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sga_flashficTitle: The Third Deadly Sin
Author: Quasar
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: non-specific McShep postslash
Spoilers: uh, Michael?
Warning: violence, character death
Length: ~1500 words
Summary: Gluttony.
They were so glad to get him back apparently unharmed that they
didn't listen when he insisted she had done something to him. There
were no bloody handprints on him and he was the same age as when he
was captured, and that was good enough for them. Oh, Carson checked
him over and drew some blood, but he doubted the tests were given any
urgency.
Within six hours of being released, he was led back to the infirmary
where he curled on a bed, groaning and clutching his stomach.
"He ate too much," Ronon said, which was patently unfair.
"But I'm so hungry. I'm still hungry!" Rodney protested, even as he
grabbed for the basin again.
Carson gave him a shot for nausea and a bag of saline solution to
bring his electrolytes back to normal, then sent him off to his room
with some cream for his itching palms.
John came for him a few hours later and found Rodney crouched in
the dry shower with his hands fisted around that horrible, tearing
itch.
"Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me," he chanted. "It's
not safe, I'm not safe, stay away."
John knelt in front of him. He wasn't even holding any weapons.
"Shh, Rodney, it'll be all right."
Rodney choked on a sob. "No it won't!"
"Beckett can fix this. We're just going to need to put you in
isolation for a few days . . ."
"Isolation's not good enough. You have to lock me up, tie me down --
I'm not safe. I'm so hungry, John!"
"Shh, I know."
"Oh god, you smell so good. You always smelled good, you know I love
the way you smell, but this is different. Now you smell like, like --"
"It's okay, Rodney. You know Beckett has fixed worse than this. What
about that bug thing I turned into, huh? You'll see, it'll be okay.
Now I need you to get up and come with me. Can you do that?"
Rodney's hands reached without volition. He couldn't help it; John
was so warm and delectable. "Stay back!" he wailed. "Don't touch
me!"
They kept him in an isolation room off the infirmary until he tore the
restraints from the bed; then they stunned him and he woke up in a cell.
It was bad being by himself, pacing the empty space back and forth.
It was worse when someone visited. He couldn't focus on what they
were saying, only on the enticing aroma that filled the air as soon as
anyone entered. And John was the worst: his presence pulled Rodney to
the bars to stare ravenously and taste the air, and he lost the use of
words completely.
His hearing was excellent, though. After one visit he heard John
talking with Carson outside the door.
"This isn't working. He's getting worse."
"I know that, son. I'm sorry, I just can't get a handle on exactly
what they did to him."
"They made him one of them!"
"But it was more than just a genetic change, somehow. I don't think a
retrovirus can fix this."
"It's been ten days. He's getting weaker. Sooner or later we're
going to have bring him something to, to --"
"Nooo," Rodney whispered to himself. "Never."
But the hunger was terrible. He thought he had known hunger before,
but this was different. With hypoglycemia his cells might each be
starving, but they expressed it indirectly through trembling muscles
and pounding headaches and a brain that just stopped thinking. Now
every part of his body seemed to know and broadcast exactly what it
needed, all aligning together into an overarching craving that colored
every perception. His left elbow was famished; his pinky toe was
screaming for sustenance. His body was an insatiable hole of need.
They brought an animal from the mainland, some kind of goat-thing,
tied and kicking with its eyes rolling whitely. It smelled rank and
putrid, but he tried anyway. He put his hand on the creature's ribs
and felt the little mouth on his palm tearing at the coarse fur and
bitter skin. It was so awful he felt every cell of his body recoil,
just as they had all cried in unison for food minutes before. He fell
convulsing into darkness, and when he woke the creature was gone.
At night he counted over the possibilities to himself, murmuring into
the dark: maybe Kolya. He might be able to bear ending Kolya's life.
Or a former Wraith. Yes, they could capture a Wraith and give it
Carson's retrovirus and bring it to him. That would be a sort of
poetic irony, wouldn't it? And oh, such a life, with a long and
complex history, would surely be delicious . . .
He wouldn't hurt a human. Not one of his fellow expedition members,
not even Kavanagh. He really wouldn't hurt them, even if he couldn't
help stretching his hands eagerly through the bars every time someone
approached.
It grew harder to stand or move, or even to think about anything
complex. Mostly he lay in one place and thought about food. A black
Angus burger with bleu cheese, and mashed potatoes topped with
cheddar. A dish of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie sprinkled
with crushed macadamia nuts. A buxom young woman, tall with short
blonde hair, maybe pregnant -- yesss, with twins inside her almost
come to term, that would be the perfect spice. He wept a little, but
his tear ducts didn't work anymore.
He overheard Carson talking to Radek about the possibility of using
one of the stasis chambers. He knew vaguely that it wouldn't work,
but he couldn't remember why until he heard Radek explain that those
were designed to work with human physiology. Yes, of course, that was
it.
But Wraith could go into hibernation on their own. It was easier if a
Queen commanded it, but that creature on the crashed transport ship
had managed alone. Perhaps Rodney could too.
There was nothing he could use to make a proper cocoon, but he wedged
himself under the cot wrapped in blankets and thought about sleep,
about meditation, about dormancy. Gradually the world retreated and
the hunger became something distant and bearable. His dreams were
strange and languid: images of feeding, drinking, sex and laughter,
all forms of affection and appreciation that caused no pain to anyone.
He woke because there was food nearby. In an instant he fell from a
dream of a smiling John cutting fresh mango slices, holding them to
his lips, laughing as he followed the trail of juice down that sweet
slender wrist, into a world of black, voracious need. He couldn't see
or hear anything; he knew only scent and touch and then the glorious,
heavenly taste that flowed into his palm. He put out his other hand
to share in the heart-wrenching beauty of it, even though that meant
the meal was over too soon.
Then he could see again, and breathe again. He saw the uniform on the
crumpled, desiccated thing at his feet, and the shock of white hair.
He saw the black band around the wrinkled wrist. He checked the dog
tags to be sure. And then he bent the bars of the cell far enough to
slip through.
He didn't know what had happened, but it hardly mattered. Strangers
were here and had taken over the city. They sent bullets at him and
energy blasts, but with each life he took he became more resistant,
healed faster. And he had always been smarter than any of those puny
idiots.
He arrived at the control room leaving a long line of wrinkled bodies
in his wake. He told the two expedition members there -- both
carriers of the ATA gene, with a heady scent like bacon -- to lock
themselves in the conference room. He sat at the consoles and
repaired the damage to the Atlantis systems, disarmed the booby-traps.
Then he went back to the cells.
They were crammed together with too little room to sit. One was
trying to use an improvised tool to reach the controls, but it wasn't
going to work. The godlike creature that had once been Rodney made
the bars open for them, but no one came out. They cowered away from
him.
He said, "Ronon."
The big man came forward, disgust plain on his face.
Ronon pulled his shirt open. His scent was musky-savory, full of the
promise of nourishment. Licking his lips, once-Rodney placed his palm
over the scar that marked where others had died before him. And fed.
Author: Quasar
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: non-specific McShep postslash
Spoilers: uh, Michael?
Warning: violence, character death
Length: ~1500 words
Summary: Gluttony.
They were so glad to get him back apparently unharmed that they
didn't listen when he insisted she had done something to him. There
were no bloody handprints on him and he was the same age as when he
was captured, and that was good enough for them. Oh, Carson checked
him over and drew some blood, but he doubted the tests were given any
urgency.
Within six hours of being released, he was led back to the infirmary
where he curled on a bed, groaning and clutching his stomach.
"He ate too much," Ronon said, which was patently unfair.
"But I'm so hungry. I'm still hungry!" Rodney protested, even as he
grabbed for the basin again.
Carson gave him a shot for nausea and a bag of saline solution to
bring his electrolytes back to normal, then sent him off to his room
with some cream for his itching palms.
John came for him a few hours later and found Rodney crouched in
the dry shower with his hands fisted around that horrible, tearing
itch.
"Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me," he chanted. "It's
not safe, I'm not safe, stay away."
John knelt in front of him. He wasn't even holding any weapons.
"Shh, Rodney, it'll be all right."
Rodney choked on a sob. "No it won't!"
"Beckett can fix this. We're just going to need to put you in
isolation for a few days . . ."
"Isolation's not good enough. You have to lock me up, tie me down --
I'm not safe. I'm so hungry, John!"
"Shh, I know."
"Oh god, you smell so good. You always smelled good, you know I love
the way you smell, but this is different. Now you smell like, like --"
"It's okay, Rodney. You know Beckett has fixed worse than this. What
about that bug thing I turned into, huh? You'll see, it'll be okay.
Now I need you to get up and come with me. Can you do that?"
Rodney's hands reached without volition. He couldn't help it; John
was so warm and delectable. "Stay back!" he wailed. "Don't touch
me!"
They kept him in an isolation room off the infirmary until he tore the
restraints from the bed; then they stunned him and he woke up in a cell.
It was bad being by himself, pacing the empty space back and forth.
It was worse when someone visited. He couldn't focus on what they
were saying, only on the enticing aroma that filled the air as soon as
anyone entered. And John was the worst: his presence pulled Rodney to
the bars to stare ravenously and taste the air, and he lost the use of
words completely.
His hearing was excellent, though. After one visit he heard John
talking with Carson outside the door.
"This isn't working. He's getting worse."
"I know that, son. I'm sorry, I just can't get a handle on exactly
what they did to him."
"They made him one of them!"
"But it was more than just a genetic change, somehow. I don't think a
retrovirus can fix this."
"It's been ten days. He's getting weaker. Sooner or later we're
going to have bring him something to, to --"
"Nooo," Rodney whispered to himself. "Never."
But the hunger was terrible. He thought he had known hunger before,
but this was different. With hypoglycemia his cells might each be
starving, but they expressed it indirectly through trembling muscles
and pounding headaches and a brain that just stopped thinking. Now
every part of his body seemed to know and broadcast exactly what it
needed, all aligning together into an overarching craving that colored
every perception. His left elbow was famished; his pinky toe was
screaming for sustenance. His body was an insatiable hole of need.
They brought an animal from the mainland, some kind of goat-thing,
tied and kicking with its eyes rolling whitely. It smelled rank and
putrid, but he tried anyway. He put his hand on the creature's ribs
and felt the little mouth on his palm tearing at the coarse fur and
bitter skin. It was so awful he felt every cell of his body recoil,
just as they had all cried in unison for food minutes before. He fell
convulsing into darkness, and when he woke the creature was gone.
At night he counted over the possibilities to himself, murmuring into
the dark: maybe Kolya. He might be able to bear ending Kolya's life.
Or a former Wraith. Yes, they could capture a Wraith and give it
Carson's retrovirus and bring it to him. That would be a sort of
poetic irony, wouldn't it? And oh, such a life, with a long and
complex history, would surely be delicious . . .
He wouldn't hurt a human. Not one of his fellow expedition members,
not even Kavanagh. He really wouldn't hurt them, even if he couldn't
help stretching his hands eagerly through the bars every time someone
approached.
It grew harder to stand or move, or even to think about anything
complex. Mostly he lay in one place and thought about food. A black
Angus burger with bleu cheese, and mashed potatoes topped with
cheddar. A dish of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie sprinkled
with crushed macadamia nuts. A buxom young woman, tall with short
blonde hair, maybe pregnant -- yesss, with twins inside her almost
come to term, that would be the perfect spice. He wept a little, but
his tear ducts didn't work anymore.
He overheard Carson talking to Radek about the possibility of using
one of the stasis chambers. He knew vaguely that it wouldn't work,
but he couldn't remember why until he heard Radek explain that those
were designed to work with human physiology. Yes, of course, that was
it.
But Wraith could go into hibernation on their own. It was easier if a
Queen commanded it, but that creature on the crashed transport ship
had managed alone. Perhaps Rodney could too.
There was nothing he could use to make a proper cocoon, but he wedged
himself under the cot wrapped in blankets and thought about sleep,
about meditation, about dormancy. Gradually the world retreated and
the hunger became something distant and bearable. His dreams were
strange and languid: images of feeding, drinking, sex and laughter,
all forms of affection and appreciation that caused no pain to anyone.
He woke because there was food nearby. In an instant he fell from a
dream of a smiling John cutting fresh mango slices, holding them to
his lips, laughing as he followed the trail of juice down that sweet
slender wrist, into a world of black, voracious need. He couldn't see
or hear anything; he knew only scent and touch and then the glorious,
heavenly taste that flowed into his palm. He put out his other hand
to share in the heart-wrenching beauty of it, even though that meant
the meal was over too soon.
Then he could see again, and breathe again. He saw the uniform on the
crumpled, desiccated thing at his feet, and the shock of white hair.
He saw the black band around the wrinkled wrist. He checked the dog
tags to be sure. And then he bent the bars of the cell far enough to
slip through.
He didn't know what had happened, but it hardly mattered. Strangers
were here and had taken over the city. They sent bullets at him and
energy blasts, but with each life he took he became more resistant,
healed faster. And he had always been smarter than any of those puny
idiots.
He arrived at the control room leaving a long line of wrinkled bodies
in his wake. He told the two expedition members there -- both
carriers of the ATA gene, with a heady scent like bacon -- to lock
themselves in the conference room. He sat at the consoles and
repaired the damage to the Atlantis systems, disarmed the booby-traps.
Then he went back to the cells.
They were crammed together with too little room to sit. One was
trying to use an improvised tool to reach the controls, but it wasn't
going to work. The godlike creature that had once been Rodney made
the bars open for them, but no one came out. They cowered away from
him.
He said, "Ronon."
The big man came forward, disgust plain on his face.
Ronon pulled his shirt open. His scent was musky-savory, full of the
promise of nourishment. Licking his lips, once-Rodney placed his palm
over the scar that marked where others had died before him. And fed.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 09:16 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 03:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 06:07 pm (UTC)However,
Mostly he lay in one place and thought about food. A black
Angus burger with bleu cheese, and mashed potatoes topped with
cheddar. A dish of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie sprinkled
with crushed macadamia nuts. A buxom young woman, tall with short
blonde hair, maybe pregnant -- yesss, with twins inside her almost
come to term, that would be the perfect spice.
I'm a bad person because this made me give a bark of laughter, right?
(don't worry, after that I got totally weirded out.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-31 08:46 pm (UTC)I was thinking that the Wraith would actually be more likely to try something like this on Carson as revenge, but for the story it had to be Rodney because of his relationship with food.
I'm a bad person because this made me give a bark of laughter, right?
You're asking the one who wrote it?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-01 01:23 am (UTC)And even thinking about food, Rodney wants blondes! But the creepy part was he wants blondes with twins. *shudder*
That's an absolute nightmare, if it happened to any one of them. And if they fed on a loved one like that. Again, *meep*.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-01 01:41 am (UTC)And if I were Michael? I'd be looking for some genetically-savvy Wraith allies to help me figure out how to do this -- preferably to Carson, but any member of the expedition would do. Eugh. I guess it's a good thing all around that I'm NOT Michael.
drive By Archivist--
Date: 2006-08-02 02:11 am (UTC)Anyway, thanks for this!
Re: drive By Archivist--
Date: 2006-08-02 03:56 am (UTC)