182: SGA: The Long Goodbye.

[thefourthvine]

SGA is ending. And the thing is, I actually got sad when I heard that, and I don't watch the show. (I watched, um, some episodes of season one. And it is not looking like I will have time for television before the earthling is, oh, twelve, so I doubt I'll see even those episodes that are Instant Slash Classics. I'm sorry! I'm just not very good at television.) But the fandom has been so very wonderful for me. I have over a thousand SGA bookmarks in my del.icio.us account alone. (No, you can't see that many. Most of them are unshared.) Almost five hundred of those are ones I consider recommendable. That doesn't include the vids, either. Or the art. Or the podfic. Or the comics. Or the meta.

I mean it when I say that this is an awesome fandom.

So, yeah, I'm sad that the show is going - because the fandom is sad, and because the fandom will change, and because there will be no more canon for this fandom to interpret and rewrite and argue about and vid. No more canon to transform. But at the same time, I'm not at all sad that the future of these characters is, in a few episodes, going to be entirely in the hands of fan fiction writers. Why? Well. Here are four reasons. Four of so very many.

Because When Fan Fiction Writers Do SG1 Crossovers, They Do It for All the Right Reasons. (Also, They Throw in More Gay Sex Than the Canon Writers Ever Have. But That's a Side Issue! Really!) At the Hour When We Are Trembling, John Sheppard/Daniel Jackson.

This story breaks two of my OTPs. TWO. And, you know, I usually won't even look at stories that break one, because I am a sensitive and fragile flower, and also I do not like to court pain. But I'd read Frostfire if she wrote Benton Fraser/Rodney McKay. (Well...I mean, I'd probably read that anyway, because talk about trainwrecks, oh my god. Giant Canadian trainwreck! Probably involving nuclear weapons! But if Frostfire wrote it, I wouldn't be reading with my hands partly covering my eyes.) And this story is exactly why.

This is - okay. Let's get this all out of the way up front - and, hey, let's do it movie-trailer-announcer-guy style:

In world destroyed by the greatest enemy humanity has ever faced,¹ two men forge an unlikely alliance.² They will fight...against overwhelming odds...to save the planet. But can they save each other?³

And I chose to summarize it that way because, truly, this would make an awesome movie. (The explicit gay sex would be particularly entertaining, although I suppose there might be some kind of ratings issue or something. The MPAA makes everything less fun.) But it makes an even more awesome story. (Also very engrossing. I pulled it up to re-check the capitalization on the title just now, and I had to re-read the whole thing again, even though I'd just re-read it in preparation for writing this rec. Block out some time for this one, is what I'm saying.) It's rare to see action written this well in fandom. Hell, it's not usually written this well in, you know, published action novels.

¹ The Goa'uld might have been worse - I mean, I would much rather have my life sucked out of me than have my body and mind taken over. But movie announcers are allowed to exaggerate. For example, they often say things are funny. Or tragic. I have noticed they are usually wrong about both.

² There also have, you know, a team. But movie announcers do not care about people whose names don't appear in the front credits of the movie.

³ Movie announcers would never talk about how they're already basically completely and totally crazy, and might be suitable for a padded room except for how you don't get padded rooms after the apocalypse.

Because Fan Fiction Writers Can Take Us Places Canon Writers Can't Even See from Where They're Standing. The Water Grinds the Stone, by auburnnothenna. Rodney McKay/John Sheppard.

(Note: this totally stands alone, but it is in fact a sequel to The Taste of Apples and Sacrificial Drift.)

This is a fucking novel, people. A great one. (Which, I might add, Auburn wrote in, I think, four months. I watched her word counter go up. It was hypnotizing and kind of terrifying, like those animated things that show you how many cats you have after unbridled breeding for eight generations. I kept wondering if we should club together to get her a holiday in a very cold place; I was afraid her brain would melt. She was obviously overclocking it to a substantial degree, and I suspect she voided her warranty.) This is - okay. This is science fiction as I wish the published stuff was; it's science fiction without the part where I end up wanting to punch the author in the nose. (And I say that with love for the genre. It is my native genre! Just not one where I'm especially welcome.) It builds an epic future for our characters and the stargate program, and - okay. It's not just that most science fiction writers can't do this. It's that the show's writers sure as shit can't do this - they're not this smart, they're not this brave, and they're limited by the episodic format.

So this is SGA (and SG1) with a great writer at the helm. And the brakes off. And, see, here's the thing: this story contains at least a little of a lot of things I don't like, including a couple of things that are deal-breakers for me. I did not care at all. I read this thing at what was, at the time, an incredible pace. I had a new baby, and I skipped sleep in order to finish this. (For those of you who do not have babies: this is like skipping food after you've been eating 400 calories a day for two months.) It's that compelling and that intense.

(Oh, and this story kind of breaks up two of my OTPs, as well. Because anyone who tells you John Sheppard/Atlantis isn't an OTP hasn't been reading in this fandom very long. Johnny and the city, sitting in...an ocean. Okay, the rhyme doesn't work. But the sentiment is definitely all through this fandom.)

I realize that a quarter of a million words is kind of a lot, and you may be hesitant about starting this story, but trust me: you will not be sorry. (Okay, there are a couple of places where you might be sorry, but let me promise you it all works out eventually.) (Also, you will be sorry if you have to get up the next day.) (But, really, other than that - no regrets! Probably! My apologies. I really shouldn't try to make absolute statements about anything.)

Because That Makes Us the Victors. I Mean, We're the Ones Still Writing the History, Right? Written by the Victors, by cesperanza. Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, Teyla Emmagan/John Sheppard.

If The Water Grinds the Stone brought SGA into reality in one way, Written by the Victors does it in a totally different way. Because just as that story is a very probable depiction of how declassification might go down, this is so absolutely how academia would deal with Atlantis. (As far as I can tell, the academic motto is, "When in danger, when in doubt, hurl citations all about. And if that doesn't work, build a blanketfort out of footnotes (or endnotes, depending on your field).")

But what I love about this story - my secret and abiding love for it - is. Okay. Once upon a time, when I was very young (seriously, I was in high school, and I do not want anyone telling me that this was unethical because I know it now but I was 14, okay?), I made money doing lit reviews for grad students. (For anyone who is blinking at the screen right now: people doing dissertations have to do a lot of reading on their topic, and then prove they've done it by writing it all down. A lot of them would, as it turns out, prefer not to do the actual research part of this, even if that means paying someone else to do it. And I guess once you've already paid a high school student to research everything in your field ever, photocopy it all, and give it to you ordered by topic with helpful sticky notes, it is not that hard to slip her a little extra money to do the writing part, too.)

My point - and, really, I'm getting there - is that I spent a lot of time in high school sitting in university libraries reading through various obscure journals, following the intensely formalized bickering that seemed to be 35% of what academics did, sometimes snickering at the obvious bitter grudges just barely concealed behind weasel phrases. And then, when I got to fandom, I had this immediate sense of familiarity when it came to certain kinds of meta and wank, but it took me some time to realize that was because it perfectly, but perfectly, recapitulated the academic bickering I spent so much time photocopying. It was like I was back in that bizarrely lit university library slaving over a hot photocopier. I'd come home! Sort of!

Well. This story - yes, fine, shut up, we've gotten back to the story now - is the perfect encapsulation of that. It's about how academics interpret things, yes, but it's also about how fandom does - and, really, it shows very clearly that academics and fandom are two peas in an awesome but somewhat contentious pod.

So that's my major source of joy in this story. Okay, and I also like the plot, yes, and I revel in this glorious, glorious ending for our heroes, which again is well beyond anything the canon writers could create, and, yes, I love so very many bits of it. But most of all I love that it makes my high school endeavors worthwhile.

Because Fan Fiction Writers Believe in the Characters. The Canon Writers Just Believe in the Show. Freedom's Just Another Word for Nothing Left to Lose, by synecdochic. Rodney McKay/John Sheppard.

Some stories I read waaaaaay up high on the catwalk over the chasm of disbelief. The slightest break in my laser-like focus on my mantra ("ignore it ignore it ignore it" or "it's just a story" or "I should really just relax"), and suddenly I'm falling into that chasm, shrieking as I fall, "Science doesn't WORK THAT WAY." For example. And after that, I have no choice but to shake hands with Mr. Back Button, your friend and mine.

This is not one of those stories. This is the opposite: a story so perfectly right, so perfectly accurate, that I was nodding all the way through. Because science really does work this way. I mean - not, you know, the wormhole and Ancient tech and all that, no, sorry - that's what we gently and kindly describe as science fantasy. But the academic stuff in this is dead on.

I loved this when I first read it. But I've been putting off recommending it for two years. I was afraid to re-read it, and I really don't know why, because this isn't in the category of Brilliant Things I Can Never Re-Read Because They Will Make Me Cry Myself to Death. (Examples of this category: samdonne's Your Cowboy Days Are Over. Or rheanna27's Theory of Everything. Totally worth reading. Totally. And, sorry, I can't get you links, because even that would potentially destroy me. Typing the titles was risky enough. ETA: The links are available in the comments, though, thanks to elaran, who is stronger than I am.) This didn't leave me sobbing helplessly, trying to keep from getting so much saltwater in my keyboard that it would stop working. It didn't leave me crying at all, because it really isn't a sad story. (It could have been. Written with a slightly different focus, it could have been a soul killer.)

No, I avoided re-reading this because it really is just that much like life. When I finished it the first time, I believed it - believed it more than the canon. Because the canon feels like a story. And this feels so real that after I finished it the first time, I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't canon. Everything looked a little fake for a while after I was done.

I did re-read it for this rec, of course. I had forgotten how quickly this story grabbed me the first time through, and it did it again - I read the first sentence, telling myself that after two paragraphs, I could go read one in my current Story That Heals All Wounds. (It is always best to have such a story waiting for you in a safety tab. Just in case.) I looked up some undefined amount of time later, smiling helplessly, just slightly teary, blinking away a different world. This is an incredible story, people.

Comments

[thefourthvine.livejournal.com]

Apparently I need to go give ivorygates a big ol' hug, which will be awkward, as I don't actually know her. Perhaps you'd like to be the Hug Emissary? Because, seriously, if she made you write the action in this, my only real question is how she can be motivated to bring out her whip (...or other Frostfire-motivating mechanism) again. I don't even care what the fandom is! (Much.) If you write Rodney and Fraser and a great Canadian train robbery, I will be there! Daniel Jackson and Indiana Jones in the Lost Pyramid of Souls? Yes indeed! Illya and John Sheppard wrastling wildlife in the Australian outback? Of course! (Although. Um. I really cannot see how that could possibly work. But I trust you. I do.)

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

“Uh,” said John.

The blond man with the big square remote control thing in his hand frowned at him. “That was not what was supposed to happen,” he said, in some kind of accent. Eastern European, sounded like. Russian, maybe.

“Okay,” John said cautiously. He looked around. Dirt. Reddish dirt. Occasional scrubby vegetation. Not the SGC, where he’d been the last time he looked. It might still be Earth, though—sky was the right color, sun the right color and size, there was a right-looking faint moon in the sky.
When something like this happened, John had found, the best thing to do was to go with the flow until either he figured what was going on, or things got sketchier than they were right now. “So what was supposed to happen?” he said.

“It’s supposed to bring the operator into the future,” said the blond man. He fiddled with some dials. “Unless these readings are wrong, no such thing has happened. Although, I suppose, we have moved forward forty-five seconds since I pushed the button; I wonder if R and D will declare that a success.” He glared down at the remote control. “I don’t care what Mr. Waverly says, I refuse to test any more scientific devices unless I am involved in their development from the initial stages.” He looked up from his scientific device, still scowling, this time at John. “And where did you come from? Or,” scowl fading a little, “when?”

“2008,” said John. “I hope that at least means something to you.”

The man blinked. He looked down at his device again, and then back up to John. “Anno Domini 2008?” he said cautiously.

Almost certainly Earth then, good. But from the way the guy was frowning, probably not 2008, not good. “Yeah,” said John. “Why, what year are we in now?”

“1963,” said the man faintly. He was still staring at John. “How unexpected,” he said finally.

[thefourthvine.livejournal.com]

OMG YES. YES. I was wrong! I admit it! John and Illya, together again, this is obvious and right and all things wonderful!

Also, if I do not get more of this, I will likely die. Just sort of fade away into nothingness. THAT WOULD BE SAD. THINK OF THE EARTHLING.

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

Weeeeellll...okay. For the Earthling. I hope he appreciates the terrible sacrifice I am...oh, yeah, right. IS THIS SHINY OR WHAT?


1963. Awesome. How the hell was he supposed to get back from 1963? It wasn’t like this was the Pegasus galaxy, with a million time-traveling Ancient artifacts lying around waiting for innocent people to fall on them and screw their lives up. He didn’t even have Rodney around to build one, which sucked, because the H.G. Wells jokes were just waiting to happen.

And oh, hell, the guy sounded Russian, and it was 1963, and John knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t sound anything but American. He looked around again. It didn’t look like they were in Russia, at least.

“I’m sorry,” said the man suddenly, recovering from staring; he looked a little embarrassed. “I’ve been terribly rude. My name is Illya Kuryakin; I am an agent with U.N.C.L.E.” He paused, and added, “That stands for United—”

“Network Command for Law Enforcement, yeah,” said John. “I know what it is, it—” was disbanded after the Cold War ended, he didn’t say. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea, even without Rodney around to tell him about all the ways in which it would be a bad, bad idea.

Illya Kuryakin seemed to understand, though. “Please,” he said, looking sort of disturbed, “I was only intending to travel forward a few days, and even that caused grave concern about temporal continuity and possible paradoxes. Do not tell me anything about the future. And I would think it best if you told no one else, either.” He glanced off to the left. “No matter how much they might want to know.”

John marked the gesture—possible partner in that direction—and said, “Don’t worry about it. Temporal continuity. I get it.” U.N.C.L.E., though—that meant this guy was okay with the U.S., which was good.

Unless he was lying. And it wasn’t like asking for ID would help, since he had no idea what U.N.C.L.E. ID even looked like.

Seriously, John hated time travel.

[thefourthvine.livejournal.com]

IT IS SO SHINY THAT I HAVE STARS WHERE MY EYES SHOULD BE. AND A HEART-SHAPED HALO OF JOY.

Will there be wombats soon? Are they in fact in Australia? Will John and Illya turn out to have lots in common? Will they find out with their tongues? I have a strong need to know!

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

Okay, LAST INSTALLMENT TONIGHT, because I have to go to BED so I can get up for CLASS in the morning. And also, I should really do some plotting (ohgod, is this actually becoming a story, what is wrong with me?) before it spirals out of control. Which it looks like it's about to do. The problem with Man from Uncle is that you have even more ridiculous plot possibilities than SGA. (Well, okay, maybe not problem, precisely.) No tongues yet, but it's going to happen, I swear.


“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, USAF,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Kuryakin. “Now, I assume your main agenda will be getting back to your own time, but I’m afraid my device—”

“Has a couple of glitches, yeah,” said John. It looked like the sixties, all big and boxy and with a couple of scary-looking antennae, and John was not sure he wanted to trust his temporal continuity to it. As annoying as the random, scattered quantum/nano/entropic/geothermal/exploding Ancient devices could be, at least they never looked like something out of classic Who.

“We may be able to work them out in Sydney,” said Kuryakin, “as soon as my partner returns.”

John frowned. “Sydney? Australia?”

“Ah, yes,” said Kuryakin, “I didn’t mention. Were you not in Australia when you were transported?”

John shook his head. “Colorado.”

Kuryakin frowned. “Now, that is odd. Spatial displacement as well as temporal--this device was certainly never designed for something so--well, in any case. We are in Australia, yes, though I work for U.N.C.L.E. New York.”

“Okay,” said John.

“The device was stolen, in point of fact,” said Kuryakin, “and brought here, to be used in a plot involving the genetic manipulation of--well, I suppose that doesn’t matter now.” He frowned. “I hadn’t thought they’d had time to tamper with it, but perhaps I was wrong.”

“They?” said John. Of course there was a they. Just because there was a Russian working harmoniously in New York for an international law-and-order organization didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be a they.

“Oh, yes,” said Kuryakin. “They. THRUSH. They are—” He was cut off by a yell, off in the distance, and he frowned. “That sounded like Napoleon.” He turned toward the noise, scanned the horizon. “I hope he isn’t having any trouble with the wombats.”

[thefourthvine.livejournal.com]

I NEED A NEW ICON TO COMMUNICATE HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU AND HOW MUCH JOY YOU BRING ME. In the meantime, this icon has been selected to represent just a TINY FRACTION of your awesomeness.

Wombats! (Wombats chew on things, you know! Possibly including Napoleon! Like maybe his shoes or something!) Australia! (Where it is hot and people sometimes sweat and wear HATS and John Sheppard could have to wear a HAT!) JOHN SHEPPARD AND ILLYA KURYAKIN!

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3!

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

okay, at long last:

John blinked. Thrush, Napoleon, wombats. Nope, didn’t make any more sense the second time around. The best place to start was probably with the yelling, so he said, “Napoleon?” cautiously.

“My partner,” said Kuryakin, pulling something out of his pocket that turned out to be a tiny telescope thing. “He was supposed to be handling the wildlife while I went forward to check on the status of THRUSH’s--oh, dear.”

John was going to get tired of this habit of not finishing important sentences really really soon.

But Kuryakin had carefully set the time machine down and was running in the direction of the yells, pulling a gun. John gave it a nanosecond’s consideration and then took off after him, hoping that no killer wombats got past them and stepped on the time machine while they were gone.

He had his handgun out--his P-90 was back in 2008, of course--and it was very clear very quickly what he needed to be shooting at. A dark-haired guy was pelting towards them, followed by three very, very big…things. Wombats? John had always thought of wombats as vaguely Ewok-ish; he hadn’t thought they were this big. Or that their teeth were that sharp. Or that they could move that fast.

Kuryakin had stopped, and John came up next to him, aiming above the running guy’s head. He fired, going for an eye, and hit; fired again and missed. Jesus, they were huge, and they still had that fucking weird wombat beak thing; the one he’d hit had been smiling around it, creepily human-looking.

Beside him, Kuryakin killed the second one with a neat shot between the eyes, and then the third one was too close and they were running. John fired over his shoulder, didn’t hit anything, fired again and heard an outraged wombat squeal. On his next glance back he saw the last wombat slowing down, getting further away, which was good because they were almost back to where they’d left the—

Kuryakin came to a sudden, tripping stop. John actually crashed into him, sort of; he slowed down enough to keep from knocking anyone over, but there was a second of steadying hands and blond hair in his face and thinking he’s sturdier than he looks. When John finally got his balance back and stepped away from Kuryakin, he was about to ask what was up when he figured it out. This was where they’d left the time machine, and the only thing here was bare red dirt streaked with fresh tire-tracks.

“Great,” said John. “That’s just…awesome.”

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

I should be in BED, WTF.


The other guy--Napoleon, probably, and what kind of nickname was that, he wasn’t even short--raised an eyebrow. “Was there supposed to be something here?”

Kuryakin had closed his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, this is where I left the time machine so that I would have both hands free to save you from the wombats. As you can see,” he gestured, “it is no longer here.”

“And whoever happened by is long gone, judging from the tracks,” said the guy. “Illya, what have I told you about leaving toys out for the other children to find?”

“You would prefer to be dead because I could not run fast enough or aim accurately enough while juggling fifteen kilos of quantum disruption?” Kuryakin snapped.

“Fair enough,” said Napoleon with a little smile, and then turned towards John and said, “And what have we here?”

“Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard,” John said, biting back some more annoyed words. He was hot and sweaty and stuck in 1963 and he’d almost been killed by wombats to save this guy’s life, and a little gratitude would have been nice. Getting pissed off about it was probably an overreaction, though.

“The time machine brought him,” said Kuryakin, sounding resigned. “From the year 2008.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows went up. “2008?” he asked.

John nodded. “2008.”

“It wasn’t supposed to do that,” said Napoleon.

“No,” Illya sighed. “It wasn’t.” He looked hot and sweaty, too, with a flushed face and hair sticking to his forehead and neck, and also like he was seriously over this entire situation. John sympathized.

“2008,” said Napoleon thoughtfully, and then more slowly, “Two thousand and--say, does U.N.C.L.E. still exist then? Is—”

“Napoleon,” said Kuryakin firmly, “please try to recall the conversation we had in Mr. Waverly’s office about continuity and paradoxes. Colonel Sheppard cannot tell us anything about the future.”

“Oh--yes,” said Napoleon regretfully. “I suppose you’re right. Well.” He turned to John again. “Napoleon Solo. Pleased to meet you, Colonel Sheppard.”

“Likewise,” said John, wondering for the first time if Napoleon was actually the guy’s real first name. Who the hell named their kid Napoleon?

“Where’s your gun?” Kuryakin asked suddenly. “I know you had it when we arrived here. We could have used it ten minutes ago.”

“I lost it,” said Napoleon, looking shamefaced. “There were these enormous kangaroos, you see, and I had to scale a rock to get away from their claws—”

“Never mind.” Kuryakin shook his head. “I don’t want to know. In fact, all I want right now is to leave, before the kangaroos find us out here. We have a Jeep parked a half-mile that way,” he said to John, waving towards a less flat area. “Hopefully no one has stolen that.”

The walk to Jeep was hot and sweaty, of course; John was going to get a wicked sunburn if they stayed out for much longer, and his BDUs were already almost soaked through. And it was looking more and more like he was going to be staying long enough to need a change of clothes.

[cupidsbow.livejournal.com]

Of course someone stole the time machine. It was probably Jack O'Neill. :)

[cupidsbow.livejournal.com]

PS--Awesome!

[cupidsbow.livejournal.com]

That's so perfect, you need to be awarded a prize immediately.

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

ahahaha, thank you! John/Illya is sort of a prize by itself, though. And now there is more! scroll up!

[anatsuno.livejournal.com]

oh, oh, oh, I will be on pins and needles til I know more! THIS IS PERFECT. It makes me want to know how to draw so I can illustrate it!!

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

More is here, scroll up! And oh man, this part should be illustrated. I need to find a way to make that happen.

Glad you're liking it! *bounces*

[anatsuno.livejournal.com]

WOMBATS! *so excited by it all, still!*

[toft-froggy.livejournal.com]

OH MY GOD I AM SO EXCITED BY THIS YOU HAVE NO IDEA. John! Illya! Wombats! Makeouts! My life is exponentially better. And YES, I meant exponentially.

[frostfire-17.livejournal.com]

I AM EXCITED TOO, SO EXCITED THAT I AM WRITING MORE AT ONE IN THE MORNING WHEN I SHOULD BE ASLEEP. Scroll up to see another thousand words!