Writing characters, you realize things you never knew about them before. For me, wrestling this one down? My Teyla is fierce!

I was never much into Teyla/Kate, but I read some of thingswithwings' stuff and was intrigued. Not to mention, the canon - though I don't think we feel the full impact of Kate on Teyla's life until her absence, it's obvious that she means something to Teyla, as she reacts more strongly to her death than to any number of dead friends and coworkers during her stay on Atlantis. I might write more of this pairing; I don't know. As I see it, their relationship could either go very badly or very well, because like every psychologist I know, Kate's bound to be good at both waffle and diagnosing others' problems, and I think it was seperis who said, Teyla's not in touch with her own emotions as much as sympathetic to the emotions of others. And unlike McKay and Sheppard, they don't have an absence of tact as much as far too much of it. So they could either be functional and communicative, or vastly problematic, as they're so caught up in that careful diplomacy that neither is sure what exactly is real, never mind how to express it. I chose to portray the latter choice.

Housekeeping time: Title from the Nancy Elizabeth song, which for some reason I think fits Teyla to a T, even though it really doesn't. Also, this is for the "First Times" spot on my cliche_bingo card. The Quick Bird on Hot Sand, I believe, came from Icarus.



BATTLE AND VICTORY
SGA; R. Teyla/Kate.

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Behold: my latest failure, aka the mcshep_match drabble that ate Tokyo. As you may have guessed from that introduction, it is, eh, slightly longer than allowed - about 500% bigger - and so cannot be posted on their very cool drabble tree, which is a shame, because I think it's a very cool and creepy follow-up to a previous drabble (in case you're interested, it's this PEACE one).

people don't win wars. wars win wars.

The light is cold here. On the outer edges, where undertide and current flow, the walls are being eaten by the ocean salt. They have, perhaps, a thousand years left; more, if the shields were expanded. They're at minimal levels for now, edges sacrificed to save the center, the critical areas only: gate-room, power-station, stasis room and the man it holds. Between life support, shields, and the AI, the ZPM has, perhaps, ten thousand years left. Less, if the shields are expanded. Something must - 0000011101. Something must go. It's Atlantis or her prodigal son; Isaac and Abraham, struggling to tie each other to the altar. Each vying for more time, more time. A year more of survival. Two. Trapping each other in mazes and looping codes, in echoes of echoes. One disintegrates while the other survives, and Rodney and his city battle it out in silence. He's winning, so far. And that's important, because every minute is a chance someone will rediscover the city, time for a cure to be found. Because the thing is - the thing is -

The thing is, he's pretty sure he existed, once. Pretty sure he loved, and occasionally hated, and was more than this eternal game of cat-and-mouse, this cruel either/or, architecture or anatomy. He's as much a machine as the city. He can feel what he's doing to her. She's been quiet for a while, though - hiding somewhere in the control room. The bulk of her processing is in essential sections, or he would have - 010. He would have cut her shields and left her to the sea. Should probably check server AR-940, just in case. Must remember that; very important thing. Because the thing is - one slip and he's - one slip and -

He does remember. Must remember; very important. A comfort he could still - 10110011110. Still give. "I remember," his subroutines would say. If he were anything more than a whisper of light and code, he would reach past the glass - mouth to mouth, breathing out, thumb sweeping over the angry lines of infection running under the skin. He gave up ascension for this: to protect the last known carrier of the Wraith's virus, their final revenge, their time bomb sunken under the sea.

It seemed a fair trade. Food and sleep and sex, to be able to remember - to remember John, when no one else would. To hold that knowledge, share it, read himself out like a book to whomever could help. He carries instructions for - 001011. For the stasis chamber, John's medical records, all the research they'd had on the Wraith virus, anything that could help, and underneath, in hidden files and encrypted video: more whispers, of video golf and rings. A moment of joy, high in the atmosphere. Strong hands. A machine's memory of hot sheets and skin on skin. (And the thing - the thing he has to remember is - )

He's the bible of John; genesis and revelations both.

1. Houston, we have plot!

There is nothing in the world like that rush that comes with knowing how it all falls into place. I swear. It's like seeing God.

On a related note, SATs suck small brass monkey balls.

2. While reading about Nazi Germany's problems with two-valued orientation - it got to the level that "German" was a synonym for "good", and everything "non-German" was bad* - it occurred to me that Pegasus would probably have a similar problem with "Wraith" and "non-Wraith". We've seen this in episodes like Inquisition, where the Lanteans were criminalized for their alliance with the Wraith, and in fact it was the alliance that was considered illegal, and not what they were actually doing within the confines of said alliance (which, admittedly, was pretty sketchy too, but for the Wraith and probably not for humans, except to call into question what humanity really is). Sheppard's explanation of what they were trying to accomplish didn't sway their horror at all. So great is Pegasus fear of Wraith that the mere word is repellent, and in fact, I think in the pilot Teyla cautioned against telling tales [of the Wraith], confusing the word with the thing, as if the word could call the nightmares down on them. At this point, I don't even think the Wraith would necessarily have to be involved for something to be classified as "Wraith". It's been a pet theory of mine for a while that matrilineal and matriarchal society is more common in Pegasus than it is on Earth**, but because the Wraith are matrilineal and matriarchal, one could easily unhinge a human matrilineal/matriarchal tradition by arguing that this is unnatural because it is Wraith-like, that they're Wraith worshippers. Bollocks, but it gets people scared. Just as I would bet that the societies who were matrilineal/matriarchal - even just to an extent, like the Athosians - would have different words for "human Queen" and "Wraith Queen", while the non matrilineal/matriarchal societies wouldn't, necessarily.

On the subject of Wraith worshippers, we're not given much canon, but it's clear that they do exist, and people know of them, even if they're not common. The team has before been accused of "bringing the Wraith down on people" both in incidents where they are responsible for this (Ronon, as mentioned in Sateda) and incidents where they have not. And cullings, as we know, are not random, but to non-technically advanced village or even a society with no space travel (and thus space sensors), for all intents and purposes they might as well be. I wouldn't be surprised if "Wraith worshipper" is used in the same connotation as the Middle Ages "witch": a person who would get blamed in the aftermath of a culling even if they had nothing to do with it. "Executions"*** of supposed "Wraith worshippers" are probably quite frequent in Pegasus, especially on heavily culled planets. Methods of murder are rather brutal. Again, these are the outcasts of society this is happening to, or those who have economic power or possessions that others covet, and like a witch, a "Wraith worshipper" would probably be pretty hard to disprove. Go through the Ring any time within the past year? Guilty. Have any sort of interspace/interstellar transmitter technology? Guilty. Are a recent immigrant, consort with recent immigrants, or talked to a Ring traveler recently? Guilty. Even presumably using fucking semaphores that the Wraith might presumably see from space? Guilty.

The Atlanteans are sitting on a bombshell here. If their alliance with the Wraith ever comes into the public light****, heads are going to roll. Their trade allies would shun them. Atlantis might be attacked by those with space travel. It would be impossible to go through the Gate for fear of offworlders administering "justice" and killing any expedition teams. Really, the best way for the Wraith to destroy the Atlantis once and for all is to embrace them as friends. Because foreigners who have been allied with Wraith queens, are allied with Hive commanders, have a former Runner and a military commander who enjoyed the same benefits of Wraith worshippers******, created Wraith-human hybrids, often have female leaders, fucking woke the Wraith in the first place, and are suspiciously closed-mouth about all the other shit they're doing?

Definitely guilty.



*From General Ludendorff's Am Quell Deutscher Kraft: "The rabbit, it is certain, is no German animal, if only for its painful timidity. It is an immigrant who enjoys a guest's privilege. As for the lion, one sees in him indisputably German fundamental characteristics. Thus one could call him a German abroad."

**Because the Wraith are nearly impossible to defeat militarily - not that it's kept anyone from trying - reproduction is really a society's only defense against complete destruction. Thus, reproductive power - which lay with women, no pun intended - would trump military might - which can lay with either one but traditionally has rested mostly on males. I don't pretend to be an expert in the field, though.

***Which is probably what they're called, and again, even this has a connotation with it: that the person being killed has committed a crime and are being brought to "justice", as opposed to being killed or murdered.

****To the extent that it's widely known instead of just to the Genii, allies of the Genii, and the handy dandy Genii spy network.

*****Regeneration, the "gift of life".

...If "RONON" is related to "RONIN".

Probably not, but still. Kinda cool coincidence, yeah?

Picture this:

Rodney McKay, playing the first few bars of Nina Simone's "Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair" (download link provided, of course). That not enough for you? Picture this, then:

There is a piano. In Atlantis, perhaps; in Jeannie's house; in an empty auditorium, dust on the lid, even the sunlight there secretive and strange. Where it is, though, this is not actually important; nor is his reason for being there with it. There is a piano - that is enough.

He sits. Hunched, mouth turned downwards. He is not sure whether to be happy, or sad, or if what he feels is D, none of the above, the third answer in a true/false question, which is to say, indescribable, not that it will keep him from trying. Perhaps John is there; perhaps he is not. Someone is, though. Someone should be there to witness this.

Pencils at the ready; begin. He will start lightly, almost tentatively, like shaking hands with an old friend - it's been so long, after all, and he's not really sure where he stands with the piano - but stronger with every note, a crescendo of movement and sound - faster, faster, harder - until he's pounding at the keyboard, mouth tight, eyes bright. His back muscles clench; he leans into the keys. He feels the music like the time AR-1 almost got caught in a imanam, a rockslide, on MX4-829: the sheer impatience and power of it, as if nothing could stop the rocks' descent, like this tumble was written into the basecode - nay, the bones of the land, somehow essential to the existence of it. Absolutely terrifying, of course. Completely inevitable.

He could have died from that. Considers this, and pounds on, fingers slick on the keys. He thinks he could die from this, too.

Second Verse (Same As the First). SGA.
"The Marines call it the Planet of the Willing Virgins, you know." It's the 'willing' part that's debatable.


When I rec a story, I usually do it because I like it, for whatever reason, and because I like it it's implied that you may not; what moves me may not move you. Often, these things, these stories, they are beautiful, and should be read. Rarely do I find something that not only should be read, but needs to be. But this - this needs to be read.

This is important.

So, I finally get around to reading Your Cowboy Days Are Over and Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose tonight. I'd been avoiding them because someone had described them as too traumatizing for words, and I'm not usually one for heartbreakers, but in the end I'm thinking something along the lines of why not or perhaps need to do this and go ahead, open the window, scroll down. Read. I am reminded of something Annie Dillard once wrote: You can't picture it, can you? Neither can I. Oh, the desk is yellow, the oak table round, the ferns alive, the mirror cold, and I never have cared. I read. In the Middle Ages, I read, "the thing of a thing which a man framed for himself was always more real to him than the actual thing itself." I read the words, but I do not see what the writer dreamed of seeing, I do not feel what the writer dreamed of feeling. In this sense the dull has for me always hurt more than the sharp, when I am beat down by the weight of words. No catharsis of blood. I read Cowboy Days and retain nothing; I read Another Word and feel brushes of feeling, like words whispered so that nothing may be heard but the movement of air.

These days everything I read seems to be motorized, sterilized, I look at the human wreckage projected up at the screen and do not look away. My blood-and-bones teacher, the paramedic EMT instructor, he once told me that the people who faint during his gory slideshows were the ones who make a living from these things. Do they feel more or perhaps, less? Is the dread-sickness they feel the dread of these things happening to them, their own dermis rent & subcutaneous fat splattered? Do they do these things to forstay this dread, to delight in the foreigness of it? These dead and dying - these things do not resemble us. Meat does not drive our own mortality any deeper; the dead never look like they do in the movies, and nothing is crueler than the morgue camera. In the photographs he shows, skin is yellow, body hair like grit, and every limb ends in a bouquet of black gobbets. Ikibana of gore. My blood-and-bones teacher, my paramedic EMT instructor, he tells us stories of faces blown off by shotguns and I think, will I ever find anything beautiful again?

Finally getting around to watching the pilot for Stargate: Atlantis, and you know what? I take back everything I have ever said about this show. It is AWESOME. I still feel like Carson (?) should be older, or something, but I loved Rodney from the very moment he huffed and sulked his way on screen. Especially since, for some odd reason, he reminds me of Perry Van Shrike from Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Maybe it's his expressions. Or the way he talks, all high and fast and pissed off. Or you know what, maybe it's Harry Lockhart that's tickling my memory reserves.

...But whatever. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE.