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cinaedThat'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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
firebubbles310*
It turns out that there are apparently perks to becoming the scientific advisor to Jackson. Well, as long as you temporarily forget about the whole implant in your neck issue, not to mention the fact that you’re working for a psychotic bastard who’s killed millions without blinking an eye and who will probably kill still more millions during his reign.
Rodney receives -- as the first of the ‘perks’ -- a mansion a few blocks down from Jackson’s. It has about thirty more rooms than he needs, and twenty more guards than he wants. The curiosity gnaws at him for a while, but he doesn’t ask what happened to the original owner of the mansion, just figures that it’s probably best if he doesn’t know. Besides, there’s no need to hunt out more ghosts to haunt his already troubled dreams. There is still furniture in the mansion, bric-a-brac filling each room: numerous beautiful mahogany bookshelves, portraits that practically scream they’re expensive and famous, a couch that looks like it could easily fit a dozen people for some sort of orgy, and an enormous bed with silk sheets, just to name a few.
Rodney throws it all out, gives some of it to thrift shops -- well, all except for the bookshelves, which he keeps and which are soon cluttered with all the books and magazines from his old apartment -- and tries to fill up the now mostly-empty mansion with various knick-knacks, things that he finds in the nearby stores when businesses start opening their doors again (per Jackson’s world-wide order), things that haven’t been tainted by the presence of loss and guilt.
He buys himself the largest flat-screen he can find, and leaves it on at all hours, to stave off the silence which eats away at his stomach and forms a lump of grief and rage in his throat that never seems to go away. He keeps the television on one of those stations that constantly plays music, though sometimes he switches over to the science channel -- he never, ever watches the news.
At least Eliot seems to like the mansion, disappearing for hours on end to investigate every nook and cranny, always coming back looking satisfied with his latest adventure. Rodney spoils him rotten, filling three entire rooms with those stupid cat furniture things, the ones with the ladders and “cradle lounges” for Eliot to enjoy, buys him the most expensive cat food, deposits a good dozen scratching posts throughout the mansion, plants catnip all over the fifty acres Rodney now apparently owns, and puts a litter box in every one of the seven bathrooms.
During the first month, as Jackson reorganizes the world to suit his own whims, Rodney finds that he has more tuna in his refrigerator than he knows what to do with, more tuna than even Eliot wants, and so many of his own late-night snacks consist of tuna sandwiches. He even tries offering a snack once or twice to the guards that move silently through the halls, but after the first tries earn him flat, uncomprehending stares, he gives up.
After a while, the tuna tastes thick and pasty on his tongue, and he tosses half of it out. He has plenty of money to burn, after all. A blank check, if you will, paid for by the blood and sweat and dying breaths of twenty million souls.
He wonders if he killed himself somewhere remote, then perhaps Jackson wouldn’t be able to find his body to toss into the sarcophagus and revive. After a few nights of serious thought, Rodney realizes that the implant is almost definitely a tracking device as well and that Jackson would find him anywhere he went to die.
Still, when he wakes up in the morning to the sound of helicopters flying overheard and the quiet footfalls of the guards wandering by his bedroom, he can’t help but wistfully entertain the thought of finding somewhere quiet, remote, Siberia, maybe, where he could wash down four dozen pills with some vodka and disappear. Then he always sighs, drags his weary frame out of bed, and wanders out to the kitchen to get himself and Eliot some breakfast.
"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*
The words and numbers on the screen blurred together yet again, and Radek set down the tablet, cursing under his breath at the tiny keypad and attempting to convince his fingers to stop cramping. He didn’t want to rest, but he needed to rest his eyes for a moment, just long enough for his vision to clear. He turned towards the panel on the other side of the compartment and squinted up at the crystals, sighing in frustration. “I need a new set of eyes.”
“Let me take a look,” a warm, familiar voice suggested behind him, and Radek froze.
Swallowing hard, he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, because he couldn’t possibly have— “Did I just, ah—”
“Yes, you did,” the voice said, in the same gentle tone that always made Radek bristle on pure instinct.
Slowly, he turned around. There was Rod, all smiling blue eyes and trademark leather jacket and slightly lopsided grin. He was casually leaning against the bulkhead doors, and as Radek stared, the other man looked back, the lopsided grin gaining strength.
“Rod.”
Rod’s expression was almost soft at the quietly exhaled name, his eyes bright and earnest. “Don’t worry, Radek. We're gonna get you out of here.”
Radek stared in a mixture of disbelief and astonishment, and finally gathered enough strength to move closer to Rod, even though his legs felt as wobbly as jelly. His heart was fluttering wildly in his throat, and it took him a moment to breathe out a hoarse, “How did you—? How—how are you—?”
Rod’s mouth quirked into a gently amused grin. “It’s good to see you too, Radek.”
For a moment, Radek just continued to stare, drinking in that amused expression and relaxed slouch, and then he shook his head, once, sharply, and turned away as common sense pointed out that this couldn’t possibly be happening. “Wonderful. I have lost it. I have completely lost it. By the time anyone comes for me, I will be mad—”
“You haven’t lost it, Radek,” Rod said, sounding almost amused.
Radek ignored him, putting the tablet down and pointing at Rod without looking at him. He closed his eyes, fought back the rising hysteria, and muttered, “You are not real. You are not real. You are not real.” He put his hands over his eyes, took in a shallow breath.
Rod made a soft sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Of course I’m not real.”
Radek looked at him at that, blinking at the man’s entertained smile. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m in Atlantis, trying to figure out how to rescue you,” Rod said patiently. “Of course I’m not actually here.” Pushing away from the bulkhead doors, he sauntered over to the bench across from Radek and sat down.
“I see,” Radek said slowly. Weren’t figments of your imagination supposed to try and convince you that they were real? He narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you doing here?”
Rod offered up one of those damnably casual, almost elegant one-shouldered shrugs of his. “You’re hallucinating.”
Radek crossed his arms against his chest, his lips curving in a bitter little smile. “Hallucinating? Why would I—”
The other man’s smile finally dimmed at that, and he grimaced a little before he silently pointed at his own forehead.
“Ah, yes, that would do it,” Radek mumbled, carefully touching the plaster over his wound and making a face as flecks of dried blood clung to his fingers. He brushed the flecks onto his pants. “Is it that bad?”
Another one-shouldered shrug, and then Rod said, “The way I see it, you’re scared. You’re a little panicked, you’re a lot lonely. You knew you could use some help, so your subconscious is manifesting—” He paused, mouth quirking into a smile of totally fake modesty. “—well, me.”
Radek snorted at that, felt his lips curl into a contemptuous sneer. “Oh, I don’t think so, McKay! If my subconscious was going to manifest someone, it would certainly not be you.” He rose to his feet, still sneering.
Rod’s eyebrows rose at that, and he looked torn between amusement and exasperation. “Well, apparently it is me, Radek. C’mon, you know I can help—”
“Of course I know you can help!” Radek snapped, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes. “You are Mister Fix-it, after all. You are always, always right, forever saving the day, always so perfect—”
“Radek,” Rod interrupted, getting to his feet as well. “I know you harbor some sort of, of grudge against me, but really, I’m here to help you, so if we could just get along—”
“You’ve been visiting Heightmeyer too often,” Radek remarked with a touch of bitterness. “Next, you will be telling that I need to set my ‘petty insecurities’ aside.”
Rod sighed, in the way he always did when he thought Radek was being unreasonable. “Look, why else would I be here?”
Radek glowered. “I don’t know!”
Another sigh, and then he said in the same gentle, condescending voice as before, “You’re essentially arguing with yourself. You realize that, right? Your mind is creating me.”
Was it a bad sign that Radek dearly wished to hit the hallucination? Then again— He paused and frowned, even as the voice in his head that had wailed Falling, falling began murmuring once more. If he was hallucinating Rod, then what else—
“What?”
Radek backed away slowly, staring at the concerned look on the hallucination’s face, his chest tight and a deep, fierce ache twisting his stomach. “What else am I hallucinating?” he said slowly.
Rod’s concerned look deepened into a frown. “What do you mean?”
“If you're not real, what is?” His voice was rising without his consent, turning breathy and panicked as he waved a hand at the tablet, the open panels, Rod himself. “I mean, how—how—how do I tell the difference? How do I know that any of these readings I’ve been taking are correct?”
“You’re not that far gone,” Rod said with a shake of his head, and Radek laughed, the sound harsh and hoarse and just a shade hysterical.
“And I am supposed to believe you? A manifestation of my subconscious? I am not stupid. I cannot trust any of the readings. I mean, I mean I might not have actually dialed-up the scrubbers. That could be why I’m hallucinating. I need to—I need—”
“Radek!” Rod was suddenly in his face, expression dark with an intensity he reserved for the eleventh hour when lives were at stake. “Radek, listen to me. You really are in the back of a sinking Jumper. Your readings are correct. You knew you could use some help, and you’ve got a pretty bad concussion, so—” He trailed off, raised his hands in an indecipherable gesture.
“So—here you are,” Radek said. The words came out flat, weary, and Rod smiled gently.
“Here I am.”
Radek swallowed hard, and tried not to think too much into the fact that he did feel a bit relieved that Rod, even a hallucination version of the man, was inside the Jumper with him. He cleared his throat. “I suppose that’s comforting. A little. If I don’t think about the, the ramifications towards my mental health.”
Rod met his gaze squarely for a moment, expression open and honest, well, as open as Rod’s face ever got, and then he looked away. “Why don't you show me what you’ve done so far?”
“Oh, right.” Picking up the tablet, he took a deep breath and then a few steps over to Rod, gesturing for the other man to sit with him on the bench. Hallucination or not, perhaps Rod would be some help in getting the Jumper to surface. Radek explained his plan quickly, tripping over his words both in his haste and because a headache was blossoming between his eyes that had him pausing to rub at the spot every few seconds.
Rod’s expression was unreadable as Radek finished with, “Now—given I have a limited amount of time to execute my plan before power levels drop too low, but provided that ah, the, the coding is, ah, correct, we surface and at that point they should be able to pick up our regular radio signal and then come pick us—me up.” He frowned and rubbed at his forehead once more, being careful not to touch the plaster.
There was silence for a long moment, during which Radek took the opportunity to take off his glasses and pinch at the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure. Then Rod cleared his throat. “How much power would that kill?”
Radek blinked at him. “Ah, I have no idea. Most of it?”
Rod’s neutral expression shifted at that and he frowned, shaking his head. It was the same slow, negative shake he used whenever he had bad news about the latest Ancient tech they were fiddling with, how it was actually useless or unsalvageable, the same slight frown he used when he was trying to figure out how to broach the topic. “It’s a bad idea, then,” he said at last.
Radek slid the glasses back on and scowled. Rod was usually not a naysayer. Of course, this was hallucination-Rod. It would be just his luck that he would have to deal with a pessimistic version of the other scientist. “Excuse me? Why is it a bad idea?”
“Well, what if it doesn’t work?”
“Well,” Radek began to snap, and then paused. He hadn’t actually considered the implications of using up most of the power. “Well, then—then I’m dead.”
Rod nodded. “Exactly. Bad plan.” He got to his feet, rolled his shoulders as though they were stiff from huddling over the tablet, which couldn’t be possible, seeing as he was a hallucination who couldn’t feel a damn thing, and Radek felt irritation surge.
“Oh, you’re right,” he snapped, getting to his feet as well and flavoring each syllable with sarcasm. “I should proceed with one of the other hundreds of possible options available to me.”
Rod sighed and shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying that I have a better idea—”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Nothing?”
“Yes.”
Radek tried to laugh at that, but it came out as more of a harsh, barking sound instead. “Oh, brilliant! How helpful, McKay.”
Rod folded his arms against his chest, expression earnest, almost imploring. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Look, just stay warm, stay breathing, and stay alive as long as you can—give them the biggest window of opportunity possible.”
“Window of opportunity for what?”
“For rescuing you,” Rod said simply. The unsaid ‘Obviously’ hovered in the air.
Radek folded his arms against his chest, shaking his head and fighting back another barking laugh. “Even if they could find me—which, given underwater currents and multiple possible entry sites is next to impossible—how are they going to get me out of here?”
“They’ll find a way.”
“First, I highly doubt that anyone will be able to even find me before the power levels are depleted and I run out of oxygen. Second, even if they do, how will they get me from one Jumper to the other? This seems my day to die. Not even you could save me.”
“Look,” Rod said in the same gentle, condescending tone he’d used when he tried to bribe Radek to let him and Sheppard do the test flight. “Radek, I hear what you're saying and I'm telling you—you’re wrong. You have some very smart, very motivated people on the surface, and the only thing any of them are working on right now is rescuing you.”
Radek snorted at that. “Oh, please, McKay! They are planning my memorial service.” He glanced down at the tablet, realized he was clutching at it so tightly that his knuckles were white, and barked out another laugh. “I’m certain you’ll think up a lovely eulogy. You did so well for Peter and Brendan—” He stopped at the dark flicker in Rod’s eyes, realizing he’d gone too far, even if this was simply a hallucination standing before him.
For a moment, Rod’s jaw tensed, as though working against words that wanted to escape, and then he shook his head, expression smoothing into the familiar mask, and said in a low, sincere voice, “If your plan fails—and it probably will—you could jeopardize their plans, Radek. Just—think about that. Be sensible.”
Radek loosened his death-grip on the tablet, relieving his aching knuckles, and scowled. Sensible? Because having a different opinion than Rod McKay meant you were being foolish, of course. Did the man honestly not realize how arrogant he sounded?
“Will you help me, or not?” he asked, soft, deliberate, and Rod sighed.
“I’ll help you stay alive as long as possible, but no—I’m not helping you with this plan.”
Another laugh welled up at that, but this time Radek harshly repressed the urge. He settled for shaking his head and tossing out a bitter, “So my own hallucination is saying no to me?”
Rod stared at him, blue eyes solemn. “You must realize subconsciously that you need to be talked out of this.”
“Jezisi, I cannot even hallucinate right today,” Radek muttered under his breath, and then got to work, ignoring the concerned, frustrated look the hallucination was directing at him.
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
"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
firebubbles310*It turns out that there are apparently perks to becoming the scientific advisor to Jackson. Well, as long as you temporarily forget about the whole implant in your neck issue, not to mention the fact that you’re working for a psychotic bastard who’s killed millions without blinking an eye and who will probably kill still more millions during his reign.
Rodney receives -- as the first of the ‘perks’ -- a mansion a few blocks down from Jackson’s. It has about thirty more rooms than he needs, and twenty more guards than he wants. The curiosity gnaws at him for a while, but he doesn’t ask what happened to the original owner of the mansion, just figures that it’s probably best if he doesn’t know. Besides, there’s no need to hunt out more ghosts to haunt his already troubled dreams. There is still furniture in the mansion, bric-a-brac filling each room: numerous beautiful mahogany bookshelves, portraits that practically scream they’re expensive and famous, a couch that looks like it could easily fit a dozen people for some sort of orgy, and an enormous bed with silk sheets, just to name a few.
Rodney throws it all out, gives some of it to thrift shops -- well, all except for the bookshelves, which he keeps and which are soon cluttered with all the books and magazines from his old apartment -- and tries to fill up the now mostly-empty mansion with various knick-knacks, things that he finds in the nearby stores when businesses start opening their doors again (per Jackson’s world-wide order), things that haven’t been tainted by the presence of loss and guilt.
He buys himself the largest flat-screen he can find, and leaves it on at all hours, to stave off the silence which eats away at his stomach and forms a lump of grief and rage in his throat that never seems to go away. He keeps the television on one of those stations that constantly plays music, though sometimes he switches over to the science channel -- he never, ever watches the news.
At least Eliot seems to like the mansion, disappearing for hours on end to investigate every nook and cranny, always coming back looking satisfied with his latest adventure. Rodney spoils him rotten, filling three entire rooms with those stupid cat furniture things, the ones with the ladders and “cradle lounges” for Eliot to enjoy, buys him the most expensive cat food, deposits a good dozen scratching posts throughout the mansion, plants catnip all over the fifty acres Rodney now apparently owns, and puts a litter box in every one of the seven bathrooms.
During the first month, as Jackson reorganizes the world to suit his own whims, Rodney finds that he has more tuna in his refrigerator than he knows what to do with, more tuna than even Eliot wants, and so many of his own late-night snacks consist of tuna sandwiches. He even tries offering a snack once or twice to the guards that move silently through the halls, but after the first tries earn him flat, uncomprehending stares, he gives up.
After a while, the tuna tastes thick and pasty on his tongue, and he tosses half of it out. He has plenty of money to burn, after all. A blank check, if you will, paid for by the blood and sweat and dying breaths of twenty million souls.
He wonders if he killed himself somewhere remote, then perhaps Jackson wouldn’t be able to find his body to toss into the sarcophagus and revive. After a few nights of serious thought, Rodney realizes that the implant is almost definitely a tracking device as well and that Jackson would find him anywhere he went to die.
Still, when he wakes up in the morning to the sound of helicopters flying overheard and the quiet footfalls of the guards wandering by his bedroom, he can’t help but wistfully entertain the thought of finding somewhere quiet, remote, Siberia, maybe, where he could wash down four dozen pills with some vodka and disappear. Then he always sighs, drags his weary frame out of bed, and wanders out to the kitchen to get himself and Eliot some breakfast.
"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*
The words and numbers on the screen blurred together yet again, and Radek set down the tablet, cursing under his breath at the tiny keypad and attempting to convince his fingers to stop cramping. He didn’t want to rest, but he needed to rest his eyes for a moment, just long enough for his vision to clear. He turned towards the panel on the other side of the compartment and squinted up at the crystals, sighing in frustration. “I need a new set of eyes.”
“Let me take a look,” a warm, familiar voice suggested behind him, and Radek froze.
Swallowing hard, he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, because he couldn’t possibly have— “Did I just, ah—”
“Yes, you did,” the voice said, in the same gentle tone that always made Radek bristle on pure instinct.
Slowly, he turned around. There was Rod, all smiling blue eyes and trademark leather jacket and slightly lopsided grin. He was casually leaning against the bulkhead doors, and as Radek stared, the other man looked back, the lopsided grin gaining strength.
“Rod.”
Rod’s expression was almost soft at the quietly exhaled name, his eyes bright and earnest. “Don’t worry, Radek. We're gonna get you out of here.”
Radek stared in a mixture of disbelief and astonishment, and finally gathered enough strength to move closer to Rod, even though his legs felt as wobbly as jelly. His heart was fluttering wildly in his throat, and it took him a moment to breathe out a hoarse, “How did you—? How—how are you—?”
Rod’s mouth quirked into a gently amused grin. “It’s good to see you too, Radek.”
For a moment, Radek just continued to stare, drinking in that amused expression and relaxed slouch, and then he shook his head, once, sharply, and turned away as common sense pointed out that this couldn’t possibly be happening. “Wonderful. I have lost it. I have completely lost it. By the time anyone comes for me, I will be mad—”
“You haven’t lost it, Radek,” Rod said, sounding almost amused.
Radek ignored him, putting the tablet down and pointing at Rod without looking at him. He closed his eyes, fought back the rising hysteria, and muttered, “You are not real. You are not real. You are not real.” He put his hands over his eyes, took in a shallow breath.
Rod made a soft sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Of course I’m not real.”
Radek looked at him at that, blinking at the man’s entertained smile. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m in Atlantis, trying to figure out how to rescue you,” Rod said patiently. “Of course I’m not actually here.” Pushing away from the bulkhead doors, he sauntered over to the bench across from Radek and sat down.
“I see,” Radek said slowly. Weren’t figments of your imagination supposed to try and convince you that they were real? He narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you doing here?”
Rod offered up one of those damnably casual, almost elegant one-shouldered shrugs of his. “You’re hallucinating.”
Radek crossed his arms against his chest, his lips curving in a bitter little smile. “Hallucinating? Why would I—”
The other man’s smile finally dimmed at that, and he grimaced a little before he silently pointed at his own forehead.
“Ah, yes, that would do it,” Radek mumbled, carefully touching the plaster over his wound and making a face as flecks of dried blood clung to his fingers. He brushed the flecks onto his pants. “Is it that bad?”
Another one-shouldered shrug, and then Rod said, “The way I see it, you’re scared. You’re a little panicked, you’re a lot lonely. You knew you could use some help, so your subconscious is manifesting—” He paused, mouth quirking into a smile of totally fake modesty. “—well, me.”
Radek snorted at that, felt his lips curl into a contemptuous sneer. “Oh, I don’t think so, McKay! If my subconscious was going to manifest someone, it would certainly not be you.” He rose to his feet, still sneering.
Rod’s eyebrows rose at that, and he looked torn between amusement and exasperation. “Well, apparently it is me, Radek. C’mon, you know I can help—”
“Of course I know you can help!” Radek snapped, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes. “You are Mister Fix-it, after all. You are always, always right, forever saving the day, always so perfect—”
“Radek,” Rod interrupted, getting to his feet as well. “I know you harbor some sort of, of grudge against me, but really, I’m here to help you, so if we could just get along—”
“You’ve been visiting Heightmeyer too often,” Radek remarked with a touch of bitterness. “Next, you will be telling that I need to set my ‘petty insecurities’ aside.”
Rod sighed, in the way he always did when he thought Radek was being unreasonable. “Look, why else would I be here?”
Radek glowered. “I don’t know!”
Another sigh, and then he said in the same gentle, condescending voice as before, “You’re essentially arguing with yourself. You realize that, right? Your mind is creating me.”
Was it a bad sign that Radek dearly wished to hit the hallucination? Then again— He paused and frowned, even as the voice in his head that had wailed Falling, falling began murmuring once more. If he was hallucinating Rod, then what else—
“What?”
Radek backed away slowly, staring at the concerned look on the hallucination’s face, his chest tight and a deep, fierce ache twisting his stomach. “What else am I hallucinating?” he said slowly.
Rod’s concerned look deepened into a frown. “What do you mean?”
“If you're not real, what is?” His voice was rising without his consent, turning breathy and panicked as he waved a hand at the tablet, the open panels, Rod himself. “I mean, how—how—how do I tell the difference? How do I know that any of these readings I’ve been taking are correct?”
“You’re not that far gone,” Rod said with a shake of his head, and Radek laughed, the sound harsh and hoarse and just a shade hysterical.
“And I am supposed to believe you? A manifestation of my subconscious? I am not stupid. I cannot trust any of the readings. I mean, I mean I might not have actually dialed-up the scrubbers. That could be why I’m hallucinating. I need to—I need—”
“Radek!” Rod was suddenly in his face, expression dark with an intensity he reserved for the eleventh hour when lives were at stake. “Radek, listen to me. You really are in the back of a sinking Jumper. Your readings are correct. You knew you could use some help, and you’ve got a pretty bad concussion, so—” He trailed off, raised his hands in an indecipherable gesture.
“So—here you are,” Radek said. The words came out flat, weary, and Rod smiled gently.
“Here I am.”
Radek swallowed hard, and tried not to think too much into the fact that he did feel a bit relieved that Rod, even a hallucination version of the man, was inside the Jumper with him. He cleared his throat. “I suppose that’s comforting. A little. If I don’t think about the, the ramifications towards my mental health.”
Rod met his gaze squarely for a moment, expression open and honest, well, as open as Rod’s face ever got, and then he looked away. “Why don't you show me what you’ve done so far?”
“Oh, right.” Picking up the tablet, he took a deep breath and then a few steps over to Rod, gesturing for the other man to sit with him on the bench. Hallucination or not, perhaps Rod would be some help in getting the Jumper to surface. Radek explained his plan quickly, tripping over his words both in his haste and because a headache was blossoming between his eyes that had him pausing to rub at the spot every few seconds.
Rod’s expression was unreadable as Radek finished with, “Now—given I have a limited amount of time to execute my plan before power levels drop too low, but provided that ah, the, the coding is, ah, correct, we surface and at that point they should be able to pick up our regular radio signal and then come pick us—me up.” He frowned and rubbed at his forehead once more, being careful not to touch the plaster.
There was silence for a long moment, during which Radek took the opportunity to take off his glasses and pinch at the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some of the pressure. Then Rod cleared his throat. “How much power would that kill?”
Radek blinked at him. “Ah, I have no idea. Most of it?”
Rod’s neutral expression shifted at that and he frowned, shaking his head. It was the same slow, negative shake he used whenever he had bad news about the latest Ancient tech they were fiddling with, how it was actually useless or unsalvageable, the same slight frown he used when he was trying to figure out how to broach the topic. “It’s a bad idea, then,” he said at last.
Radek slid the glasses back on and scowled. Rod was usually not a naysayer. Of course, this was hallucination-Rod. It would be just his luck that he would have to deal with a pessimistic version of the other scientist. “Excuse me? Why is it a bad idea?”
“Well, what if it doesn’t work?”
“Well,” Radek began to snap, and then paused. He hadn’t actually considered the implications of using up most of the power. “Well, then—then I’m dead.”
Rod nodded. “Exactly. Bad plan.” He got to his feet, rolled his shoulders as though they were stiff from huddling over the tablet, which couldn’t be possible, seeing as he was a hallucination who couldn’t feel a damn thing, and Radek felt irritation surge.
“Oh, you’re right,” he snapped, getting to his feet as well and flavoring each syllable with sarcasm. “I should proceed with one of the other hundreds of possible options available to me.”
Rod sighed and shook his head. “Look, I’m not saying that I have a better idea—”
“Well, what do you want me to do? Nothing?”
“Yes.”
Radek tried to laugh at that, but it came out as more of a harsh, barking sound instead. “Oh, brilliant! How helpful, McKay.”
Rod folded his arms against his chest, expression earnest, almost imploring. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “Look, just stay warm, stay breathing, and stay alive as long as you can—give them the biggest window of opportunity possible.”
“Window of opportunity for what?”
“For rescuing you,” Rod said simply. The unsaid ‘Obviously’ hovered in the air.
Radek folded his arms against his chest, shaking his head and fighting back another barking laugh. “Even if they could find me—which, given underwater currents and multiple possible entry sites is next to impossible—how are they going to get me out of here?”
“They’ll find a way.”
“First, I highly doubt that anyone will be able to even find me before the power levels are depleted and I run out of oxygen. Second, even if they do, how will they get me from one Jumper to the other? This seems my day to die. Not even you could save me.”
“Look,” Rod said in the same gentle, condescending tone he’d used when he tried to bribe Radek to let him and Sheppard do the test flight. “Radek, I hear what you're saying and I'm telling you—you’re wrong. You have some very smart, very motivated people on the surface, and the only thing any of them are working on right now is rescuing you.”
Radek snorted at that. “Oh, please, McKay! They are planning my memorial service.” He glanced down at the tablet, realized he was clutching at it so tightly that his knuckles were white, and barked out another laugh. “I’m certain you’ll think up a lovely eulogy. You did so well for Peter and Brendan—” He stopped at the dark flicker in Rod’s eyes, realizing he’d gone too far, even if this was simply a hallucination standing before him.
For a moment, Rod’s jaw tensed, as though working against words that wanted to escape, and then he shook his head, expression smoothing into the familiar mask, and said in a low, sincere voice, “If your plan fails—and it probably will—you could jeopardize their plans, Radek. Just—think about that. Be sensible.”
Radek loosened his death-grip on the tablet, relieving his aching knuckles, and scowled. Sensible? Because having a different opinion than Rod McKay meant you were being foolish, of course. Did the man honestly not realize how arrogant he sounded?
“Will you help me, or not?” he asked, soft, deliberate, and Rod sighed.
“I’ll help you stay alive as long as possible, but no—I’m not helping you with this plan.”
Another laugh welled up at that, but this time Radek harshly repressed the urge. He settled for shaking his head and tossing out a bitter, “So my own hallucination is saying no to me?”
Rod stared at him, blue eyes solemn. “You must realize subconsciously that you need to be talked out of this.”
“Jezisi, I cannot even hallucinate right today,” Radek muttered under his breath, and then got to work, ignoring the concerned, frustrated look the hallucination was directing at him.
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
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Date: 2007-01-28 09:33 pm (UTC)keep up the good work btw on both of these fics. can't wait for the finished *keeps snickering* product.