demanding better accommodations, if they were going to persist in this ridiculous charade. The old quack sitting in the armchair across from her would probably just dissect her words into some sort of entitlement complex--she was a goddamn duchess, why shouldn’t she have an entitlement complex?--so she kept her thoughts to herself. No sense in giving them ammunition; she didn’t believe in giving the enemy any weapons to use against her, unless it would somehow benefit her in the long run.

She did not yet feel this was beneficial.

The clock ticked steadily on the wall and the quack kept obnoxious time with his pen and Dorothy calmly waited out yet another hour. She was a patient woman, when she had to be; she’d break them, in the long run.

~*~

Two days later and the same scenario. She had to give the man props; he’d been at this twice a week for the last three months and hadn’t cracked yet. The previous four hadn’t lasted quite so long; at least Une had managed to find her a worthy adversary. He was tapping his pen again and she hadn’t yet decided if it was a nervous twitch or if he was trying to make her crack.

She smiled--inwardly--at the thought. Better men had tried…

“So tell me, Miss Catalonia,” he said at last. She did not jump at the intrusion of his words into the relative silence, merely glanced over with an arched eyebrow. He had spoken first--point to her. “Why do you bother with these sessions when you plainly mean to get nothing from them?”

Dorothy held his gaze for two full minutes, keeping count by the ticking of the second hand. “Who says I get nothing from them?” she asked, corners of her lips curving upward. “I find it fairly relaxing; a biweekly meditation, if you will.”

“And, of course, Colonel Une requires it of you.”

Dorothy waved a hand airily and looked away. “It suits me to humor her.”

“Does it?”

Silently huffing at his tone, Dorothy ignored him; how dare he speak so condescending, as if to humor her? If he had spoken so during the wars, she would have crushed him--and through no violent effort of her own, merely through words and cunning. Simply because she was here under orders from the Preventers, out of Une’s desire to make sure she was sane and stable and capable of becoming a good little member of society, did not give him the right…

“Do you miss it?”

Dorothy glared at him, eyes narrow. “Miss what?”

“War.”

As bald-faced as anyone had ever asked her. If she was not contemplating how to best kill the man, she might have conceded a point to him. Smiling thinly--insincerely--she replied with false sweetness, “Whyever should I miss that dreadful thing, my dear doctor? Have you failed to notice this miraculous state of peace we’ve been given?” She sat up a bit, resting on one elbow and giving him a look shaded with long lashes. “Miss Relena has done a marvelous job, hasn’t she?”

He just smiled and made a note on his tablet. Again he was humoring her! She grit her teeth. Without even glancing at her, he capped his pen and stood. “I’m afraid your hour is up, Miss Catalonia. I will see you next week?”

Without even waiting for an answer, he left, leaving her fuming on the couch.

~*~

When she arrived next, a table sat between the couch and chair; on the table was a chess set, already arranged for a fresh game with the black pieces facing the couch. Dorothy spared it a brief, disdainful glance as she walked around it to her usual seat, trying to ignore the way her hands itched to play.

He watched her as she walked in and noted her glance towards the board. “Do you play, Miss Catalonia?”

“Occasionally,” she said with a sniff, pointedly turning away. Only occasionally did she find an opponent worthy of her time and with time to spare. She doubted the doctor would be anything of a challenge; it was beneath her to even consider matching her skills against such an inferior.

“I was hoping you might indulge me in a match this afternoon.”

“Do I pay you so that I may indulge your whims?” Dorothy retorted.

He chuckled and reached forward, starting the game with a pawn. “I believe it is Colonel Une who pays me.”

Dorothy glanced down at the board. He’d begun the game, damn him; the array of possibilities mapped themselves out before her, first moves flashing before her eyes as she took in the orderly rows and squares. So much cleaner than true battle--even battle with mobile dolls, as obedient as they were--but at the same time, almost as satisfying. No life or death to make things really interesting, that was true, but the same match of wits and strategy. It would be so desperately easy to beat him, put him in his place…

Except the duel played out on the checkered board wasn’t the only game at stake. If she followed his lead, played his game, she would be doing just that--playing his game.

She did not move one of the black pieces and so took her turn.

“The trouble is, Dorothy,” he said and she shot him a sharp look for the unasked for use of her first name, “is that you thrive on conflict.”

“Have you figured me out, then?” she replied.

He laughed, a soft, amused chuckle she hated. “I’m afraid that much is plain for anyone to see, psychology degrees notwithstanding. Everything is a match of wits to you. Even now, you suspect me of some greater goal when I merely offer a friendly game of chess.”

“You have not played often or well, if you call it friendly,” Dorothy said.

“You constantly attempt misdirection when confronted with a direct question--or statement.” He cocked his head at her. “Is it war you love, or simply the battle of tactical wit that results during war?”

She didn’t answer and he crossed his arms and leaned back. “To put it another way, is your lust for blood or for a challenge?”

Dorothy looked up at him, expression flat and cold. Without a word, she reached out and upturned the chess board; the pieces clattered to the ground and she got up and walked out of the room, thirty-six minutes early.

~*~

“I upset you last time.”

Same room, same scenario, different day. Some days, she thought her entire life was beginning to revolve around this miserable place, with its cheap furnishings and revolting décor. She almost hadn’t come, but that would be admitting defeat; also, part of her had hoped the man had finally given up and gone his way like the others.

To her vast irritation, he had not; of course, he had also not reported her truancy to Une, else she would have no doubt heard about it. At length.

“What do you hope to accomplish here?” she asked.

“What do you?”

“To get a passing grade so you fools leave me alone.” The words came out before she could stop them. Damn the man and his persistent badgering! She’d be telling him all sorts of ridiculous things at this rate!

“And after that?”

She stared at him. And after that, what? She’d get on with her life, of course; what did the miserable incompetent think she’d do?

“As you said last week, we are living in a time of peace. What will you do with it?”

“I don’t intend to start another war simply to amuse myself, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Dorothy sat back, crossing her legs and folding her hands over one knee. “Except that is what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? What you all are. It’s the reason the dearly beloved Colonel sent you to me, after a long succession of less… stalwart psychologists. To make sure I’m not going to go off and wreck it all for the rest of the world simply to alleviate my boredom.” She leaned forward, hair slipping from behind her shoulders to frame her face. “If you want my opinion, doctor,” she said in a mock whisper, “you might want to look to the Colonel herself. She did help start a military coup, after all. I merely encouraged what was already there.”

“You undervalue yourself, Miss Catalonia. There’s more to your mind than a mere cheerleader.”

Dorothy smiled and sat back once again. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Have you given no thought to what a woman of your talents could do to help this world we’ve created?”

“I helped give them a glorious war that led to peace, didn’t I? I’m afraid that’s as much goodwill as I can muster for humankind.”

“Pity,” he said, but did not expound upon the statement. Why he thought it was a pity, Dorothy found herself wanting to know, but she refused to stoop so low as to ask.

~*~

Silence prevailed for another week; the chess set had returned the second day. Dorothy did not give it more than a passing glance and refused to comment upon it or anything else, especially since the quack seemed content to let things regress to their previous condition.

“You’re attending a university now, aren’t you, Miss Catalonia?” he asked at last, giving her a brief look over his legal pad. She wondered what he found to write in it day after day, when no words passed between them; likely some psychological gibber-gabber to make it appear he was doing something worth his paycheck.

“Yes,” she replied, not wishing to bother a catty response to something so trivial.

“Aa,” he said and was quiet again. She wished he wouldn’t begin his inane questioning and then stop, leaving her wondering just where he was going with the topic at hand. No doubt the bastard did it on purpose, just to make her wonder, so she pretended not to notice or care.

“What are you studying?” he said, just when she’d almost forgotten he’d said anything at all. She glared at him for a long moment, but he didn’t even meet her gaze as he continued doodling idly on his paper.

“History,” she said and he looked up at that, glancing over at her with a quick, conspirator’s grin.

“Of course. Plenty of good wars there.”

She gave him a smile of her own, one with less arsenic than usual. He’d gotten it, at least; everyone else thought it was such a dreary subject and couldn’t fathom why she would be wasting her time with it.

“Is there something in particular you plan to do with the degree, once you’re done?”

A question he’d already asked her, simply approached from a different angle. Sloppy. “I hardly think my financial status is such I need to do anything,” she returned.

“Of course; how silly of me.”

Dorothy snorted and resumed her study of the ceiling fan.

“But perhaps you would want to do something.”

Fine--she’d play. For the moment. “Such as…?” she prompted, dry tone clearly stating she didn’t hold out much hope for the validity of his suggestions.

“Teacher? Museum guide?” he offered and it was fortunate for him she could tell he was joking. “Do you really intend to spend all the time and effort to get a degree in something you love and then proceed to do absolutely nothing with it?”

“You use such meaningful words for my presumed relationship with history--with war. What on Earth makes you think I care so much about anything?”

“My mistake then. Perhaps I’ve been wrong all along about your role in the wars; it had nothing to do with bloodlust or tactical wit, simply teenage rebellion taken to the extreme.”

Dorothy barked a sharp, honestly amused laugh. The idea of her actions during the wars--and, by association, all of their actions, from Relena to the Gundam pilots--being trivialized as mere teenage rebellion was nothing short of… comical.

She reached out for the chessboard and moved one of the black pieces. The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed together.

“Customarily, white moves first,” he told her.

Dorothy looked up at him and arched an eyebrow. “You made your move a week and a half ago. Do try to keep up.”

~*~

The game wound on for the next few weeks, being prolonged chiefly because Dorothy would often only make one move a day. Sometimes she took pity on the poor quack and made as many as two, but for the most part, she forced him to wait on her turn. If he were smart, he could have done the same thing to her, but he never bothered; in her opinion, he was positively hasty in his game.

She never asked what he did with the chessboard while his other clients were there, whether he left it out or moved it to the side or packed it all up entirely. Regardless, it was always back in place by the time she arrived, with all the pieces right where they’d left them.

“Do you believe that history really does repeat itself?” he asked finally, making his move right on the heels of her previous one. Dorothy made note of the current positions of their pieces and then proceeded to ignore the board. She thought about making a quick move now, just in response to the question, but she decided the momentary victory wasn’t worth the cost of the overall game.

“Lots of things repeat themselves. You do, frequently.” He just watched her and did not reply to her taunt; she sighed. “Everything happens in stages. The peace we have now is just one point of time in the overarching pattern of humanity. Another war is inevitable.”

“You don’t think humanity can progress past the need for warfare?”

Dorothy smiled. “Miss Relena thinks so. And as I’ve told her in the past, if everyone were as enlightened as Miss Relena, it would certainly be a possibility. But perhaps I have a lesser view of the human race than Miss Relena does.” She paused, picking up a discarded pawn and studying it thoughtfully. “Or… no. Not a lesser view.” The smooth curves of the pawn caught the light from the room, glowing with the reflected illumination. “Humans beings do not show their true colors in times of peace. It takes a war to really show the measure of a man. Our best and our worst are most clearly seen in times of violence; war shows those who will step up and fight heroically for the sake of the final outcome, those who will use such trials to further their own ends, and those… who are merely pawns. Cowards and followers who only serve as a backdrop to the great leaders of our time.” She set the piece down. “Even Miss Relena did not show her true magnificence until confronted with a war.”

He looked unsettled by her response. “Then you do not care to preserve our current state of peace.”

“Hardly.” Dorothy looked over at him. “Another war so soon would be pointless; we already know who our champions are. There is a pattern to these things, but it must be conducted within the proper timeline. Now, there should be peace--peace is the reward to warriors who have fought well.”

“Unfortunately, there are people who feel that another war would not be pointless, but necessary.”

Dorothy acknowledged his words with a slight nod and a shrug and waited.

“Someone with a love of history and who understands the patterns of peacetime and war could do a great deal to help the Preventers prevent such a needless war.”

Finally, after all these weeks, they had come down to the point in question. Une’s devotion of resources had not been entirely without meaning, after all; she had been harboring hope Dorothy could be persuaded to use her talents for preserving peace, instead of prolonging war, and had hidden it all within this charming little charade. Either her darling doctor had no skill for keeping secrets or he had decided a direct approach would be best.

It was an intriguing prospect, a game of chess with deliciously high stakes--a game that might actually be worthy of her attention. It was a risk on Une’s part, because there was no telling when Dorothy might choose to switch sides and begin instigating war once more--but no doubt there would be fail-safes in place for such an inevitability.

Reaching out for the chessboard, Dorothy played her queen. “Checkmate.” It was as perfect an end as she could have hoped for; she preferred to end the game with the queen, just as she preferred to play the black. The person wielding the black pieces never started the game, merely toyed with what was already there; the queen, who could move anywhere, was undoubtedly the most powerful piece. She found it rather poetic, in its own way. The quack blinked and stared down at the board, as if he had actually forgotten about the game.

“You’re going to have to get much better at this if we’re to continue playing,” she said and smiled. Slowly, he returned it.

“I’ll see you next week, then.”

Without a backward glance at the chessboard or the doctor, Dorothy left the room.

Table here.