Backup LJs, SGA WIPs Meme

[merelyn]

 Hey all. I've set up backup journals over on greatestjournal and insanejournal. Same user name. I plan on synching them with this journal. Feel free to friend me, though I've haven't gotten around to friending anyone on those accounts myself yet. < /lazy fucker>

Also: WIP Meme!

When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.

OMG I have WIPs! I should be unemployed more often!




HSM/SGA Fusion Fic: Breaking Free

This part follows directly after the first bit:


John strolled into homeroom five seconds after the bell rang. He sat down at his usual desk, three quarters of the way in the back, on the side by the door.

“John, so pleased you decided to grace us with your presence for another year,” Ms. Weir said, turning around from the front of the room.

“Sorry, Ms. W,” John said with an apologetic shrug. He hadn’t meant to be late. It had taken forever to get through the halls what with everyone congratulating him about the basketball team.

“That’s okay, John, as long as you don’t make a habit of it.” He liked Ms. Weir, even though she was the Drama teacher, but the way she talked to him reminded John of his mom in a very weird way. “I heard you were named captain of the basketball team this year. Congratulations.” She smiled at him, and John tried to smile back. He could feel everyone in the room looking at him.

“Thanks,” he managed, ignoring the way his ears were turning red. That’s all anyone wanted to talk about today. What they weren’t saying, John knew, was “Congratulations on being the coach’s son.” He slouched down further in his seat.

Thankfully, at that moment, someone burst into the room and distracted everyone.

“Hi,” the guy huffed. He had sandy blonde hair, a messenger bag, and jeans as skinny as he was. Definite scene kid.  “It’s my first day. I got lost. I’d apologize, but it’s not my fault the map from the front office looks like a Family Circus cartoon.”

Ms. Weir blinked. Someone tittered in the front row.  John stared at him; whoever he was, he looked really, really familiar.
 
Of course the only open seat was the one right in front of John. Of course the New Kid kept bending over to dig things out of his messenger bag, causing his t-shirt to ride up, exposing his lower back and making John think stuff he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to do anymore.

Ms. Weir went through some business (blah blah blah the spring musical was West Side Story, blah blah blah Ms. Weir was looking for volunteers…), and John zoned out when she began calling roll. Then Ms. Weir said the name “Rodney McKay” and the New Kid said, “present,” and John almost choked on the Coke he was drinking for breakfast.

Rodney McKay. He knew that name. It was programmed into his cell phone with a blurry picture of one freakishly blue eye. The number and a horrible hangover were his only two souvenirs from New Years Eve. (Well three, if you counted the embarrassingly big hickey. Which John did.)

“It couldn’t be,” John murmured, pulling out his cell phone. He called the number under his desk, supremely confidant that there was no way that New Years Eve Rodney was at his school, in his class, sitting in front of him.

The feeling of smugness lasted for all of two seconds before the New Kid’s messenger bag started beeping the Star Trek Theme Song, of all things.

Rodney- Rodney, Jesus- dove for his bag again, and yep, glanced at the display with shock. John fumbled to hang up, cursing under his breath, which was when Rodney whipped around and there were two of those blue eyes, no longer fuzzy, staring right at him.

“Holy shit,” Rodney gaped. His cell phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor under John’s desk.

John bent down to get it and then handed over to Rodney, who was still staring at John. “Here,” John murmured. Rodney looked liked he was going to have an asthma attack. It was kind of cute.

“John Sheppard,” Ms. Weir said.

“Present,” said John. “I mean, I’m here,” he added hastily, looking away from Rodney. Ms. Weir and the whole class were watching him again.

“Rodney, I know you’re new here, so I’ll let it slide this once, but in the future, we have a zero tolerance policy on cell phones,” Ms. Weir said, crossing her arms. She was too nice to be very intimidating, though.

“Sorry,” Rodney said. He didn’t sound sorry so much as on the verge of vomiting.

“That’s okay. John, since you two already seem to be acquainted, why don’t you spend the rest of homeroom giving Rodney a tour of the school?”

“But.” Rodney flapped a hand weakly between them. John shot him an alarmed look, because what was Rodney going to say? I can’t, Ms. Weir, we hooked up last month, and that would be incredibly awkward? 

“I’d be glad to,” John said. He stood up, grabbed his backpack, and hauled Rodney out of the room before he could say anything else.

An uncomfortable silence descended as soon as they got out of the classroom and into the (thankfully empty) hallway.

“Hey,” said John.

“Hi,” said Rodney. He tugged at his jacket.

“Cool bag,” John said, gesturing to Rodney’s messenger bag.

“Oh, Thanks.” Rodney looked a little smug about that, for some reason.

“But why does it still have the price tag?”

“No reason,” Rodney said.


The Sheppard Identity

Or, The One Where Sheppard Is a Trust Agent Who Wakes Up With No Memory of Himself and Goes On the Run From Them With The Help of a Certain Blue-Eyed Scientist, blah blah blah Europe! Blah blah blah Sheppard defects! Blah blah blah I haven’t even finished the first movie yet!

This would be the opening scene, I guess:

When he woke up, someone had just dug something out of his hip. He took one shallow breath and stock of his surroundings. It was warm but damp, the room was rocking gently and filled with the salty smell of fish. Boat. Probably fishing boat. The man had moved away but was coming back again.

All of this passed through his mind in an instant. In the next, he leapt off the table, grabbed the man’s wrist and slammed him into the wall, twisting his arm into his back.  The man cried out- is he Scottish?- over the clatter of instruments hitting the floor.

“What were you doing to me?” he growled, mind frantically tripping over questions: why the fuck he was on a fishing boat, and- of even more concern- why the fuck was some Scottish guy taking a scalpel to him?

The Scottish guy sniveled into the wall. “What were you doing to me?” he repeated slowly.

“Nothing!” the Scottish guy said. “Nothing. After I took the bullets out of your back, I noticed a new scar on your hip, and thought maybe…” When the Scottish guy trailed off he twisted the man’s arm harder. “I’m a friend!” the Scottish guy yelped. “I’m a friend. We pulled you out of the water this morning. I’m the ship’s doctor, son, I was just trying to fix you up.”

He considered this for a moment, and for some reason he knew the man was telling the truth. He released the Scottish guy, who turned around, panting and clutching his arm.

“It’s over there, in that tray,” the Scottish guy said, jerking his chin toward the other side of the room. “I don’t what it is, it was flashing strangely, but I didn’t have a chance to find out why.” The indignant before you manhandled me into the wall was politely left unspoken.

He backed over to the table, keeping his eyes on the Scottish guy, who was watching him warily. There was something very, very wrong here.

The device was small, a tiny piece not even an inch long. He picked it up with weak and shaky fingers. Some instinct, he knew not what, made him push the end of the device and point it at the dirty gray wall above the sink. A blue light at the top flared, printing a string of words on the wall like a mini laser pointer:

10-39-111-485-69-01
Gemulinschaft Bank
Zurich

“A bank account?” he murmured, and then felt his knees buckle under him. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the two bleeding holes in his back began to throb painfully.
 
The Scottish guy caught him before he hit the counter on his way down. “You need to rest, come here.”

He was maneuvered onto a cot, far more gently than he would have expected considering he’d just assaulted the man. “There you are, lie down. Now, can you tell me who you are? What happened to you?”

“I don’t know,” he said, suddenly realizing what was wrong. “I don’t know. Oh god.” Everything went black.



And that's off to bed with me, since I have to catch an early bus to NYC. Really beginning to hate job interviews. Just employ me, already!

Comments

[lillianloop.livejournal.com]

JOY JOY SUCH GREAT JOY. OMG JOY.

(Speaking of WIP... well, I'm writing McShep Trap. Kill me now, it would be kinder.)

[merelyn.livejournal.com]

McShep Trap! Yessss! *punches the air* If you ever want anyone to keep you from committing crack!fic suicide collaborate with you on it, er, look no further.

Also, Sweet Zombie Jesus, why am I still awake?

[lillianloop.livejournal.com]

A WORLD OF YES I WILL BE AT WORK BY 9. GET ON GMAIL AND I WILL MAKE ALL YOUR WILDEST DREAMS COME TRUE. WITH A LOT OF CAPS LOCK.

[merelyn.livejournal.com]

SADLY I WILL BE ON A BUS WITH NO INTERNET ACCESS. MAYBE LATER THIS AFTERNOON?

[lillianloop.livejournal.com]

EMAIL ME AT MY GMAIL ADDRESS AND I WILL SOLVE ALL PROBLEMS AND BRING GREAT JOY.

[annon-of-rhi.livejournal.com]

Hi. Here via Pru's East Coast Gazette. And OMG I HOPE YOU CONTINUE THAT HSM/SGA FUSION. SO MUCH LOVE RIGHT NOW.

That is all. :D