oh oh LOOK, oh my heart

[aesc]

newkidfan has put together a beautiful, beautiful trailer for No Parachute (Mel's also done a cover for it, oh my god), and it is on the list of the 1,001 things you have to see before you die. It's the story as I really, sincerely hope it could be in its best form, with all my verbal fumbling and ambiguity stripped away.



download | watch | tell Mel how awesome she is!

I've been doodling on a sequel/prequel, because one should be written and also Mel has been asking for it, so I thought I'd put up part of the tiny bit I have typed. (Also, I haven't been very ficcish lately, other than racing to finish sgabigbang, which is a hell of a lot of fic, but I haven't been ficcish here, if you understand.)


"Sorry, Rodney." Peter shrugs apologetically, as though he’s actually sorry, the... the... Rodney’s brain stumbles over a list of epithets and can’t come up with anything horrible enough.

"Limey," he mutters feebly. Peter winces, the sarcastic sort of ‘Wow, that was so weak I’m kind of embarrassed for you’ expression that revives Rodney momentarily, and he tells Peter exactly where and how to get off.

"Some other time," Peter says, civil to the bitter end, and shoulders his way out the door and into the bright New Zealand sun.

"Sorry, sir," says one of the officers at the doorway when Rodney tries to barrel through. "You’re not going through if you’re not on that plane."

"I should be," Rodney says, deeply aggrieved but not angered to the point of instigating an international incident – then again, some remarks to a Russian scientist in Siberia had earned him early release from the ice and boredom, so maybe he could do it again.

Despite the temptation, he turns away and tries not to think about how Grodin would, at this very moment, be on the tram whisking him off to the bowels of a C-17, and ultimately, would be at the SGC base, surrounded by Ancient technology, and maybe, eventually, walking through the Stargate without Rodney next to him.

Anxiety spikes through him at that thought but fades quickly. Mostly he’s tired, jet-lagged into incoherence after two days spent in transit from Colorado, and he can feel his sinuses rising up in rebellion at the weather change. Late January in Colorado had brought a blizzard and ten inches of snow, but Christchurch lies under a benevolent sun, the sky blue and clear and bright, perfect for flying in. Rodney’s body resents the abrupt transition between the two, and his mind resents the antithesis between the clear weather here and the supposed storm buffeting the penguins out on the ice.

Maybe, he tells himself, it’s better this way. He can sleep for a few days in one of the wretchedly uncomfortable bunks provided for the scientific and military teams whose forays to Antarctica – like his – are likely to change at the last minute. He can maybe rent a car and go driving, go watch wool grow or whatever it is New Zealanders do for fun.
Three days of wool. Great.

Abandoning his attempt at thinking positive, Rodney stomps back to his gear, laptop case disfiguring his spine with every step. He’ll have to get in touch with the Americans, who are the ones who have undertaken the responsibility of ferrying him back and forth between Antarctica and the headquarters in Colorado. And knowing the Americans, he’ll have damn all getting his paperwork refiled and a whole host of pointless, tyrannical procedures to follow because for a group of people obsessed with liberty, the Americans are very good at inflicting stupid regulations.

Rodney can feel his blood pressure increasing with each passing footstep. He’s in the middle of plotting an elaborate scheme of revenge whereby Grodin meets oblivion on the wrong side of an activated Stargate, or falls into a cyclotron and is devoured by a freak miniature black hole when a voice cuts him off mid-fantasy.

"I didn’t know you could do that with a particle accelerator."

"What?" Rodney looks up and sees one of the USAF guys holding up a pillar, leaning against it and grinning at Rodney with a sort of mad laziness.

I didn’t know you could do that with a particle accelerator, Mr. Air Force says again in a way that casts doubt on Rodney’s mental acuity. Like anyone with that hair – sloppy and dark and decidedly unregulation hair – has room to talk, Rodney thinks.
"Well, you can’t," Rodney snaps back, picking stuff up. "Theoretically it's possible, but only if you get your theory from the Discovery Channel." The stranger’s right eyebrow rises impressively. "Not to say that it wouldn’t be interesting to see what one of those magnets could do," Rodney added. "Grodin has a metal plate in his arm, you see."

"Ow." That extraordinary, expressive face contorts in imagined pain. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"If more people thought that way, the world would be a much better place."

"Major John Sheppard, US Air Force," the stranger says, straightening a bit but still managing a sort of slouch that is both lazy and elegant, and which Rodney envies deeply.

"Dr. Rodney McKay, um..." He wonders how to introduce himself.



In conclusion: I have the most awesome friends ever :">