cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Radek (Radek Zelenka))
That's sad, isn't it? Probably, heh. *shifty eyes* But yes, wrote more on "Minefields." It's just way too easy to screw with McKay.

"Our Conversations Are Like Minefields"
Current Word Count: 5,600
Status: ...Not even close to being halfway done. And I already have plans for a sequel. *glares at [ profile] firebubbles310*
There’s no need to hunt out more ghosts to haunt his already troubled dreams. )

"The Slow and Subtle Art of Drowning"
Current Word Count: 10,700
Status: ...Maybe two-thirds done? Hopefully? *shifty eyes* ...Okay, more like half-way done. *weeps*
Weren’t figments of your imagination supposed to try and convince you that they *were* real? )

Other Fics I Need to Work On

-Sequel to "Friends in Low Places" (one year later) for the Timestamp Meme
-Continuation of "The Rejects of McMurdo" (one week later) for the Timestamp Meme
cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Default)
I finally figured out the opening to "Our Conversations are Like Minefields" -- which is the "Absolute Power" universe. ...Poor McKay and brain-damaged Zelenka. I'm way too mean to them.

Someone else breaks out some plastic cups and they all drink a toast to science, to the salvation of the world, to Daniel fucking Jackson. )
cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Radek (Radek Zelenka))
So, I owe [ profile] lilyayl a song to tie to Atlantis, so here it is. *grins*

Indigo Girls - I Believe In Love
But you could not interpret me and I could not interpret you )

And then I'm still feeling crummy so I decided to work on my brain-damaged/disturbed!Zelenka fic. Course, said-fic is horribly depressing, but it cheered me up to write it. Go figure. ;)


“What the hell is this?” Rodney asks, staring down at the piece of paper in bewilderment. There are numbers on the paper, yes, but jumbled together, some forming a chain and twisting around into circles, others forming goddamn triangles rather than neat, straight lines of numbers that make sense. He stares at it for another moment, willing something to leap out at him, but the jumble of numbers remain chaotic, with no discernable pattern that he can see at first glance. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

When he looks up, Jackson appears almost amused. Or at least Rodney hopes that gleam in his eyes is amusement rather than irritation. “You’ll figure it out,” is all Jackson says, leaning back in his chair and raising an eyebrow. There is an implied ‘Or else I will definitely be irritated’ in there somewhere, hidden beneath the slight smirk and casual tone, and Rodney resists the urge to touch the back of his neck where the implant is.

He forces a cocky smile onto his face and if his fingers twitch a little, Jackson doesn’t seem to notice. “Of course I will. Just give me a moment.” He studies the paper almost desperately now, searching for a pattern, any type of pattern at all, since Jackson seems to think there is one-- wait. He squints. “Okay, I see what he’s done, but it makes no sense at all. He’s been writing pi but every two or three digits he’ll throw in a prime number. Apparently at random, though I might be able to figure out a pattern given some more time.” He waves the paper at Jackson. “In either case, this guy is obviously insane.”

“Yes, he is,” Jackson says matter-of-factly, and half-smiles at Rodney’s expression, though the smile never reaches his eyes. “I take it he’s worthless then?”

“Worthless?” Rodney repeats hollowly, stomach twisting. He knows all too well that being worthless will mean a death sentence for this man who’s obviously insane and apparently obsessed with pi. He looks down at the paper, taking in the scribbles that almost radiate desperation. “Well, maybe not entirely worthless. He’s obviously got some math skills. If I could meet him….”

Jackson taps his headset. “Edwards, bring Zelenka in.”

Zelenka? Rodney frowns, because that name sounds familiar. Where has he heard it before? He is still racking his brain when the door opens and Edwards comes in, dragging a scrawny, twitchy form behind him. The man blinks owlishly at them from behind his glasses, mouth twisting downwards into a bemused frown, as though he’s very much confused as to why he’s here. Then his gaze falls upon the paper in Rodney’s hand, and his expression shifts to one of anger. “That’s mine! My map, my-- my--”

And the epiphany hits Rodney like a slap to the face; his stomach somersaults and his breath catches in his throat. There is a sour taste on his tongue as he says, “Radek Zelenka? But he-- you died in Moscow.” Died in Moscow when Jackson had annihilated the city. He closes his eyes and can still see the flames behind his eyelids.

“Apparently he didn’t,” Jackson says, sounding almost gleeful. “Unfortunately, he seems to be irreparably damaged. Pity, really. I think Sam told me once he was one of the most intelligent men she’s ever met.”

Rodney opens his eyes at that, just in time to watch Zelenka half-shuffle, half-lunge at him, an expression of desperate relief lightening the other man’s features when he manages to snatch the paper from Rodney’s grasp.

Not even flinching when Edwards grabs his arm and forcibly drags him away from Rodney, Zelenka all but cradles the paper to his chest. It’s as though the paper is his long-lost child, a prodigal son come home at last. He even smoothes out the wrinkles incurred during the snatch, the gesture slow and careful, like a lover’s caress, and almost, almost smiles. Some of the tension eases from his face, at the very least, and he doesn’t look quite so haggard. After a moment, he looks up at Rodney and frowns, a furrow appearing between his eyes. “Do I know you?”

There is a lump in Rodney’s throat, and so it takes a moment for him to answer the curious, guileless question, feeling both Jackson and Zelenka’s gazes upon him. “We’ve, ah, met.”

“Oh.” Zelenka blinks, processing that, and then tilts his head and says, “I don’t remember your name.” He sounds apologetic, and Rodney has the sudden urge to laugh, because-- because--

He thinks of Moscow in flames, of staring in stunned horror at the screen, of hearing one of his fellow scientists whimper, “Oh God, oh God, all those poor people! Oh God, Svetlana Markova, she was-- and Radek Zelenka and-- oh God!” and remembers thinking ‘Oh right, the Czech. He was-- he was rather-- if he’d lived--’

“McKay. Rodney McKay,” he says, the name scraping its way out his throat, and Zelenka smiles almost sweetly back and says, “I’m Radek.”
cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Mercy on Your Soul (Rodney McKay))
To Carter at the moment. Seriously, in this "Minefields" story? Everyone is gonna be damaged. This 500-word excerpt contains spoilers for SG-1's "Absolute Power." Also, the implant mentioned is an implant that Jackson puts in the back of people's necks, which cause intense pain.


Rodney doesn’t know why Jackson has him visit Samantha Carter, but Jackson insists on it, makes him visit her in her prison cell at least once a week, even though within ten minutes of the very first encounter Rodney knows that nothing is going to be accomplished. She will never tell him anything useful, and he isn’t sure he wants her to, because that means Jackson will have broken her.

But he knows she will never break, just as she never speaks to him. Even after all this time, Rodney cannot name the emotion on her face or the glint in her eyes. Maybe she’s plotting how to get through the bars and snap his neck before a guard can intervene. Maybe she’s not paying any attention to him at all and is lost in her own little world.

Silence has always bothered Rodney -- there is just something so unnatural about it -- and in this prison, with dull, gray walls and stone-faced guards, the silence unnerves him. Of course, there is an easy solution to the problem of silence: to speak.

And so, with Carter’s eyes both focused and unfocused upon him, he talks, leaping from one subject to the next. He talks about going over SG-1 mission reports, about his cat and how Eliot loves tuna but hates turkey, about how he wanted to be a pianist for the longest time, even about what he ate for breakfast that morning. He never talks about Jackson, or the death tally of Moscow, or the fact that Colonel O’Neill is missing and presumed dead after his attempt to stop Jackson.

It’s about three months after his initial visit that Carter’s expression finally changes, contorting into a look of pain that is almost grotesque in its intensity. Rodney watches in horror as she falls to the ground, agonized sounds escaping her lips that sound more animal than human. His alarmed calls to the guard go unanswered, and he can only watch helplessly as she twitches and whimpers on the floor, one of her hands clawing at the back of her neck as though she could rip out the implant.

After what seems like forever, she finally goes still, and only her panting fills the air. Finally, she lifts her face towards him, sweat and tears mingling on her face. A dark little smile curves her lips, and she speaks for the first and only time, voice hoarse from her earlier cries and so bitter that Rodney can taste the sourness in his mouth. “Implants are hell.”
cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Never Forget You (Radek/Rodney))
...I wrote this. It's 1,000 words, and part of "Our Conversations Are Like Minefields," a fic I'm writing for/because of [ profile] blue_raven and her showing me those clips from Cold Squad, though this scene was inspired by a picture [ profile] rosewildeirish posted, involving pi and a tattoo.

...Course, this fic is horribly depressing. It's set in the SG-1 "Absolute Power" universe, where Daniel Jackson's taken over the world. Yeah. Don't say I didn't warn you.


Rodney opens the door to Radek’s room and steps into a white-washed war zone. There is paper everywhere, covering every surface and layering the floor; some pieces crinkle under his feet as his pace falters. He glances around, brow furrowing. “Radek?”

The rest is behind the cut )


cinaed: I improve on misquotation (Default)

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