fic: Just a Hangover [SGA]
We watched Rodney get the gene therapy and we know Radek got it, too. By the time The Siege rolls around, Carson and his needle-enabled buddies are just shooting up all the Marines who come through the gate.
Unbetaed genfic randomness on a day when I voted and bagged 90 gallons of leaves.
Dr. Zelenka played it cool, going right back to work. His only concession was a bottle of water instead of his usual late-morning tea because Dr. Beckett had warned him of the possible side effects and caffeine is a diuretic.
He spent the rest of the day -- and much of the evening -- writing a program that would predict whether hooking something up to the naquadah generator would make it explode. He spent the rest of the evening -- and much of the night -- writing a program that would predict whether hooking something up to the naquadah generator would make the generator explode.
The next morning, he ran both programs and cross-checked the resulting lists. That afternoon, he picked up one of the trinkets that Major Sheppard had been playing with the previous day, a golf-ball sized piece of glass that had glowed brilliant aqua in his hands and had prompted a slow, delighted "Oh, cool". It did not glow in his own palm, staying the same dull indigo it had for everyone else not Major Sheppard and Radek put it back in the bin that they had tentatively marked "identified & useless". That evening, he connected one of the generators to three systems that had appeared on neither list. Nothing illuminating happened there, either.
The network of labs taken over by the engineering units were a place of extreme emotion over the next weeks, the denizens mostly crestfallen and a few struggling to keep their giddiness to themselves. Radek thought that he could remain philosophical about it; Atlantis was a lover he'd have liked to have wooed, but she spurned his advances and there's nothing to be done but move on. He had gotten over Alena, he would get over this one, too.
Dr. Weir tried to gently suggest that she not get the therapy. She told Carson that she had brought the mission so far without having the ATA gene that it was unnecessary at this stage of the game. There was a limited amount of the delivery retrovirus, there was nothing in her office or in her daily routine that required activation and yet so many of the scientists were so eager to be turned loose on a city full of wonders that they should get priority.
Carson had smiled gently at her and turned on the charm that flowed over you like warm honey, the kind he used on recalcitrant patients and small children, holding you in place while he did his doctory things. He of all people understood her fears, he assured her as he stuck the needle into her arm, rubbing softly at her wrist to distract her.
But he didn't understand, Elizabeth knew. It wasn't a fear of needles or of blowing generals out of the sky with runaway drones. It was the fear of sitting in the dark, holding a lantern that she knew lit up when touched by an Ancient, and feeling nothing but cold metal and glass and crying because to have come so far, to be living in the city of the Gatebuilders, to read their language and walk through their halls and not be able to partake in their most glorious wonders without aid...It had been fine when it was simply a matter of having the gene or not. But this new failure felt more like a personal rejection and it hurt far more than any needle.
Dr. Rosen had been markedly ambivalent about receiving the therapy. She was a botanist and, really, the botanists didn't need the ATA gene nearly as much as the engineers did. The lights came on in the Life Sciences labs when anyone walked in, they had a generator from Earth for the coffee machine and the mini-fridge, and she'd figured out how to hotwire the crystals in the door to her quarters. At least after she'd required assistance from one of the Marines to get out the first morning she'd stayed there. She'd offered Sgt. Prescott one of her Perugina chocolate bars as compensation, but he'd asked her to dinner instead. Eric had gotten the therapy along with the other Marines.
He sat with her now, brushing hair from her sweaty forehead as the doctor changed her intravenous drip. She didn't remember collapsing at her lab bench and obviously didn't remember falling into a coma. One minute she was sketching a magnified version of one of the leaves Major Sheppard's team had brought back, the next she was dry-heaving in a hospital bed and Dr. Beckett was murmuring something about rare side effects and telling her she'd be fine once she rested. Maybe it was the brogue, maybe it was that Eric was there holding her hand, but she believed him and slept.
Lt. Ford had asked to go first when it came time for the Marines to get their shots. He was their platoon commander and he had to set an example on his own because Colonel Sumner and Major Sheppard had set the bar pretty freaking high when it came to being first into the breach. Not to mention that it would be amazing to be able to do all of the things that the Major did, like fly the puddlejumper and have things happen just because he thought about it and get eager scientists running up to him going "touch this, touch this" like he was Jesus or something like Him.
The Marines were considerably less enthusiastic, especially with some of them muttering darkly about the shit they'd heard about what sort of experimenting went on during Desert Storm. Major Sheppard, who had actually been in Desert Storm, had given them dirty looks and hinted that the real reason for the hesitation was that maybe the Marines weren't so brave after all. That was all it had taken to get the moto flowing and the entire platoon had been lined up, sleeves rolled, when their time came.
The platoon may have been larger than average in terms of numbers of Marines -- "twice the size, half the brains," was the comment from Col. Sumner after a set of botched drills back in Colorado -- but they turned out below average when it came down to who picked up the gene. Markham was first and the Major nearly caused a riot by announcing that he'd start giving him -- and anyone else who wound up with the gene -- piloting lessons. Markham was one of the popular guys, which was probably the only reason he hadn't been completely exiled from the platoon because the Major should have known that giving an enlisted man an officer's job was going to cause trouble.
He himself had gone first, but he was the last to give up hope that the therapy would take. Major Sheppard had patted him on the back and told him that having the gene wasn't all kicks-and-giggles and he was sure that the others who'd gotten the gene would trade it for being on the offworld team. "They get the gene, but you get quality time with Teyla," he'd said. "And Dr. McKay," had been his own response. The Major hadn't had a good answer for that one.
Dr. Kavanaugh hid his fear of the needle, of the fact that they were using a delivery mechanism that wouldn't have gotten FDA approval without a hostage scenario or massive brainwashing, of the fact that it had a less-than-half chance of working and he fucking hated when things didn't work.
He stuck his arm out winced at the insertion because he knew that everyone was watching, that everyone was hoping that it didn't take because yeah, he knew that he wasn't popular. He also knew that he'd never be able to live with the jealousy if he had to spend one more Section Heads meeting with McKay fiddling around with some Ancient toy, not even aware that his smugness was making everyone else want to retch.
Three days later, he started finding a seat at the Section Heads meeting so that he couldn't see McKay's hands and tried to pretend that he didn't notice that the schadenfreude was so strong that if they could have harnessed it for power, they wouldn't need a ZPM. He didn't say anything because they'd found out that morning that one of the botanists had died from the therapy and, really, he'd much rather be alive and having people wish him dead than the alternative.
Unbetaed genfic randomness on a day when I voted and bagged 90 gallons of leaves.
Dr. Zelenka played it cool, going right back to work. His only concession was a bottle of water instead of his usual late-morning tea because Dr. Beckett had warned him of the possible side effects and caffeine is a diuretic.
He spent the rest of the day -- and much of the evening -- writing a program that would predict whether hooking something up to the naquadah generator would make it explode. He spent the rest of the evening -- and much of the night -- writing a program that would predict whether hooking something up to the naquadah generator would make the generator explode.
The next morning, he ran both programs and cross-checked the resulting lists. That afternoon, he picked up one of the trinkets that Major Sheppard had been playing with the previous day, a golf-ball sized piece of glass that had glowed brilliant aqua in his hands and had prompted a slow, delighted "Oh, cool". It did not glow in his own palm, staying the same dull indigo it had for everyone else not Major Sheppard and Radek put it back in the bin that they had tentatively marked "identified & useless". That evening, he connected one of the generators to three systems that had appeared on neither list. Nothing illuminating happened there, either.
The network of labs taken over by the engineering units were a place of extreme emotion over the next weeks, the denizens mostly crestfallen and a few struggling to keep their giddiness to themselves. Radek thought that he could remain philosophical about it; Atlantis was a lover he'd have liked to have wooed, but she spurned his advances and there's nothing to be done but move on. He had gotten over Alena, he would get over this one, too.
Dr. Weir tried to gently suggest that she not get the therapy. She told Carson that she had brought the mission so far without having the ATA gene that it was unnecessary at this stage of the game. There was a limited amount of the delivery retrovirus, there was nothing in her office or in her daily routine that required activation and yet so many of the scientists were so eager to be turned loose on a city full of wonders that they should get priority.
Carson had smiled gently at her and turned on the charm that flowed over you like warm honey, the kind he used on recalcitrant patients and small children, holding you in place while he did his doctory things. He of all people understood her fears, he assured her as he stuck the needle into her arm, rubbing softly at her wrist to distract her.
But he didn't understand, Elizabeth knew. It wasn't a fear of needles or of blowing generals out of the sky with runaway drones. It was the fear of sitting in the dark, holding a lantern that she knew lit up when touched by an Ancient, and feeling nothing but cold metal and glass and crying because to have come so far, to be living in the city of the Gatebuilders, to read their language and walk through their halls and not be able to partake in their most glorious wonders without aid...It had been fine when it was simply a matter of having the gene or not. But this new failure felt more like a personal rejection and it hurt far more than any needle.
Dr. Rosen had been markedly ambivalent about receiving the therapy. She was a botanist and, really, the botanists didn't need the ATA gene nearly as much as the engineers did. The lights came on in the Life Sciences labs when anyone walked in, they had a generator from Earth for the coffee machine and the mini-fridge, and she'd figured out how to hotwire the crystals in the door to her quarters. At least after she'd required assistance from one of the Marines to get out the first morning she'd stayed there. She'd offered Sgt. Prescott one of her Perugina chocolate bars as compensation, but he'd asked her to dinner instead. Eric had gotten the therapy along with the other Marines.
He sat with her now, brushing hair from her sweaty forehead as the doctor changed her intravenous drip. She didn't remember collapsing at her lab bench and obviously didn't remember falling into a coma. One minute she was sketching a magnified version of one of the leaves Major Sheppard's team had brought back, the next she was dry-heaving in a hospital bed and Dr. Beckett was murmuring something about rare side effects and telling her she'd be fine once she rested. Maybe it was the brogue, maybe it was that Eric was there holding her hand, but she believed him and slept.
Lt. Ford had asked to go first when it came time for the Marines to get their shots. He was their platoon commander and he had to set an example on his own because Colonel Sumner and Major Sheppard had set the bar pretty freaking high when it came to being first into the breach. Not to mention that it would be amazing to be able to do all of the things that the Major did, like fly the puddlejumper and have things happen just because he thought about it and get eager scientists running up to him going "touch this, touch this" like he was Jesus or something like Him.
The Marines were considerably less enthusiastic, especially with some of them muttering darkly about the shit they'd heard about what sort of experimenting went on during Desert Storm. Major Sheppard, who had actually been in Desert Storm, had given them dirty looks and hinted that the real reason for the hesitation was that maybe the Marines weren't so brave after all. That was all it had taken to get the moto flowing and the entire platoon had been lined up, sleeves rolled, when their time came.
The platoon may have been larger than average in terms of numbers of Marines -- "twice the size, half the brains," was the comment from Col. Sumner after a set of botched drills back in Colorado -- but they turned out below average when it came down to who picked up the gene. Markham was first and the Major nearly caused a riot by announcing that he'd start giving him -- and anyone else who wound up with the gene -- piloting lessons. Markham was one of the popular guys, which was probably the only reason he hadn't been completely exiled from the platoon because the Major should have known that giving an enlisted man an officer's job was going to cause trouble.
He himself had gone first, but he was the last to give up hope that the therapy would take. Major Sheppard had patted him on the back and told him that having the gene wasn't all kicks-and-giggles and he was sure that the others who'd gotten the gene would trade it for being on the offworld team. "They get the gene, but you get quality time with Teyla," he'd said. "And Dr. McKay," had been his own response. The Major hadn't had a good answer for that one.
Dr. Kavanaugh hid his fear of the needle, of the fact that they were using a delivery mechanism that wouldn't have gotten FDA approval without a hostage scenario or massive brainwashing, of the fact that it had a less-than-half chance of working and he fucking hated when things didn't work.
He stuck his arm out winced at the insertion because he knew that everyone was watching, that everyone was hoping that it didn't take because yeah, he knew that he wasn't popular. He also knew that he'd never be able to live with the jealousy if he had to spend one more Section Heads meeting with McKay fiddling around with some Ancient toy, not even aware that his smugness was making everyone else want to retch.
Three days later, he started finding a seat at the Section Heads meeting so that he couldn't see McKay's hands and tried to pretend that he didn't notice that the schadenfreude was so strong that if they could have harnessed it for power, they wouldn't need a ZPM. He didn't say anything because they'd found out that morning that one of the botanists had died from the therapy and, really, he'd much rather be alive and having people wish him dead than the alternative.