Smoke and Bone
Apr. 16th, 2004 11:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsallovernowETA: Didn't mean to post this here, but oh well. I'm posting from home, so no client here yet.
Trial is done. They found the defendent guilty, and I feel kind of sick, because while I firmly believe he did it, it's also kind of horrifying to know that this person is going to be in jail for the rest of his life. And that the other people involved in the case don't have particularly bright futures.
I went to the gym, I came home, watched "School of Rock", laughed my ass off, surprisingly, drank beer and then wrote. So, after 10 days of not writing. I feel pretty good. Oh, I guess that's not true, I drabbled last Sunday. Still, I do think this is the longest I've gone without writing in a very, very long time. I was a little worried that I'd lost the ability to do so, which is silly, and largely attached to my difficulty with the Remix challenge and my absence from fandom.
So yeah, back to a normal life come Monday. Anyone wanna tell me what I missed while I was gone?
Gonna say mid-late Season 1. Death and taxes. PG. Oh, and as usual, beta free. With apologies both to Monty Python, although maybe I'm the only one who keeps thinking "Bring out the dead."
Smoke and Bone
The air was thick, heavy with the smell of smoke and something else, something sharp and fetid. He coughed into his fist, eyes stinging. Aeryn walked ahead of him, hand light on her gun, posture wary and watching, her dark tail of hair swinging over bare shoulders. It was too warm for all of this smoke, which hung in the air, giving the already dusky landscape a monochrome tinge. The acrid scent of wood burning clogged his throat, and he cleared it, feeling the sting high in his sinuses.
"What the hell is that," he asked low and aside, catching Aeryn’s arm. She slipped out of his grasp effortlessly, but didn’t move away from him. The market had a rough hum, the typical rustle of alien species going about their business, as well as an undertone, quiet murmurings, quiet desperate pleas and savage shakes of the head as the resident species bent their heads to the merchants.
"Illness," she replied flatly. "Many of these people have been ill, many others have died."
"Plague," D’Argo agreed, grim as anything.
"Plague?" John responded, feeling the pitch of his voice rise, scraping his throat raw as the smoke.
"It’s been contained," Aeryn adds, with answering grimness. "And we need food."
John glanced over his shoulder, taking in more than the bustle of a market. Large opalescent eyes stared back at him, as wide and pleading as any set of human eyes he’ ever seen, despite being set in grey faces, framed by too-wide cheek bones, covered by hands with too many fingers, and sharp, pointed nails.
As he watched, one of the aliens stepped forward, its hand out, palm up.
"Please," it begged, "Please help us."
John could feel his own arm reach forward in response and his fingers stretched out, grazing against the long thin alien digits before D’Argo slapped his arm down. The grey skin had glistened and his fingers felt damp. He winced, then wiped his hand surreptitiously on the thigh of his black pants.
"Don’t touch them," D’Argo hissed.
"They’re asking for help," he barked back, looking up at the Luxan, wondering if he and D’Argo were willing to lay down over the pleas of a little grey man.
"We have nothing to give them," Aeryn said, her voice soft but sure.
"I’m sure we have something," he said, dismissing her.
Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to face him fully. Her mouth was set, fine and straight, reveling none of those flashes of humor or sardonic grace that he was coming to seek out from her.
"They need currency," she said, thumbing hooking into her belt loop, staring at him straight. "To pay for their dead."
"What?" He looked back at the huddles of grey bipeds, watched as they touched each other, tiny gestures of stroking comfort, obvious even to his alien eyes.
"They must pay for their dead to be released, to have them blessed and sent on," said D’Argo.
"Pay who? Pay for the dead?"
"Crichton." D’Argo’s exasperation was met by Aeryn’s quieter, "John," but the sentiment matched and he felt anger stick in his throat, meeting the thickness of the smoke.
"Their government, their doctors, what does it matter?" Aeryn countered. "Many of them don’t have currency, and so the bodies are burned to prevent the plague from returning."
"But they don’t go on, right, if they’re not blessed?" He was getting really sick of alien cultures, of their practices, of the way that they didn’t seem to be besting humans by much. His stomach rolled as a breeze caught at the smoke, and the smell hit home, flesh of some sort, charred bone, turning to ash.
D’Argo nodded. "No They don’t go one. We… Luxans… It is similar. There are rites that must be done for the dead."
John looked him in the eye. "So if you’re family couldn’t pay your death tax, they’d let you be burned without the rites."
D’Argo shook his head. "No," he answered. "There is always a way."
"Yeah," John says, biting the inside of his mouth, grateful for the taste of human blood, for something familiar. He fished in his pocket, finding the flat coin Rygel had given him before they left Moya. He walked forward, gingerly touching one of the aliens on its bony shoulder, deliberately not shuddering at the feel of the moist skin against his fingers.
"Here," he said, pressing the coin into it’s hand. It’s eyes widened, and the fingers closed around the coin, hand holding the gift to its mouth. John turned around, taking the few steps back to his shipmates. He could feel the set of his own mouth, the stubborn line.
"We need to eat as well," Aeryn said, but her anger was checked, resigned. She sent a quick look at D’Argo, who shrugged his massive shoulders and sighed, heavy and annoyed and resigned. Luxan sighs, John had learned, carried a variety of meanings, generally all leveled at him and his behavior.
"We have enough food cubes to get us to the next system?"
"Yes," Aeryn said through tight lips. "Just. Maybe."
D’Argo walked ahead, approaching a group of four grey aliens, who chittered nervously as he strode towards them, and then launched into stifled silence as he pressed the remains of the currency on them.
"Let’s go," Aeryn said, close to his ear. John brushed his knuckles over the back of her hand, and she didn’t race ahead, let him keep pace with her as they made there way back to the ship.
Trial is done. They found the defendent guilty, and I feel kind of sick, because while I firmly believe he did it, it's also kind of horrifying to know that this person is going to be in jail for the rest of his life. And that the other people involved in the case don't have particularly bright futures.
I went to the gym, I came home, watched "School of Rock", laughed my ass off, surprisingly, drank beer and then wrote. So, after 10 days of not writing. I feel pretty good. Oh, I guess that's not true, I drabbled last Sunday. Still, I do think this is the longest I've gone without writing in a very, very long time. I was a little worried that I'd lost the ability to do so, which is silly, and largely attached to my difficulty with the Remix challenge and my absence from fandom.
So yeah, back to a normal life come Monday. Anyone wanna tell me what I missed while I was gone?
Gonna say mid-late Season 1. Death and taxes. PG. Oh, and as usual, beta free. With apologies both to Monty Python, although maybe I'm the only one who keeps thinking "Bring out the dead."
Smoke and Bone
The air was thick, heavy with the smell of smoke and something else, something sharp and fetid. He coughed into his fist, eyes stinging. Aeryn walked ahead of him, hand light on her gun, posture wary and watching, her dark tail of hair swinging over bare shoulders. It was too warm for all of this smoke, which hung in the air, giving the already dusky landscape a monochrome tinge. The acrid scent of wood burning clogged his throat, and he cleared it, feeling the sting high in his sinuses.
"What the hell is that," he asked low and aside, catching Aeryn’s arm. She slipped out of his grasp effortlessly, but didn’t move away from him. The market had a rough hum, the typical rustle of alien species going about their business, as well as an undertone, quiet murmurings, quiet desperate pleas and savage shakes of the head as the resident species bent their heads to the merchants.
"Illness," she replied flatly. "Many of these people have been ill, many others have died."
"Plague," D’Argo agreed, grim as anything.
"Plague?" John responded, feeling the pitch of his voice rise, scraping his throat raw as the smoke.
"It’s been contained," Aeryn adds, with answering grimness. "And we need food."
John glanced over his shoulder, taking in more than the bustle of a market. Large opalescent eyes stared back at him, as wide and pleading as any set of human eyes he’ ever seen, despite being set in grey faces, framed by too-wide cheek bones, covered by hands with too many fingers, and sharp, pointed nails.
As he watched, one of the aliens stepped forward, its hand out, palm up.
"Please," it begged, "Please help us."
John could feel his own arm reach forward in response and his fingers stretched out, grazing against the long thin alien digits before D’Argo slapped his arm down. The grey skin had glistened and his fingers felt damp. He winced, then wiped his hand surreptitiously on the thigh of his black pants.
"Don’t touch them," D’Argo hissed.
"They’re asking for help," he barked back, looking up at the Luxan, wondering if he and D’Argo were willing to lay down over the pleas of a little grey man.
"We have nothing to give them," Aeryn said, her voice soft but sure.
"I’m sure we have something," he said, dismissing her.
Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to face him fully. Her mouth was set, fine and straight, reveling none of those flashes of humor or sardonic grace that he was coming to seek out from her.
"They need currency," she said, thumbing hooking into her belt loop, staring at him straight. "To pay for their dead."
"What?" He looked back at the huddles of grey bipeds, watched as they touched each other, tiny gestures of stroking comfort, obvious even to his alien eyes.
"They must pay for their dead to be released, to have them blessed and sent on," said D’Argo.
"Pay who? Pay for the dead?"
"Crichton." D’Argo’s exasperation was met by Aeryn’s quieter, "John," but the sentiment matched and he felt anger stick in his throat, meeting the thickness of the smoke.
"Their government, their doctors, what does it matter?" Aeryn countered. "Many of them don’t have currency, and so the bodies are burned to prevent the plague from returning."
"But they don’t go on, right, if they’re not blessed?" He was getting really sick of alien cultures, of their practices, of the way that they didn’t seem to be besting humans by much. His stomach rolled as a breeze caught at the smoke, and the smell hit home, flesh of some sort, charred bone, turning to ash.
D’Argo nodded. "No They don’t go one. We… Luxans… It is similar. There are rites that must be done for the dead."
John looked him in the eye. "So if you’re family couldn’t pay your death tax, they’d let you be burned without the rites."
D’Argo shook his head. "No," he answered. "There is always a way."
"Yeah," John says, biting the inside of his mouth, grateful for the taste of human blood, for something familiar. He fished in his pocket, finding the flat coin Rygel had given him before they left Moya. He walked forward, gingerly touching one of the aliens on its bony shoulder, deliberately not shuddering at the feel of the moist skin against his fingers.
"Here," he said, pressing the coin into it’s hand. It’s eyes widened, and the fingers closed around the coin, hand holding the gift to its mouth. John turned around, taking the few steps back to his shipmates. He could feel the set of his own mouth, the stubborn line.
"We need to eat as well," Aeryn said, but her anger was checked, resigned. She sent a quick look at D’Argo, who shrugged his massive shoulders and sighed, heavy and annoyed and resigned. Luxan sighs, John had learned, carried a variety of meanings, generally all leveled at him and his behavior.
"We have enough food cubes to get us to the next system?"
"Yes," Aeryn said through tight lips. "Just. Maybe."
D’Argo walked ahead, approaching a group of four grey aliens, who chittered nervously as he strode towards them, and then launched into stifled silence as he pressed the remains of the currency on them.
"Let’s go," Aeryn said, close to his ear. John brushed his knuckles over the back of her hand, and she didn’t race ahead, let him keep pace with her as they made there way back to the ship.
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no subject
Date: 2004-04-17 04:53 am (UTC)Very poignant drabble.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-17 06:00 am (UTC)It's an excellent scene, Thea.
I'm glad your jury duty is over. I've been summoned, but never made it beyond calling the number.
BTW, would you care to participate as Aeryn in a role-playing game? We're trying to persuade Sorlklewis over on my LJ, but she talks about things like school and papers...pfah!
no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 01:07 pm (UTC)I'm not sure I have time for the role playing game, although it sounds intriguing:) Two jobs and dance eat up a lot of time. Let me think about it though, if the offer is still open.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 04:10 pm (UTC)We only need Aeryn. The timeline is flexible.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-04-18 11:01 pm (UTC)'Cause, you know, I'd rather read YOUR Aeryn than have to create my own. *g* Scary!
no subject
Date: 2004-04-19 10:35 am (UTC)I think, unfortunately, that I don't have time right now, although it sounds like a lot of fun, so please go ahead and have a great time.
no subject
Date: 2004-04-19 10:36 am (UTC)Thanks so much for asking though, honey!!