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Stargate Fic: Common Language
Another Bechdel fixit story! Again with thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iuliamentis and splash_the_cat.
Because, dammit, that kidnapped and murdered Air Force sergeant deserved a name.
Also, once I put it up, this will be the 200th story on my website. \o/ (Suddenly I feel like it ought to have included Furlings.)
Gen. Missing scene from "Children of the Gods."
1,265 words. PG-13.
They'd let her keep her dog tags, at least.
Common Language
They'd let her keep her dog tags, at least, even when they stripped her naked and replaced her fatigues with this flimsy nightgown. She sat in the corner and closed her cold hands around her tags, watching the other women and the door and trying to think of what she was supposed to do next.
She was Sergeant Jessica Hoyt, United States Air Force, and she had a feeling they didn't give a damn about her name or rank or serial number. She hadn't had counter-interrogation training--she was as rear echelon a motherfucker as there'd ever been--but she was pretty sure frilly lingerie meant the hostiles didn't want you for intel.
Colorado was supposed to be the end of the line. Cheyenne Mountain, down below Level 11, was full of short-timers finishing out their tours. Even the General was about to retire.
Jessie had been about to retire, too. Well, about to get the hell out of the Air Force, anyway, and into a line of work where people could know about Steph, and those babies she and Steph had been talking about having, without it costing her career and her ability to get a job ever again. They'd been playing it safe, waiting; Jessie hadn't even mentioned to anyone on base that she had a roommate. Too easy for them to jump to exactly the right conclusion, if she hadn't had time to lay down some misinformation first. It had been her first damn shift doing guard duty in that creepy room, playing poker with the boys.
And now this. The women around her sometimes cried, or prayed, or spoke--but never to each other. They didn't seem to know each other, didn't seem to understand each other anymore than she understood any of them. But those people--those things had been able to get into the most secure facility in the country, maybe in the world, and get back out with her. Jessie didn't remember the details, no matter how hard she tried, just that there had been gunfire. She couldn't think about what had happened to the rest of the squad, whether anyone had even seen where she was taken.
So maybe they could get in anywhere, go anywhere. Maybe they'd pulled women from all different places, to keep them from being able to communicate with each other. As if it would matter if they were able to pull together, to resist. But every time one of them came through the door, there were two more behind him, carrying those weird energy weapons and standing guard; from what she'd seen and heard there were dozens of them around, armed and armored beyond anything she'd ever seen or heard of.
Jessie had a feeling it wouldn't matter at all if the women could speak to each other. They had nothing to work with, not a chance against the overwhelming force outside.
Every woman there was stunningly beautiful, each one different. Mostly brunette, which probably made her stand out. And all in nightgowns. It wasn't hard to do the math.
When the door opened again, she tried to tuck herself further into the corner, but they were bringing in yet another woman with curly dark hair, dressed in yet another variation of filmy white nightgown. She struggled, but the guards took no more notice than they had when Jessie fought them, laying her down on the stone floor and walking out.
The new woman lay still for a while--breathing hard, maybe letting the drugs or the stun or whatever it was they did to you wear off--and then she pushed herself up to her knees and whispered, "Bastards."
The word was loud in the quiet room, so full of rage that it wouldn’t have needed translation in any language. For a second Jessie didn't realize she'd understood it.
Then the woman went on. "Swine. Dogs. False gods, false gods."
"Oh, God," Jessie whispered. In the next second she was out of her inconspicuous corner and moving, even though it meant going right where every eye in the room was focused, on the cursing woman.
Jessie got to her just as she moved on to, "Go to hell, sons of bitches--" and dropped to her knees in front of the woman, startling her into a brief silence.
"Oh, God, you speak English," Jessie gasped, and restrained herself from hugging the woman. She wouldn't have wanted to be hugged by a stranger, right after she'd been grabbed and stripped and dressed and dumped.
The woman looked at her, gaze lingering on her hair and then--not on her breasts--no, on her dog tags.
"You are of Danielle's people," the woman said softly, glancing toward the door. "The one who was taken. They are searching for you."
Oh God, they were searching for her. Jessie hadn't even allowed herself to contemplate whether there was going to be any kind of rescue coming. She'd tried not to think about what it meant that she couldn't be sure the United States military would do whatever it took to bring her back.
Jessie got to her feet and gestured toward the corner, and the woman followed her over.
"I'm--" Sergeant Jessica Hoyt, United States Air Force, "Jessie."
"I am Sha're," the woman answered. Her English was accented, a little stilted, but it sounded like heaven to Jessie. "They will find us. My Danielle defeated Ra. This false god will be no different."
Ra. False gods. Jessie closed her hand on her tags and focused on the one part that maybe made sense to her, the point of common ground even more stunning than English. "Your Danielle sounds pretty amazing."
Sha're nodded, opened her mouth, and then looked away, blinking quickly.
Jessie winced. "I--that's the worst thing for me, too. I have a girlfriend too. Steph." Sha're looked toward her, and Jessie looked away.
"I couldn't tell anyone," she said, waving the fist that held her dog tags. "They'd have thrown me out, dishonorable discharge--so no one knows about Steph, on base. No one's going to tell her why I didn't come home. I was supposed to be safe there, but..."
Her hand ached from the tightness of her grip. Jessie forced herself to let go, and looked down at the impressions of letters on her fingertips, fading before her eyes.
"We may yet be found," Sha're said, and her voice sounded steady again. "Any moment, we may be found."
"If I'm not here, though," Jessie said, because the women who left hadn't come back, and sometimes you could hear this horrible screaming that went on and on until it came to a sickeningly complete stop.
Sha're didn't try to interrupt her with reassurances. Jessie bowed her head.
"If I'm gone--tell them, tell them to call Stephanie Wilson, Colorado Springs. She works for the public schools. Tell them I'm not missing. Tell them I'm dead. I don't want her to wait..."
Sha're's hand closed over Jessie's, and Jessie turned her hand to hold on.
"I will remember," Sha're said. "And you must remember me, if Danielle comes and I am gone. Tell him of my death. I would not want him to wait, either."
Him. Daniel, in Sha're's sweet accent, not Danielle; they had nothing in common but English after all. Jessie's mouth twisted into a smile as her eyes filled with tears. It didn't matter anymore, and she knew it, and she was pretty sure Sha're knew it too.
Still. They had each other, for this moment before the doors opened again. "Sha're. I will remember."
iuliamentis and splash_the_cat. Because, dammit, that kidnapped and murdered Air Force sergeant deserved a name.
Also, once I put it up, this will be the 200th story on my website. \o/ (Suddenly I feel like it ought to have included Furlings.)
Gen. Missing scene from "Children of the Gods."
1,265 words. PG-13.
They'd let her keep her dog tags, at least.
Common Language
They'd let her keep her dog tags, at least, even when they stripped her naked and replaced her fatigues with this flimsy nightgown. She sat in the corner and closed her cold hands around her tags, watching the other women and the door and trying to think of what she was supposed to do next.
She was Sergeant Jessica Hoyt, United States Air Force, and she had a feeling they didn't give a damn about her name or rank or serial number. She hadn't had counter-interrogation training--she was as rear echelon a motherfucker as there'd ever been--but she was pretty sure frilly lingerie meant the hostiles didn't want you for intel.
Colorado was supposed to be the end of the line. Cheyenne Mountain, down below Level 11, was full of short-timers finishing out their tours. Even the General was about to retire.
Jessie had been about to retire, too. Well, about to get the hell out of the Air Force, anyway, and into a line of work where people could know about Steph, and those babies she and Steph had been talking about having, without it costing her career and her ability to get a job ever again. They'd been playing it safe, waiting; Jessie hadn't even mentioned to anyone on base that she had a roommate. Too easy for them to jump to exactly the right conclusion, if she hadn't had time to lay down some misinformation first. It had been her first damn shift doing guard duty in that creepy room, playing poker with the boys.
And now this. The women around her sometimes cried, or prayed, or spoke--but never to each other. They didn't seem to know each other, didn't seem to understand each other anymore than she understood any of them. But those people--those things had been able to get into the most secure facility in the country, maybe in the world, and get back out with her. Jessie didn't remember the details, no matter how hard she tried, just that there had been gunfire. She couldn't think about what had happened to the rest of the squad, whether anyone had even seen where she was taken.
So maybe they could get in anywhere, go anywhere. Maybe they'd pulled women from all different places, to keep them from being able to communicate with each other. As if it would matter if they were able to pull together, to resist. But every time one of them came through the door, there were two more behind him, carrying those weird energy weapons and standing guard; from what she'd seen and heard there were dozens of them around, armed and armored beyond anything she'd ever seen or heard of.
Jessie had a feeling it wouldn't matter at all if the women could speak to each other. They had nothing to work with, not a chance against the overwhelming force outside.
Every woman there was stunningly beautiful, each one different. Mostly brunette, which probably made her stand out. And all in nightgowns. It wasn't hard to do the math.
When the door opened again, she tried to tuck herself further into the corner, but they were bringing in yet another woman with curly dark hair, dressed in yet another variation of filmy white nightgown. She struggled, but the guards took no more notice than they had when Jessie fought them, laying her down on the stone floor and walking out.
The new woman lay still for a while--breathing hard, maybe letting the drugs or the stun or whatever it was they did to you wear off--and then she pushed herself up to her knees and whispered, "Bastards."
The word was loud in the quiet room, so full of rage that it wouldn’t have needed translation in any language. For a second Jessie didn't realize she'd understood it.
Then the woman went on. "Swine. Dogs. False gods, false gods."
"Oh, God," Jessie whispered. In the next second she was out of her inconspicuous corner and moving, even though it meant going right where every eye in the room was focused, on the cursing woman.
Jessie got to her just as she moved on to, "Go to hell, sons of bitches--" and dropped to her knees in front of the woman, startling her into a brief silence.
"Oh, God, you speak English," Jessie gasped, and restrained herself from hugging the woman. She wouldn't have wanted to be hugged by a stranger, right after she'd been grabbed and stripped and dressed and dumped.
The woman looked at her, gaze lingering on her hair and then--not on her breasts--no, on her dog tags.
"You are of Danielle's people," the woman said softly, glancing toward the door. "The one who was taken. They are searching for you."
Oh God, they were searching for her. Jessie hadn't even allowed herself to contemplate whether there was going to be any kind of rescue coming. She'd tried not to think about what it meant that she couldn't be sure the United States military would do whatever it took to bring her back.
Jessie got to her feet and gestured toward the corner, and the woman followed her over.
"I'm--" Sergeant Jessica Hoyt, United States Air Force, "Jessie."
"I am Sha're," the woman answered. Her English was accented, a little stilted, but it sounded like heaven to Jessie. "They will find us. My Danielle defeated Ra. This false god will be no different."
Ra. False gods. Jessie closed her hand on her tags and focused on the one part that maybe made sense to her, the point of common ground even more stunning than English. "Your Danielle sounds pretty amazing."
Sha're nodded, opened her mouth, and then looked away, blinking quickly.
Jessie winced. "I--that's the worst thing for me, too. I have a girlfriend too. Steph." Sha're looked toward her, and Jessie looked away.
"I couldn't tell anyone," she said, waving the fist that held her dog tags. "They'd have thrown me out, dishonorable discharge--so no one knows about Steph, on base. No one's going to tell her why I didn't come home. I was supposed to be safe there, but..."
Her hand ached from the tightness of her grip. Jessie forced herself to let go, and looked down at the impressions of letters on her fingertips, fading before her eyes.
"We may yet be found," Sha're said, and her voice sounded steady again. "Any moment, we may be found."
"If I'm not here, though," Jessie said, because the women who left hadn't come back, and sometimes you could hear this horrible screaming that went on and on until it came to a sickeningly complete stop.
Sha're didn't try to interrupt her with reassurances. Jessie bowed her head.
"If I'm gone--tell them, tell them to call Stephanie Wilson, Colorado Springs. She works for the public schools. Tell them I'm not missing. Tell them I'm dead. I don't want her to wait..."
Sha're's hand closed over Jessie's, and Jessie turned her hand to hold on.
"I will remember," Sha're said. "And you must remember me, if Danielle comes and I am gone. Tell him of my death. I would not want him to wait, either."
Him. Daniel, in Sha're's sweet accent, not Danielle; they had nothing in common but English after all. Jessie's mouth twisted into a smile as her eyes filled with tears. It didn't matter anymore, and she knew it, and she was pretty sure Sha're knew it too.
Still. They had each other, for this moment before the doors opened again. "Sha're. I will remember."