Round #1 Challenge #4 - Voting
Read each entry, and comment with the number of the THREE FICS you liked THE LEAST. When voting, you must provide a reason for your selection, the reason the fic didn't work for you. Please provide concrete criticisms, and don't vote strictly by personal preferences (e.g. pairing, POV, etc.) -- however, your reasoning doesn't need to be lengthy. Authors are allowed to vote.
You may also vote for your most favorite fic, though a reason is not required for that. Please select only ONE (i.e. no ties).
Authors will be provided with any comments their fic receives, upon request; while it will be completely anonymous, please bear that in mind when commenting.
Please include the number AND the title, to eliminate confusion. An example of how to vote:
Least favorite
31) Title - Reason
43) Title - Reason
52) Title - Reason
Most favorite
38) Title
Voting is screened, and will remain open until Monday. Voting is open to anyone, so please feel free to link to this post - but remember authors, DO NOT reveal which story is yours until the voting is finished. Once the winner & eliminations have been announced, you may post your story anywhere you like.
This week, only one author will be eliminated.
If you would like to make comments about any entries which are neither your least favorite nor your most favorite, please do so here.
01. Twenty-Nine - PG, spoilers through 'The Siege Part 2
Sora's first escape attempt was five days, five uncomfortable visits from Teyla, and five sleepless nights after her capture. Her second attempt was the next day. The third attempt was three weeks later, but that was only because she wanted to let her wrist heal a little after one of the guards broke it tackling her to the ground. She was particularly proud of her fourth attempt--she was only half a hallway from the gate room when Teyla caught up with her.
"Aren't you tired of catching me?" she asked the Marine who brought her back the seventh time.
"You keep running, I'll keep catching," the Marine said. She had short black hair and her name was Voscorian.
Voscorian also brought her back the ninth time, and the twelfth and thirteenth. "At least you're giving me a chance to practice my half nelsons," she said grimly as she wrestled Sora through her cell door.
Sora was plotting her twenty-ninth escape attempt (she hadn't even made it out of her cell for the twenty-eighth, which was humiliating) when Dr. Weir came to tell her that she had offered to trade Sora back to her people as part of a negotiation involving weapons to attack the Wraith, and that the Genii had refused. Sora saw Voscorian standing guard at the door, eyes determinedly away from Sora, and that convinced her more than anything Weir could say about political instability or the necessities of war.
There never was a twenty-ninth attempt.
02. Memory in Movement - General Audience, no spoilers
Charin closed her eyes for a moment, letting the gentle warmth of the rising sun warm her and the cooler wind off the ocean sooth her. She lay, comfortably wrapped in a blanket, watching Teyla complete her morning exercises.
Teyla’s body was a picture of strong muscle and flowing lines silhouetted against the morning light. Each movement was precisely placed as she swept the fighting stick upward in a carefully controlled arc, her eyes following an imaginary target. Her whole body moved as one, carefully maintaining the momentum without losing control. It was like a graceful dance, one carefully honed by years of patient practice.
Charin smiled, remembering a much younger Teyla, a little over two years old. The chubby little toddler had stood behind her mother one morning, a small stick in her hands and a look of sheer determination plastered on her little face. Charin had laughed that morning, watching the small child attempt to copy her mother’s movements with an awkward grace.
It wasn’t long before the women had been taking turns to teach the stubborn child the patterns she would practice for the rest of her life.
"Again, Teyla. You are rushing. Have patience. It is not about strength, but using the power the movement itself creates. Remember to follow through with your whole body."
A twelve-year-old Teyla had stamped her foot petulantly, frowning at Charin and throwing her sticks down in anger. Her attitude had suddenly changed, though, when her mother had been taken a few days later. Like so many children, she had realised that she needed to grow up, and she had finally grasped the frightening reality of the Wraith.
"Always running, always looking to the sky in fear," Charin whispered now, watching the wise and caring leader Teyla had grown to be. She would be glad to be free of that fear when death finally claimed her.
Charin realised, long ago, that for Teyla the exercises she practices with such poise every morning are a reminder of her mother and the other women that taught her from such an early age. Women she has lost over time. Charin felt Teyla honouring them with each careful move. She saw a mother’s strong arms guiding her only child’s smaller ones through carefully controlled patterns, the same calm voice praising her and correcting her gently.
Charin felt only pride when she looked back to Teyla. The younger woman had finished the pattern she was practicing this morning and she straightened, bowing to the sun.
03. Rebirth - PG, Spoliers for 3.06 Real World
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
The sea-salt air tickled her throat as she shifted, wiggling her toes over the edge. At first she couldn’t do it, the tension in her shoulders was too strong, the worries too firm to let go. She stood there for minutes, hours maybe, trying to empty her mind.
Trying to remember what it felt like.
"When you’re up there, it’s just you. Only you can do what needs to be done. Doubt yourself, and you’ll fail. Know yourself, believe in what you can do, and you’ll fly."
Instead, the weight of the last few years made her shoulders slouch. Standing alone on the platform, there was nothing to distract her from the voices in her head.
The truth of it was she had no idea who she was anymore.
"Understand the situation. Then visualize what you have to do."
The ability to singularly focus on an action and bring it about was what had kept her coming back to the practices; especially when her time could have been better spent working on translations for her thesis. Now here she was, twelve years later; trying to see if the approach could solve her other problems too.
Ever since she’d recovered from the nanites, she’d caught glimpses of other people’s doubts in her--their half-whispers, they way they averted their eyes, their stopped conversations when she entered a room. They wondered how she’d almost let them win.
She wondered that herself.
What kind of person had she turned into, that the nanites could make her doubt the past two years of her life?
Standing alone on the precipice, Elizabeth finally realized the answer. Be neutral, have no opinion, present no bias to either side. Those were the skills she’d perfected while working for the UN. She’d learned to think that way, act that way, dress that way, until it was a part of her. As a negotiator, her job had been to understand the motivations of others, and use that to trick or coerce or guide them to a decision. Regardless of how she felt about the parties involved or the issues they were discussing.
It was possible she hadn’t given the nanites much opposition because she’d turned herself into an empty shell long before they’d invaded her body.
Elizabeth wiggled her toes again and inhaled deeply. Even if she’d forgotten how to do the more complex dives, she could feel her body slowly remembering the forward one-and-a-half-pike as she visualized it in her head.
Buried deeper still, underneath the masks and roles and restrictions she’d placed upon herself, she could feel her body remembering other things, too.
She opened her eyes and looked across the blue expanse of ocean as the city of Atlantis rose behind her. Somewhere inside, she was still Elizabeth - she could rebuild from that if she tried.
As she cut through the shockingly cold water, she felt a thrill of exhilaration that she hadn’t felt in years.
04. Happiness is Dirty Fingernails - G
The words of Kate's grandmother - the late, great Heightmeyer matriarch bubbe Heneh - echoed inside her head as she dropped to her knees and began to gather up the shards of the latest witness to Miko Kusanagi's psychosexual rage.
"Don't be a shlemil like your uncle Zelig, Katechik. You want to poke around inside people's heads you go into private practice. It's better hours and greater money. You get to choose which of the meshuggeners, the crazy goyim, you have to work with, day in, day out, and they have to believe you when you tell them that forty-five minutes is really an hour. They even pay you for it."
The last fragment of colourful, imperfectly made Athosian pot landed in the bottom of the wastebasket beside her desk and Kate rose gracefully to her feet and crossed to the tiny storage closet discreetly tucked away in the corner of the room. The box on the top shelf was almost empty now; only one pot - rainbow-streaked and slightly sagging - remained inside.
Back on Earth, she had had her own little kiln in the basement, right next to the potter's wheel and the hermetically sealed drum that held her supply of clay. She had also had plenty of time in her evenings and weekends to devote hours to throwing misshapen pots - her own personal form of therapy and a hobby she now realised she really started to miss.
But free time wasn't in great supply here in Atlantis, so Kate had made a business deal with a couple of trainee potters on the mainland. A pair of MP3 players and regular deliveries of batteries and thumb drives, crammed full of every possible kind of music, kept her office supplied with ready breakables. Sometimes a person just needed to throw something and see it break before they could break down themselves.
Kate didn't know if bubbe Heneh would have approved of the hours she was working, or that she took on every client who came knocking at her door. The money she was bringing in - and not spending - would have raised one of those carefully redrawn eyebrows and got her a lecture on calling cousin Ira for investment advice, but, for all that she knew the price and the value of everything in and around her family, her grandmother had been supremely unconcerned with cold hard cash. Bubbe Heneh was only happy if her family was happy.
The surface of the pot was paint-slick and rough-clay grainy beneath the absent stroking of Kate's thumb. It felt good. With a tiny nod of determination, she decided to ask her young friends if she could maybe get her hands dirty the next time she was over on the mainland. She was always happiest when she had clay under her fingernails, and she figured that bubbe Heneh would certainly have approved of that.
05. Daddy's Girl - PG, Spoilers for 'Instinct'
Ellia slowly pressed the stone pestle into the dried herbs with a smooth twisting motion. She concentrated as hard as she could on the sensation of the leaves and stems crumbling and shredding under her touch, as if to sublimate the aching, grinding feeling tearing at her own belly. Father believed in his cure, and she could not disappoint him. For him, she would collect, and press and distill these poor substitutes and learn to be what he wanted.
She could not bring herself to destroy his hope, or his heart, and both would surely be broken, if he knew what she did to survive. Yet, she could not help herself. The need would grow and gnaw at her, twisting her belly and scrambling her thoughts until she could take it no more, and she slowly felt her control fade away. She could not risk his disappointment, nor could she risk his life.
She had heard and learned his lessons. She knew of love and companionship and home, and she craved those things for herself. That was not what the taunting voice of her companion in the forest offered her, and it was not what she would find in the village, or anywhere, if she lost control and took from her father's fragile body what she needed. Otherwise, he would not have given them up himself to shelter her in this cave.
He was weak, and mortal, and she had sapped his strength as far as she dared. They both knew that she would outlive him, and teaching her these things gave him strength and purpose, and kept him from turning from her in fear and shame. For that alone, the charade was worth it's purpose.
She was smart and strong. The being that taunted her as he roamed the forest was no threat to her. He desired her, yet thought her weak. She used him for her purpose. She could feel his hunger, his hunt. He taunted her with them, and she grew to almost welcome them. They were her freedom. When they came, she would wait for father to sleep, sometimes easing his way with the herbs that he had taught her, and she would slip out to shadow the monster in the hills, feeding in the dark of night and cover of his crimes.
She thought perhaps that the creature began to only feed at night, because he knew that was the only time that she would follow. Maybe it allowed its hunger to stretch, as hers did, rather than feeding indiscriminately, because he knew that was the best way to draw her out. Companionship was her coin as well as her reward, and she used to walk between the worlds and survive.
She learned her lessons well, through perseverance, faith and repetition. She could not fail, with so much at stake. She may not be human, but she could pretend, with practice. After all, despite the face she wore, she was her father's daughter.
06. Corporate and Family Law - G, Mild spoilers for 'Epiphany' & SG-1 'Counterstrike'
Elizabeth looked up as Teyla entered her office. The younger woman had just returned from a meeting with one of the country’s best psychologists for information on a case; Elizabeth hoped she had good news.
"What did Dr. Heightmeyer say?" she asked as Teyla sat.
"According to her, Heda is happy and emotionally healthy. In her interviews she found no evidence that Teer is an unfit guardian, and even stated that removing Heda from her sister’s custody would be, quote, ‘incredibly detrimental to her development.’" Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, and Teyla smiled. "And yes, she would be willing to swear as much under oath."
Elizabeth smiled for the first time in weeks. Though her firm usually specialized in corporate law, Teer’s status as a rising star in Alterran Corporations led her to step in.
"What about her involvement with the Ascendant Group? I know Origin Corp. was planning to use that against her." One of Elizabeth’s biggest worries was that Teer’s strict, meditative religion and the fact that she lived in an Ascendant commune could be used against her.
"Dr. Heightmeyer says the Ascendant lifestyle is not a threat to Heda’s well-being, and is, in fact, better for her than the lifestyle she would likely have were custody awarded to Adria." Elizabeth sighed in relief. Though Alterran Corporations and Origin Corp. had begun as different branches of the same family company, philosophical differences had begun a feud that only escalated as the businesses grew and gained near-iconic status. Teer’s situation was just the latest battle in a longstanding war. While their parents had named her as Heda’s guardian in the event of their deaths, their cousin Adria wished to combat the claim, stating that between Teer’s responsibilities to the company and her adherence to what Adria claimed was an "immoral, undisciplined lifestyle within a filthy commune", she couldn’t possibly be a fit guardian, and that young Heda was much better off with Adria. After all, she was head of Origin Corp., with all the money and resources and "firm moral standing" that implied.
Elizabeth was shaken from her thoughts at Teyla’s troubled look. "What is it?"
"I just do not understand how the custody of a child has turned into another corporate battle. Do these people have no shame?" Elizabeth sat back in her chair and spoke, her voice weary.
"You know why this is happening, Teyla. For all they have grown into multi-national giants, both companies are still family businesses at their core. Everyone’s brought up knowing the business; it’s their strength. Heda has tested off the charts; she’s a certified genius. Adria wants her to be the next head of Origin Corp. And Teer…," Elizabeth trailed off and sighed. "Teer just wants her little sister." The two women shared a look before Teyla stood.
"I will call Teer; let her know the news. Shall we all meet tomorrow?"
"Yes," Elizabeth was already working out arguments in her head. They could win this. "Tomorrow."
07. Hearts and Roots - Teen, general spoilers for S1 & S2
The first batch Teyla brought her was nothing more than tuttleroots and water.
"Father says leaders have to take care of their own. You are ill, so I will take care of you," the child told her, and Charin smiled. Then she patiently explained how a good tuttleroot soup needed earth-hearts and balbal, the fresh leaves of a sillia and the smoked meat of a turlon beast, as well as the usual herbs. How all those ingredients came together to make a better whole.
Teyla nodded earnestly, and took her soup away. Two hours went by, during which Charin went to the abort, remade her bed, and took a nap. When she woke, Teyla was watching her from the floor, sitting cross-legged with a steaming bowl balanced on her knees.
"I do feel a little hungry," Charin said, although she didn't. This time, the tuttleroots were hard and grainy, the meat had turned grey, and the balbal had all but dissolved. Teyla listened with wide eyes as Charin told her about time and patience, adding the ingredients in their right order and watching for the little signs that told when the soup was ready. Then the child scurried away, and Charin went back to bed.
The sky outside had already begun to darken when Teyla returned, proudly carrying her bowl of soup. The earth-heart pieces were of a fine yellow, the balbal a bit hard, but done. Sillia and turlon meat had been added last, giving the soup a strong bouquet, and the tuttleroots had been cooked almost to perfection.
The taste was awful. Charin managed to eat about half of it before she had to give up.
"The most important thing about tuttleroot soup," she said, "is that it will never be perfect unless your heart is in it. It has to mean more to you than a chore."
The little girl in front of her looked ready to cry, so Charin pulled her into a fond embrace and stroked the long, auburn hair.
"Not all of us are made for the fireplace, Teyla," she whispered. Then the two of then shared a meal of sweet bread and almond honey.
Almost ten years went by before Teyla, returning home from a successful trade with the Genii, realised how the lessons she had learned that day had little to do with cooking.
That evening, she asked Charin to cook them both some tuttleroot soup, and smiled.
08. The Necessity of Listening, general audience, no spoilers
Elizabeth had always thought that she was a good listener. She had been the one in high school that people came to when they had problems; her parents had both complained about each other to her so that they wouldn’t kill each other; she’d negotiated treaties, dealt with bureaucracy at the SGC, and now she ran a city in another galaxy.
Listening wasn’t always easy. It took practice to not zone out in particularly long and tedious meetings, something that she’d had to work hard at. The human brain was just not wired to concentrate so fully for so long. It was a little difficult to provide a solution to a problem if you hadn’t heard what the problem was, or had missed the nuances and subtext that told you that the underlying issue was actually something entirely different to what the parties were talking about.
She had always been told that she was a good listener. She listened, formed an opinion, and offered comfort, advice or a solution. What the other party chose to do with the advice she offered was up to them; if they ignored it, they were the ones who had to deal with the consequences.
Elizabeth had always thought that she was a good listener, until she met Teyla. The woman had such a calm presence that Elizabeth had started to feel that she could confide in her. The first time Elizabeth had revealed her doubts about whether she was the right person to be leading Atlantis, Teyla hadn’t said a word. She had just smiled gently and let Elizabeth talk until she’d realised that the doubts were natural, and she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
While Elizabeth thought that she was a good listener, Teyla was a listener. She hadn’t offered her opinion, she hadn’t tried to impart some ancestral wisdom, she had just provided the outlet and sounding board that Elizabeth had needed to work out and rationalise her own feelings. Elizabeth had been able to evaluate the nuances and subtext in her own speech and come to a conclusion that was beneficial for the one party involved - herself - by having to explain her feelings to another person who only listened.
She realised that what she had thought was listening was really something else. She was a good listener, but only because it was essential to being a great problem solver.
Listening is such a simple act. It requires us to be present, and that takes practice, but we don't have to do anything else. We don't have to advise, or coach, or sound wise. We just have to be willing to sit there and listen.
Margaret J. Wheatley
09. Feigning Normalcy - PG, Spoilers for 'The Real World'
For the third time in as many nights, Elizabeth Weir woke up screaming.
She shot straight up in bed, her hands twisting her blanket as she gasped for air. As her breathing slowly came under control, Elizabeth sent up a silent prayer of thanks that most of the rooms used as quarters in Atlantis were sound-proofed.
Atlantis.
Even though she knew it was irrational, Elizabeth couldn't help but glance quickly around her room just to convince herself that it was real. She had never truly believed that her life in the Ancient city was nothing more than a dream, not really ... at least, that's what she kept telling herself. Deep down, though, she couldn't help but wonder just how close she had come to losing everything.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth glanced over at her clock and sighed when she saw just how early it was. She knew that going back to sleep wasn't even a remote possibility, but she was also well aware that someone would eventually notice that she was waking up hours earlier than usual. Still, there wasn't anything she could do about that.
She reluctantly pulled herself out of bed and made her way over to the mirror hanging on the wall. She froze as she caught sight of her reflection, and she couldn't help but stare at it for a second in surprise before forcing her mouth to twist upward into a smile. It looked forced even to her, and she quickly focused all of her attention onto the action. After what seemed like ages, though she knew it couldn't have been more than a second or so, Elizabeth felt that the expression on her face didn't seem quite as strained as before.
Carefully keeping her expression from slipping, Elizabeth picked up a brush and began running it through her hair. It only took her a second to notice that her hand was shaking slightly, though, and after a few more strokes she slowly lay it back down on the table. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing the movement in her hands to stop, before re-opening them and reaching for the small make-up case laying beside her brush.
Once she was finished, Elizabeth took a deep breath and took a step back from the mirror. She studied her face for several seconds, making certain that everything appeared normal. The paleness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes were all but gone, hidden under a light layer of makeup. As long as she was careful not to draw any attention to herself, no one would notice that anything was wrong. She was certain of that.
All it took was a little practice.
VOTING IS CLOSED. RESULTS TO BE POSTED SHORTLY.
You may also vote for your most favorite fic, though a reason is not required for that. Please select only ONE (i.e. no ties).
Authors will be provided with any comments their fic receives, upon request; while it will be completely anonymous, please bear that in mind when commenting.
Please include the number AND the title, to eliminate confusion. An example of how to vote:
Least favorite
31) Title - Reason
43) Title - Reason
52) Title - Reason
Most favorite
38) Title
Voting is screened, and will remain open until Monday. Voting is open to anyone, so please feel free to link to this post - but remember authors, DO NOT reveal which story is yours until the voting is finished. Once the winner & eliminations have been announced, you may post your story anywhere you like.
This week, only one author will be eliminated.
If you would like to make comments about any entries which are neither your least favorite nor your most favorite, please do so here.
01. Twenty-Nine - PG, spoilers through 'The Siege Part 2
Sora's first escape attempt was five days, five uncomfortable visits from Teyla, and five sleepless nights after her capture. Her second attempt was the next day. The third attempt was three weeks later, but that was only because she wanted to let her wrist heal a little after one of the guards broke it tackling her to the ground. She was particularly proud of her fourth attempt--she was only half a hallway from the gate room when Teyla caught up with her.
"Aren't you tired of catching me?" she asked the Marine who brought her back the seventh time.
"You keep running, I'll keep catching," the Marine said. She had short black hair and her name was Voscorian.
Voscorian also brought her back the ninth time, and the twelfth and thirteenth. "At least you're giving me a chance to practice my half nelsons," she said grimly as she wrestled Sora through her cell door.
Sora was plotting her twenty-ninth escape attempt (she hadn't even made it out of her cell for the twenty-eighth, which was humiliating) when Dr. Weir came to tell her that she had offered to trade Sora back to her people as part of a negotiation involving weapons to attack the Wraith, and that the Genii had refused. Sora saw Voscorian standing guard at the door, eyes determinedly away from Sora, and that convinced her more than anything Weir could say about political instability or the necessities of war.
There never was a twenty-ninth attempt.
02. Memory in Movement - General Audience, no spoilers
Charin closed her eyes for a moment, letting the gentle warmth of the rising sun warm her and the cooler wind off the ocean sooth her. She lay, comfortably wrapped in a blanket, watching Teyla complete her morning exercises.
Teyla’s body was a picture of strong muscle and flowing lines silhouetted against the morning light. Each movement was precisely placed as she swept the fighting stick upward in a carefully controlled arc, her eyes following an imaginary target. Her whole body moved as one, carefully maintaining the momentum without losing control. It was like a graceful dance, one carefully honed by years of patient practice.
Charin smiled, remembering a much younger Teyla, a little over two years old. The chubby little toddler had stood behind her mother one morning, a small stick in her hands and a look of sheer determination plastered on her little face. Charin had laughed that morning, watching the small child attempt to copy her mother’s movements with an awkward grace.
It wasn’t long before the women had been taking turns to teach the stubborn child the patterns she would practice for the rest of her life.
"Again, Teyla. You are rushing. Have patience. It is not about strength, but using the power the movement itself creates. Remember to follow through with your whole body."
A twelve-year-old Teyla had stamped her foot petulantly, frowning at Charin and throwing her sticks down in anger. Her attitude had suddenly changed, though, when her mother had been taken a few days later. Like so many children, she had realised that she needed to grow up, and she had finally grasped the frightening reality of the Wraith.
"Always running, always looking to the sky in fear," Charin whispered now, watching the wise and caring leader Teyla had grown to be. She would be glad to be free of that fear when death finally claimed her.
Charin realised, long ago, that for Teyla the exercises she practices with such poise every morning are a reminder of her mother and the other women that taught her from such an early age. Women she has lost over time. Charin felt Teyla honouring them with each careful move. She saw a mother’s strong arms guiding her only child’s smaller ones through carefully controlled patterns, the same calm voice praising her and correcting her gently.
Charin felt only pride when she looked back to Teyla. The younger woman had finished the pattern she was practicing this morning and she straightened, bowing to the sun.
03. Rebirth - PG, Spoliers for 3.06 Real World
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
The sea-salt air tickled her throat as she shifted, wiggling her toes over the edge. At first she couldn’t do it, the tension in her shoulders was too strong, the worries too firm to let go. She stood there for minutes, hours maybe, trying to empty her mind.
Trying to remember what it felt like.
"When you’re up there, it’s just you. Only you can do what needs to be done. Doubt yourself, and you’ll fail. Know yourself, believe in what you can do, and you’ll fly."
Instead, the weight of the last few years made her shoulders slouch. Standing alone on the platform, there was nothing to distract her from the voices in her head.
The truth of it was she had no idea who she was anymore.
"Understand the situation. Then visualize what you have to do."
The ability to singularly focus on an action and bring it about was what had kept her coming back to the practices; especially when her time could have been better spent working on translations for her thesis. Now here she was, twelve years later; trying to see if the approach could solve her other problems too.
Ever since she’d recovered from the nanites, she’d caught glimpses of other people’s doubts in her--their half-whispers, they way they averted their eyes, their stopped conversations when she entered a room. They wondered how she’d almost let them win.
She wondered that herself.
What kind of person had she turned into, that the nanites could make her doubt the past two years of her life?
Standing alone on the precipice, Elizabeth finally realized the answer. Be neutral, have no opinion, present no bias to either side. Those were the skills she’d perfected while working for the UN. She’d learned to think that way, act that way, dress that way, until it was a part of her. As a negotiator, her job had been to understand the motivations of others, and use that to trick or coerce or guide them to a decision. Regardless of how she felt about the parties involved or the issues they were discussing.
It was possible she hadn’t given the nanites much opposition because she’d turned herself into an empty shell long before they’d invaded her body.
Elizabeth wiggled her toes again and inhaled deeply. Even if she’d forgotten how to do the more complex dives, she could feel her body slowly remembering the forward one-and-a-half-pike as she visualized it in her head.
Buried deeper still, underneath the masks and roles and restrictions she’d placed upon herself, she could feel her body remembering other things, too.
She opened her eyes and looked across the blue expanse of ocean as the city of Atlantis rose behind her. Somewhere inside, she was still Elizabeth - she could rebuild from that if she tried.
As she cut through the shockingly cold water, she felt a thrill of exhilaration that she hadn’t felt in years.
04. Happiness is Dirty Fingernails - G
The words of Kate's grandmother - the late, great Heightmeyer matriarch bubbe Heneh - echoed inside her head as she dropped to her knees and began to gather up the shards of the latest witness to Miko Kusanagi's psychosexual rage.
"Don't be a shlemil like your uncle Zelig, Katechik. You want to poke around inside people's heads you go into private practice. It's better hours and greater money. You get to choose which of the meshuggeners, the crazy goyim, you have to work with, day in, day out, and they have to believe you when you tell them that forty-five minutes is really an hour. They even pay you for it."
The last fragment of colourful, imperfectly made Athosian pot landed in the bottom of the wastebasket beside her desk and Kate rose gracefully to her feet and crossed to the tiny storage closet discreetly tucked away in the corner of the room. The box on the top shelf was almost empty now; only one pot - rainbow-streaked and slightly sagging - remained inside.
Back on Earth, she had had her own little kiln in the basement, right next to the potter's wheel and the hermetically sealed drum that held her supply of clay. She had also had plenty of time in her evenings and weekends to devote hours to throwing misshapen pots - her own personal form of therapy and a hobby she now realised she really started to miss.
But free time wasn't in great supply here in Atlantis, so Kate had made a business deal with a couple of trainee potters on the mainland. A pair of MP3 players and regular deliveries of batteries and thumb drives, crammed full of every possible kind of music, kept her office supplied with ready breakables. Sometimes a person just needed to throw something and see it break before they could break down themselves.
Kate didn't know if bubbe Heneh would have approved of the hours she was working, or that she took on every client who came knocking at her door. The money she was bringing in - and not spending - would have raised one of those carefully redrawn eyebrows and got her a lecture on calling cousin Ira for investment advice, but, for all that she knew the price and the value of everything in and around her family, her grandmother had been supremely unconcerned with cold hard cash. Bubbe Heneh was only happy if her family was happy.
The surface of the pot was paint-slick and rough-clay grainy beneath the absent stroking of Kate's thumb. It felt good. With a tiny nod of determination, she decided to ask her young friends if she could maybe get her hands dirty the next time she was over on the mainland. She was always happiest when she had clay under her fingernails, and she figured that bubbe Heneh would certainly have approved of that.
05. Daddy's Girl - PG, Spoilers for 'Instinct'
Ellia slowly pressed the stone pestle into the dried herbs with a smooth twisting motion. She concentrated as hard as she could on the sensation of the leaves and stems crumbling and shredding under her touch, as if to sublimate the aching, grinding feeling tearing at her own belly. Father believed in his cure, and she could not disappoint him. For him, she would collect, and press and distill these poor substitutes and learn to be what he wanted.
She could not bring herself to destroy his hope, or his heart, and both would surely be broken, if he knew what she did to survive. Yet, she could not help herself. The need would grow and gnaw at her, twisting her belly and scrambling her thoughts until she could take it no more, and she slowly felt her control fade away. She could not risk his disappointment, nor could she risk his life.
She had heard and learned his lessons. She knew of love and companionship and home, and she craved those things for herself. That was not what the taunting voice of her companion in the forest offered her, and it was not what she would find in the village, or anywhere, if she lost control and took from her father's fragile body what she needed. Otherwise, he would not have given them up himself to shelter her in this cave.
He was weak, and mortal, and she had sapped his strength as far as she dared. They both knew that she would outlive him, and teaching her these things gave him strength and purpose, and kept him from turning from her in fear and shame. For that alone, the charade was worth it's purpose.
She was smart and strong. The being that taunted her as he roamed the forest was no threat to her. He desired her, yet thought her weak. She used him for her purpose. She could feel his hunger, his hunt. He taunted her with them, and she grew to almost welcome them. They were her freedom. When they came, she would wait for father to sleep, sometimes easing his way with the herbs that he had taught her, and she would slip out to shadow the monster in the hills, feeding in the dark of night and cover of his crimes.
She thought perhaps that the creature began to only feed at night, because he knew that was the only time that she would follow. Maybe it allowed its hunger to stretch, as hers did, rather than feeding indiscriminately, because he knew that was the best way to draw her out. Companionship was her coin as well as her reward, and she used to walk between the worlds and survive.
She learned her lessons well, through perseverance, faith and repetition. She could not fail, with so much at stake. She may not be human, but she could pretend, with practice. After all, despite the face she wore, she was her father's daughter.
06. Corporate and Family Law - G, Mild spoilers for 'Epiphany' & SG-1 'Counterstrike'
Elizabeth looked up as Teyla entered her office. The younger woman had just returned from a meeting with one of the country’s best psychologists for information on a case; Elizabeth hoped she had good news.
"What did Dr. Heightmeyer say?" she asked as Teyla sat.
"According to her, Heda is happy and emotionally healthy. In her interviews she found no evidence that Teer is an unfit guardian, and even stated that removing Heda from her sister’s custody would be, quote, ‘incredibly detrimental to her development.’" Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, and Teyla smiled. "And yes, she would be willing to swear as much under oath."
Elizabeth smiled for the first time in weeks. Though her firm usually specialized in corporate law, Teer’s status as a rising star in Alterran Corporations led her to step in.
"What about her involvement with the Ascendant Group? I know Origin Corp. was planning to use that against her." One of Elizabeth’s biggest worries was that Teer’s strict, meditative religion and the fact that she lived in an Ascendant commune could be used against her.
"Dr. Heightmeyer says the Ascendant lifestyle is not a threat to Heda’s well-being, and is, in fact, better for her than the lifestyle she would likely have were custody awarded to Adria." Elizabeth sighed in relief. Though Alterran Corporations and Origin Corp. had begun as different branches of the same family company, philosophical differences had begun a feud that only escalated as the businesses grew and gained near-iconic status. Teer’s situation was just the latest battle in a longstanding war. While their parents had named her as Heda’s guardian in the event of their deaths, their cousin Adria wished to combat the claim, stating that between Teer’s responsibilities to the company and her adherence to what Adria claimed was an "immoral, undisciplined lifestyle within a filthy commune", she couldn’t possibly be a fit guardian, and that young Heda was much better off with Adria. After all, she was head of Origin Corp., with all the money and resources and "firm moral standing" that implied.
Elizabeth was shaken from her thoughts at Teyla’s troubled look. "What is it?"
"I just do not understand how the custody of a child has turned into another corporate battle. Do these people have no shame?" Elizabeth sat back in her chair and spoke, her voice weary.
"You know why this is happening, Teyla. For all they have grown into multi-national giants, both companies are still family businesses at their core. Everyone’s brought up knowing the business; it’s their strength. Heda has tested off the charts; she’s a certified genius. Adria wants her to be the next head of Origin Corp. And Teer…," Elizabeth trailed off and sighed. "Teer just wants her little sister." The two women shared a look before Teyla stood.
"I will call Teer; let her know the news. Shall we all meet tomorrow?"
"Yes," Elizabeth was already working out arguments in her head. They could win this. "Tomorrow."
07. Hearts and Roots - Teen, general spoilers for S1 & S2
The first batch Teyla brought her was nothing more than tuttleroots and water.
"Father says leaders have to take care of their own. You are ill, so I will take care of you," the child told her, and Charin smiled. Then she patiently explained how a good tuttleroot soup needed earth-hearts and balbal, the fresh leaves of a sillia and the smoked meat of a turlon beast, as well as the usual herbs. How all those ingredients came together to make a better whole.
Teyla nodded earnestly, and took her soup away. Two hours went by, during which Charin went to the abort, remade her bed, and took a nap. When she woke, Teyla was watching her from the floor, sitting cross-legged with a steaming bowl balanced on her knees.
"I do feel a little hungry," Charin said, although she didn't. This time, the tuttleroots were hard and grainy, the meat had turned grey, and the balbal had all but dissolved. Teyla listened with wide eyes as Charin told her about time and patience, adding the ingredients in their right order and watching for the little signs that told when the soup was ready. Then the child scurried away, and Charin went back to bed.
The sky outside had already begun to darken when Teyla returned, proudly carrying her bowl of soup. The earth-heart pieces were of a fine yellow, the balbal a bit hard, but done. Sillia and turlon meat had been added last, giving the soup a strong bouquet, and the tuttleroots had been cooked almost to perfection.
The taste was awful. Charin managed to eat about half of it before she had to give up.
"The most important thing about tuttleroot soup," she said, "is that it will never be perfect unless your heart is in it. It has to mean more to you than a chore."
The little girl in front of her looked ready to cry, so Charin pulled her into a fond embrace and stroked the long, auburn hair.
"Not all of us are made for the fireplace, Teyla," she whispered. Then the two of then shared a meal of sweet bread and almond honey.
Almost ten years went by before Teyla, returning home from a successful trade with the Genii, realised how the lessons she had learned that day had little to do with cooking.
That evening, she asked Charin to cook them both some tuttleroot soup, and smiled.
08. The Necessity of Listening, general audience, no spoilers
Elizabeth had always thought that she was a good listener. She had been the one in high school that people came to when they had problems; her parents had both complained about each other to her so that they wouldn’t kill each other; she’d negotiated treaties, dealt with bureaucracy at the SGC, and now she ran a city in another galaxy.
Listening wasn’t always easy. It took practice to not zone out in particularly long and tedious meetings, something that she’d had to work hard at. The human brain was just not wired to concentrate so fully for so long. It was a little difficult to provide a solution to a problem if you hadn’t heard what the problem was, or had missed the nuances and subtext that told you that the underlying issue was actually something entirely different to what the parties were talking about.
She had always been told that she was a good listener. She listened, formed an opinion, and offered comfort, advice or a solution. What the other party chose to do with the advice she offered was up to them; if they ignored it, they were the ones who had to deal with the consequences.
Elizabeth had always thought that she was a good listener, until she met Teyla. The woman had such a calm presence that Elizabeth had started to feel that she could confide in her. The first time Elizabeth had revealed her doubts about whether she was the right person to be leading Atlantis, Teyla hadn’t said a word. She had just smiled gently and let Elizabeth talk until she’d realised that the doubts were natural, and she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
While Elizabeth thought that she was a good listener, Teyla was a listener. She hadn’t offered her opinion, she hadn’t tried to impart some ancestral wisdom, she had just provided the outlet and sounding board that Elizabeth had needed to work out and rationalise her own feelings. Elizabeth had been able to evaluate the nuances and subtext in her own speech and come to a conclusion that was beneficial for the one party involved - herself - by having to explain her feelings to another person who only listened.
She realised that what she had thought was listening was really something else. She was a good listener, but only because it was essential to being a great problem solver.
Listening is such a simple act. It requires us to be present, and that takes practice, but we don't have to do anything else. We don't have to advise, or coach, or sound wise. We just have to be willing to sit there and listen.
Margaret J. Wheatley
09. Feigning Normalcy - PG, Spoilers for 'The Real World'
For the third time in as many nights, Elizabeth Weir woke up screaming.
She shot straight up in bed, her hands twisting her blanket as she gasped for air. As her breathing slowly came under control, Elizabeth sent up a silent prayer of thanks that most of the rooms used as quarters in Atlantis were sound-proofed.
Atlantis.
Even though she knew it was irrational, Elizabeth couldn't help but glance quickly around her room just to convince herself that it was real. She had never truly believed that her life in the Ancient city was nothing more than a dream, not really ... at least, that's what she kept telling herself. Deep down, though, she couldn't help but wonder just how close she had come to losing everything.
Shaking her head, Elizabeth glanced over at her clock and sighed when she saw just how early it was. She knew that going back to sleep wasn't even a remote possibility, but she was also well aware that someone would eventually notice that she was waking up hours earlier than usual. Still, there wasn't anything she could do about that.
She reluctantly pulled herself out of bed and made her way over to the mirror hanging on the wall. She froze as she caught sight of her reflection, and she couldn't help but stare at it for a second in surprise before forcing her mouth to twist upward into a smile. It looked forced even to her, and she quickly focused all of her attention onto the action. After what seemed like ages, though she knew it couldn't have been more than a second or so, Elizabeth felt that the expression on her face didn't seem quite as strained as before.
Carefully keeping her expression from slipping, Elizabeth picked up a brush and began running it through her hair. It only took her a second to notice that her hand was shaking slightly, though, and after a few more strokes she slowly lay it back down on the table. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing the movement in her hands to stop, before re-opening them and reaching for the small make-up case laying beside her brush.
Once she was finished, Elizabeth took a deep breath and took a step back from the mirror. She studied her face for several seconds, making certain that everything appeared normal. The paleness of her skin and the dark circles under her eyes were all but gone, hidden under a light layer of makeup. As long as she was careful not to draw any attention to herself, no one would notice that anything was wrong. She was certain of that.
All it took was a little practice.
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