[fic] Species
Oct. 18th, 2007 06:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Species
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Character: Michael Kenmore
Word Count: 1,020
Rating: PG (ish)
Summary: Michael, after being kicked out of Atlantis the first time and out of the first Hive ship he comes across, is not having a very good time.
He didn't stop running until he reached the third transition after the Hive ship's current resting spot. He didn't know know if they were following, if they cared enough to track him through three Stargates. He thought, probably, they didn't.
He spent the first night underneath an overhang of rock, huddled against the stone on a bed of dirt and leaves. What little clothing he had seemed inadequate, but there was nothing to be done about it. About any of it, this situation he found himself in. Untenable, irrefutable, he doubted that he would have been one to sulk or brood on the hatefulness of the situation whether he were human or Wraith. And yet, that was exactly the point. He was neither.
It surprised him, a little, the part of him that still remembered what he had been, that his body wasn't rebelling against itself and killing him. And then again, it might have been, and he wouldn't notice until it was too late. It wasn't as though he could go in for a full body scan. He wondered if he could even still feed, and then remembered that he could. Really, a marvel of genetic engineering, Beckett's retrovirus. It shouldn't be possible to suppress half a person's DNA. Not and have that person still live.
And yet, he was still alive. Amazingly healthy, or at least he had been at his last checkup at Atlantis. He retained all of his memories, even the ones he most wanted to forget. He wasn't sure if that was an even greater injustice, or better than the alternative of being half a Wraith and not knowing why. And yet. The betrayal of the humans was less understandable, more painful.
Michael, or the creature who had been Michael, pushed those thoughts away and tried to go to sleep.
On the wraith ship he had been called something else, at least at first. Before the humans. When the second hive had picked them up he and tried to go back to that name, and been denied. More forcefully, when it became evident that he would never be fully Wraith again. He made the mistake, once, of telling someone that he had been called Michael by the humans, and from then on they referred to him by that name. He hated that name.
Well, he decided. It was his now, the humans had given it to him. The only one of their "gifts" that hadn't come with a price.
He missed his old name.
Michael, or whatever he had been called, woke up several times in the night. Animal noises, noises that he imagined were some starship flying overhead, or nightmares that he would refuse to admit to having even to himself. When morning came he was still exhausted.
And still running. A sense of urgency brought on by the realization that he had no home, no allies, nowhere to go. And alienation that ran deeper than either humans or Wraith and tried to instill in him. Logically, they wouldn't be chasing him, there was no reason to. He still got up and sought out the nearest Stargate. He needed to run, and he didn't know where her how far.
The cravings hit on the fifth jump, sharp and hard, every muscle in his body cramping up at once. It was easier than he thought to find a community of living beings, to find a straggler on the outside and overpower them just long enough to feed. It felt good. Not as good as it used to.
He couldn't stay there. He needed to find somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere that he didn't have to hide, didn't have to run, didn't have to guard against people who hunted him down and would have killed him with as little regard for his thoughts on the matter as he would have regard for a stinging insect.
By the tenth jump he had exhausted himself into apathy. He staggered out of the gate and collapsed against a tree as far from the pulsing doorway as he could get, eyes closed and chest heaving. He only hoped this was an inhabited planet, with a ready food source. If it wasn't he would last even less long than he thought.
For now, at least, he didn't need to feed, and he would take advantage of that to rest. To get his bearings and his feet back under him, to figure out what he was going to do next. Shelter. A food source. Those would have to be the two priorities. Vengeance, if he had the luxury of considering it, would have to come much later. And upon whom would he take vengeance? The Wraith hive ship? The human colony? Too many targets, not enough resources.
Teyla, for certain. Although he wanted to call it vengeance, it might have been better described as making it known how he felt to her. Somehow, he didn't think their little conversation in the woods would cut it.
And that felt almost more like a betrayal than anything else she had done. Of all of them, he expected her to understand the most. Perhaps she had not been the most honest; that honor went to Ronon, who hated him from the start. At least it was an honest hatred. The only honest connection he had with anyone at Atlantis.
The deepest connection was still was reserved for Teyla, but she had lied. She had lied to him. And that hurt more than he was willing to admit, if only for the implication of what that hurt meant.
And he could think about that later, he decided, as he realized he was about to snap a branch in two. For now, shelter and food source, and creating a long-term base of operations. Ensuring his safety without having to dive through ten consecutive Gates in rapid succession. Ensuring his continued survival beyond the next week, next month, hopefully even the next year. And then, perhaps then he could give some thought to the people of Atlantis.
What thoughts those would be by that time, he wasn't sure.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Character: Michael Kenmore
Word Count: 1,020
Rating: PG (ish)
Summary: Michael, after being kicked out of Atlantis the first time and out of the first Hive ship he comes across, is not having a very good time.
He didn't stop running until he reached the third transition after the Hive ship's current resting spot. He didn't know know if they were following, if they cared enough to track him through three Stargates. He thought, probably, they didn't.
He spent the first night underneath an overhang of rock, huddled against the stone on a bed of dirt and leaves. What little clothing he had seemed inadequate, but there was nothing to be done about it. About any of it, this situation he found himself in. Untenable, irrefutable, he doubted that he would have been one to sulk or brood on the hatefulness of the situation whether he were human or Wraith. And yet, that was exactly the point. He was neither.
It surprised him, a little, the part of him that still remembered what he had been, that his body wasn't rebelling against itself and killing him. And then again, it might have been, and he wouldn't notice until it was too late. It wasn't as though he could go in for a full body scan. He wondered if he could even still feed, and then remembered that he could. Really, a marvel of genetic engineering, Beckett's retrovirus. It shouldn't be possible to suppress half a person's DNA. Not and have that person still live.
And yet, he was still alive. Amazingly healthy, or at least he had been at his last checkup at Atlantis. He retained all of his memories, even the ones he most wanted to forget. He wasn't sure if that was an even greater injustice, or better than the alternative of being half a Wraith and not knowing why. And yet. The betrayal of the humans was less understandable, more painful.
Michael, or the creature who had been Michael, pushed those thoughts away and tried to go to sleep.
On the wraith ship he had been called something else, at least at first. Before the humans. When the second hive had picked them up he and tried to go back to that name, and been denied. More forcefully, when it became evident that he would never be fully Wraith again. He made the mistake, once, of telling someone that he had been called Michael by the humans, and from then on they referred to him by that name. He hated that name.
Well, he decided. It was his now, the humans had given it to him. The only one of their "gifts" that hadn't come with a price.
He missed his old name.
Michael, or whatever he had been called, woke up several times in the night. Animal noises, noises that he imagined were some starship flying overhead, or nightmares that he would refuse to admit to having even to himself. When morning came he was still exhausted.
And still running. A sense of urgency brought on by the realization that he had no home, no allies, nowhere to go. And alienation that ran deeper than either humans or Wraith and tried to instill in him. Logically, they wouldn't be chasing him, there was no reason to. He still got up and sought out the nearest Stargate. He needed to run, and he didn't know where her how far.
The cravings hit on the fifth jump, sharp and hard, every muscle in his body cramping up at once. It was easier than he thought to find a community of living beings, to find a straggler on the outside and overpower them just long enough to feed. It felt good. Not as good as it used to.
He couldn't stay there. He needed to find somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere that he didn't have to hide, didn't have to run, didn't have to guard against people who hunted him down and would have killed him with as little regard for his thoughts on the matter as he would have regard for a stinging insect.
By the tenth jump he had exhausted himself into apathy. He staggered out of the gate and collapsed against a tree as far from the pulsing doorway as he could get, eyes closed and chest heaving. He only hoped this was an inhabited planet, with a ready food source. If it wasn't he would last even less long than he thought.
For now, at least, he didn't need to feed, and he would take advantage of that to rest. To get his bearings and his feet back under him, to figure out what he was going to do next. Shelter. A food source. Those would have to be the two priorities. Vengeance, if he had the luxury of considering it, would have to come much later. And upon whom would he take vengeance? The Wraith hive ship? The human colony? Too many targets, not enough resources.
Teyla, for certain. Although he wanted to call it vengeance, it might have been better described as making it known how he felt to her. Somehow, he didn't think their little conversation in the woods would cut it.
And that felt almost more like a betrayal than anything else she had done. Of all of them, he expected her to understand the most. Perhaps she had not been the most honest; that honor went to Ronon, who hated him from the start. At least it was an honest hatred. The only honest connection he had with anyone at Atlantis.
The deepest connection was still was reserved for Teyla, but she had lied. She had lied to him. And that hurt more than he was willing to admit, if only for the implication of what that hurt meant.
And he could think about that later, he decided, as he realized he was about to snap a branch in two. For now, shelter and food source, and creating a long-term base of operations. Ensuring his safety without having to dive through ten consecutive Gates in rapid succession. Ensuring his continued survival beyond the next week, next month, hopefully even the next year. And then, perhaps then he could give some thought to the people of Atlantis.
What thoughts those would be by that time, he wasn't sure.