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cinaedI 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.
When Daniel destroys Moscow, Rodney is in Area 51, celebrating with his fellow scientists that the damn satellites had actually worked. A bottle of champagne is offered up (by Bill Lee, and Rodney should’ve known the overly cheerful bastard was hoarding alcohol).
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. Rodney is working on his second cup, probably grinning like an idiot, when someone runs into the room and shouts, voice breaking halfway through, “Turn on the news, oh god, turn on the news!” When Lee obeys, they all stare in stunned silence at the flames.
The details come in short, sporadic bursts from shaken reporters, who are white as ghosts and trembling like leaves as they report, “Moscow, no apparent survivors, all ten million dead—Doctor Daniel Jackson, supervisor of the formerly secret satellite program, is now in apparent control of the satellites—Jackson has issued a statement to the press that the current governments have been deemed unnecessary and inept—America has unknowingly been at war for years, based on the statement Jackson has just issued regarding the true nature of the Stargate program and an alien enemy known as Goa’uld—Jackson has declared leadership over Earth and urges the former world leaders to comply with all future demands—China has attempted to protest, and Beijing has met the same fate as Moscow. Jackson—”
It is seven hours later, give or take, when Daniel Jackson appears at the doorway of Rodney’s lab. Most of the other scientists have wandered home, all in a daze, to comfort their families and see what’s going to happen next. All Rodney has waiting for him in his tiny, cramped apartment is Eliot, and he doesn’t want to try explaining that the world has ended to the cat.
“So,” Jackson says when Rodney stares and says nothing. His voice is terrible and so damn casual, as though he hasn’t just murdered over twenty million people in less than twenty-four hours. “I’ve been compiling a list of possible advisors for my new government, and I think you’ll do as the scientific advisor. I would have preferred Sam, of course, but unfortunately she refuses to cooperate and—”
“Go to hell,” Rodney says, and doesn’t recognize his own voice for a moment. The words are quiet, almost guttural, even he starts to shake, breath stuttering in his chest. “You just committed genocide, you psychotic bastard!”
“Technically, I didn’t commit genocide,” Jackson points out calmly. “Genocide is legally defined as the wholesale murder and destruction of entire ethnic, linguistic or religious groups. I didn’t destroy Moscow and Beijing because they were Russian or Chinese; I eliminated them because they disagreed with me.” He smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I also can’t be charged with crimes against humanity, in case you were wondering. Crimes against humanity are only committed by politically organized groups acting under color of policy, and since I haven’t been officially recognized as the world leader yet—”
Rodney makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob at that. “As if the UN will ever recognize you! Twenty million people dead in a single day, and I highly doubt you’ll stop there!”
Jackson’s smile dims, turns darker, colder, his eyes like blue chips of ice. “I suppose you’re rejecting the position then?”
“Sorry, I don’t work for dictators,” Rodney says flatly, even as the silent voice that acts as his self-preservation mutters in the back of his head about how it’s probably best not to anger a man who controls satellites that can eliminate entire cities.
“Pity.” Jackson shrugs, pulls out a gun which gleams in the lab’s low lighting. “You know, McKay, this is taking up more time than I wished. I hope you’re not so troublesome in the future. For your sake.” He steps forward, presses the muzzle against Rodney’s chest, at just about where his heart would be, and pulls the trigger.
*
When Rodney opens his eyes, he sees only darkness, and has a brief moment of, Oh god, oh god, he buried me alive, oh god, oh god, oh god. But then he realizes his chest doesn’t hurt, which it damn well should, since Jackson had shot him. He is still touching his unmarred chest with a mixture of bewilderment and abject relief when there is a soft sound above him and the darkness is replaced by light.
He squints into the light, starts to sit up and take in a shallow breath, slow his rapidly-pounding heart down, and then there are hands on his shoulders, and he’s hauled upright to meet Jackson’s coldly amused eyes.
“I trust you’ve heard of a particular aspect of Goa’uld technology known as the sarcophagus?” Jackson says pleasantly, raising an eyebrow. “I think it will prove quite useful in case anyone makes the mistake of attempting an assassination.”
Rodney swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and a knot of despair twists in his stomach as he hears Jackson’s point, loud and clear: Just give in. You can’t escape me even in death, because I will bring you back again, and again, until you obey me.
“So, Dr. McKay, how does the title of scientific advisor sound to you?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, Jackson adds, “I believe it has a nice ring to it.”
“I—” It’s hard to breathe, suddenly, and Rodney closes his eyes, trying to calm the tremors that are overwhelming his frame, trying to catch his breath long enough to say something, anything. “I—”
“Still having doubts?” If ever there had existed the fallen angel Lucifer, that tempter of man, his voice would have sounded much like Jackson’s, with this pseudo-sympathy dripping from each syllable and the almost understanding undertone. “That’s quite all right. I think the implant will—sufficiently persuade you and end any doubts you might be harboring.”
His jaw unlocks enough for him to mutter, “Implant?”
Jackson just offers him a final half-smile and walks away, leaving him in a large, bleakly beautiful room of marble and alabaster, with only cold-eyed men in uniform for company. Well, them, and a man in a lab coat, whose intense blue eyes are dark and filled with something akin to horror and regret as he says in a soft Scottish burr, “It’ll only hurt for a moment, lad.”
“What—” And then the men are dragging him from the sarcophagus, forcing him to kneel, and there is pain, brief but white-hot in its intensity, like someone has just pierced the back of his neck with a needle that had been held over an open flame.
The pain ebbs after a moment, and as the man in the lab coat rests a gentle hand just below the aching spot, fingers trembling ever-so-slightly, and murmurs brokenly, “I’m so, so sorry,” Rodney understands that the days of making his own choices are gone.
When Daniel destroys Moscow, Rodney is in Area 51, celebrating with his fellow scientists that the damn satellites had actually worked. A bottle of champagne is offered up (by Bill Lee, and Rodney should’ve known the overly cheerful bastard was hoarding alcohol).
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. Rodney is working on his second cup, probably grinning like an idiot, when someone runs into the room and shouts, voice breaking halfway through, “Turn on the news, oh god, turn on the news!” When Lee obeys, they all stare in stunned silence at the flames.
The details come in short, sporadic bursts from shaken reporters, who are white as ghosts and trembling like leaves as they report, “Moscow, no apparent survivors, all ten million dead—Doctor Daniel Jackson, supervisor of the formerly secret satellite program, is now in apparent control of the satellites—Jackson has issued a statement to the press that the current governments have been deemed unnecessary and inept—America has unknowingly been at war for years, based on the statement Jackson has just issued regarding the true nature of the Stargate program and an alien enemy known as Goa’uld—Jackson has declared leadership over Earth and urges the former world leaders to comply with all future demands—China has attempted to protest, and Beijing has met the same fate as Moscow. Jackson—”
It is seven hours later, give or take, when Daniel Jackson appears at the doorway of Rodney’s lab. Most of the other scientists have wandered home, all in a daze, to comfort their families and see what’s going to happen next. All Rodney has waiting for him in his tiny, cramped apartment is Eliot, and he doesn’t want to try explaining that the world has ended to the cat.
“So,” Jackson says when Rodney stares and says nothing. His voice is terrible and so damn casual, as though he hasn’t just murdered over twenty million people in less than twenty-four hours. “I’ve been compiling a list of possible advisors for my new government, and I think you’ll do as the scientific advisor. I would have preferred Sam, of course, but unfortunately she refuses to cooperate and—”
“Go to hell,” Rodney says, and doesn’t recognize his own voice for a moment. The words are quiet, almost guttural, even he starts to shake, breath stuttering in his chest. “You just committed genocide, you psychotic bastard!”
“Technically, I didn’t commit genocide,” Jackson points out calmly. “Genocide is legally defined as the wholesale murder and destruction of entire ethnic, linguistic or religious groups. I didn’t destroy Moscow and Beijing because they were Russian or Chinese; I eliminated them because they disagreed with me.” He smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I also can’t be charged with crimes against humanity, in case you were wondering. Crimes against humanity are only committed by politically organized groups acting under color of policy, and since I haven’t been officially recognized as the world leader yet—”
Rodney makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob at that. “As if the UN will ever recognize you! Twenty million people dead in a single day, and I highly doubt you’ll stop there!”
Jackson’s smile dims, turns darker, colder, his eyes like blue chips of ice. “I suppose you’re rejecting the position then?”
“Sorry, I don’t work for dictators,” Rodney says flatly, even as the silent voice that acts as his self-preservation mutters in the back of his head about how it’s probably best not to anger a man who controls satellites that can eliminate entire cities.
“Pity.” Jackson shrugs, pulls out a gun which gleams in the lab’s low lighting. “You know, McKay, this is taking up more time than I wished. I hope you’re not so troublesome in the future. For your sake.” He steps forward, presses the muzzle against Rodney’s chest, at just about where his heart would be, and pulls the trigger.
When Rodney opens his eyes, he sees only darkness, and has a brief moment of, Oh god, oh god, he buried me alive, oh god, oh god, oh god. But then he realizes his chest doesn’t hurt, which it damn well should, since Jackson had shot him. He is still touching his unmarred chest with a mixture of bewilderment and abject relief when there is a soft sound above him and the darkness is replaced by light.
He squints into the light, starts to sit up and take in a shallow breath, slow his rapidly-pounding heart down, and then there are hands on his shoulders, and he’s hauled upright to meet Jackson’s coldly amused eyes.
“I trust you’ve heard of a particular aspect of Goa’uld technology known as the sarcophagus?” Jackson says pleasantly, raising an eyebrow. “I think it will prove quite useful in case anyone makes the mistake of attempting an assassination.”
Rodney swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and a knot of despair twists in his stomach as he hears Jackson’s point, loud and clear: Just give in. You can’t escape me even in death, because I will bring you back again, and again, until you obey me.
“So, Dr. McKay, how does the title of scientific advisor sound to you?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, Jackson adds, “I believe it has a nice ring to it.”
“I—” It’s hard to breathe, suddenly, and Rodney closes his eyes, trying to calm the tremors that are overwhelming his frame, trying to catch his breath long enough to say something, anything. “I—”
“Still having doubts?” If ever there had existed the fallen angel Lucifer, that tempter of man, his voice would have sounded much like Jackson’s, with this pseudo-sympathy dripping from each syllable and the almost understanding undertone. “That’s quite all right. I think the implant will—sufficiently persuade you and end any doubts you might be harboring.”
His jaw unlocks enough for him to mutter, “Implant?”
Jackson just offers him a final half-smile and walks away, leaving him in a large, bleakly beautiful room of marble and alabaster, with only cold-eyed men in uniform for company. Well, them, and a man in a lab coat, whose intense blue eyes are dark and filled with something akin to horror and regret as he says in a soft Scottish burr, “It’ll only hurt for a moment, lad.”
“What—” And then the men are dragging him from the sarcophagus, forcing him to kneel, and there is pain, brief but white-hot in its intensity, like someone has just pierced the back of his neck with a needle that had been held over an open flame.
The pain ebbs after a moment, and as the man in the lab coat rests a gentle hand just below the aching spot, fingers trembling ever-so-slightly, and murmurs brokenly, “I’m so, so sorry,” Rodney understands that the days of making his own choices are gone.
