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SGA: More Like A Warning (OFC)

butterflykiki organized The Common People: A BSG & SGA Challenge.

Title: More Like A Warning
Author: voleuse
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Character: OFC
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: There's nothing left to tell, nothing to tell.
Notes: Spoilers through S1, specifically for the season finale



Jones doesn't have an official title, not really.

New biological samples to tag and process? She can do it.

A bank of the computers froze up? She can fix it.

Someone was tagged by enemy fire? She can patch them up.

Along with a handful of others, she's a jack-of-all-trades, with no particular specialty.

Kang names them the ghostbusters. Martinez classifies them as IT. Robson says "everyhand" is a better descriptor.

Jones rolls her eyes and calls them all idiots, because they don't need an official title.

They get things done. That's all that matters.

*


Off the record and off the clock, however, Jones likes to consider herself the unofficial historian of the mission.

Everything's being documented, of course, recorded and analyzed and correlated. No matter what happens, there won't be any question of what happened on Atlantis.

But there isn't any story in that, she thinks. It's a collection of transcripts and statistics, nothing else.

So between the minor emergencies that make up her day-to-day existence, Jones slips out a notebook and writes.

She has a couple dozen of them, sturdy and wirebound, the kind of thing she used to take notes in high school. Every night, she sketches out the events of the day, what she saw and what she heard.

The vague pronouncements Dr. Weir makes to the city at large, the latest gossip about what McKay did to give Pearson another nervous breakdown. New foods the Athosians have introduced, new words filtering into everyday speech.

Jones carries a notebook in her pack, too, along with the regular miscellany she needs throughout the day.

And as the Wraith draw closer, she finds herself compelled to write. She jots down notes every chance she can get, tries to make sure to mention everyone by name. She records the jokes, the discoveries, the shared memories of their families back on Earth.

She commits it all to paper, everything she can, for hours each night.

She doesn't let herself think about why.

Not until the hive ships approach.

*


Even as Weir announces the evacuation, Jones slips her filled notebooks into her backpack, a half-dozen of them, and then rushes out into the corridor.

The rest of her team is already there, walking to the center of the city, to the gate.

"Where are we going to go?" she shouts over the alarm.

There's silence, then Kang replies, "I'm sure they know."

"Lots of planets in the system," Robson adds.

"Right," she says. "Okay."

And then another alarm blares, and Martinez, listening on a comm link, gasps.

"It's Earth."

*


Her team is, of course, called to coordinate the ingress.

The uniforms are a little startling to her eyes, starched and formal. She'd gotten used to the haphazard dress of the scientists, and the oft-rumpled uniforms of the Atlantis teams.

Jones shakes her head, directs the newcomers to appropriate storage areas. They move briskly, but stop often, as commanding officers march in, inspect the goods, and sweep out.

Once, she gets stuck next to a crate of grenades, carried by a couple of kids fresh out of grad school.

"Any chocolate in there?" she asks.

One of them raises his eyebrow. The other laughs.

She smiles at the second guy. "Can I ask you something?"

He schools his expression back to stern. "Depends on the question."

"Do you know who won the NBA playoffs this year?"

*


When the plan doesn't work, the evacuations begin again.

Most of her team is sent off, but Jones isn't. She has advanced training in first aid, and she's had field experience.

She gives her notebooks to Robson, makes him swear to keep them safe.

She has copies herself, transcribed and saved to disk, just in case.

In case he doesn't make it, either.

Then someone hands her a gun and sends her to sickbay.

There's nothing to do but wait.

*


She hates this part, right as the battle begins.

The artillery rattles, the bombs begin to fall, and everyone in sickbay stares at the floor, trying not to twitch.

She almost wishes someone would come in, just so she'd have something to do.

One hour passes. Two soldiers come in, tagged by shrapnel.

Another hour, another couple of soldiers.

There aren't nearly enough people in sickbay, she thinks. Not nearly enough.

Another hour, and another, but no one comes in.

The battle's still going.

Jones resists the urge to take out the notepad in her pocket, because she already knows what she'd scribble down.

Drums. Drums in the deep.

It's not going to end that way, she tells herself. It can't.

The building shakes, again, a concussive shudder.

And she hears a scream.

Then another, closer.

She takes out her notebook.


###

A/N: Title and summary taken from Cate Marvin's Dear Petrach:
The sweet singing of virtuous and beautiful ladies...
More like dogs barking, more like a warning now.
When our mouths open the hole looks black,
and the hole of it holds a shadow. Some keep

saying there's nothing left to tell, nothing to tell.
If that's the truth I'll open my door to any
stranger who rattles the lock. When my mouth
opens it will scream, simply because the hole

of it holds that sound. As for your great ideas,
literature, and the smell of old books cracked—
the stacks are a dark area, and anyone could find
herself trapped, legs forced, spine cracked.

It's a fact. Everyone knows it. If I lived in your
time, the scrolls of my gown would have curled
into knots. It's about being dragged by the hair—
the saint, the harlot both have bald patches. Girls

today walking down the street may look sweet,
chewing wads of pink gum. And the woman at the bar
may never read. Lots of ladies sing along to the radio
now. But the hole of our mouths holds a howl.
Originally linked here.

Comments

( 8 comments — Leave a comment )
lalejandra
Jul. 2nd, 2005 05:11 am (UTC)
Oooh, I like this. I like the idea that she's actually writing down everything that happens, not just typing it all up or recording it into a voice-recorder or something. She's writing it -- and for some reason, that really struck me as important. *g* I like this.
voleuse
Jul. 5th, 2005 05:07 pm (UTC)
Thanks! The writing via pen feels more weighty to me, somehow, but I don't know why. Maybe because it can't be erased by a simple electromagnetic burst, or whatever.
auburnnothenna
Jul. 2nd, 2005 05:34 am (UTC)
You tagged the very scene out of Lord of the Rings that I loved best, that incredible despair, the feeling of being trapped, of the futility of fighting and an unbeatable enemy. I never thought of the Seige in relation to LOTR, but yes. And Jones, writing it down to the very end and the screams, the city shaking ... what else is there to do? A great TCP fic.
voleuse
Jul. 5th, 2005 05:08 pm (UTC)
Thanks! Every situation like this kind of strikes me as that moment, I think.
ltlj
Jul. 2nd, 2005 12:59 pm (UTC)
Oh, that was excellent. I love the LotR reference.
voleuse
Jul. 5th, 2005 05:08 pm (UTC)
Thanks! I'm glad you liked it!
rashaka
Jul. 3rd, 2005 06:52 pm (UTC)
Drums. Drums in the deep.

Wonderful reference to slip in there.
voleuse
Jul. 5th, 2005 05:09 pm (UTC)
Thank you!
( 8 comments — Leave a comment )

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