TITLE: Irresistible
AUTHOR: Tiffany Park
STATUS: Complete
CATEGORY: Action/Adventure, some whumping
SPOILERS: A couple of very minor ones for "Prisoners," only because I used a character who was introduced in that episode, and mentioned the planet that SG-3 was supposed to recon.
SEASON: Early Season Two, set about a month before "Prisoners."
PAIRINGS: None
RATING: R
CONTENT WARNINGS: Language, violence, nudity.
SUMMARY: SG-3 is ambushed on a soggy planet where humans hold both an irresistible fascination and a nasty surprise for the native carnivores.
ARCHIVE: Just here.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Here be tentacles. Lots of 'em. It's all due to H.P. Lovecraft's influence, I'm sure.
Many thanks to Besterette for the beta and suggestions for tying things together.
August 3, 2014: Okay, this is another ancient fic I wrote waaaay back in 2003 for the MakepeaceSG-3 list. For anyone who might be interested in something so old about some minor characters, enjoy!
Irresistible
by
Tiffany Park
A large drop of water splashed right on top of Colonel Makepeace's bare head, aggravating the pounding in his skull. A thin trickle of liquid ran non-stop from his hair onto his neck and down his back. The rest of him was similarly soaked. He hunched his shoulders against the damp of the temperate rain forest, and pulled up the hood of his rain jacket to try to slow the water down. Despite its hype, even the Gore-Tex rain suit couldn't keep out this much persistent moisture.
The temperature was reasonably warm, in the low to mid seventies Fahrenheit. The SGC scientists who had analyzed the early MALP data had insisted this was summer here—the so-called "dry" season, at least in this region of the planet. Hard to believe. Water constantly dripped from the heavy, brownish-green vegetation, accumulated from the irritating, never-ending mist that drifted down from above. Makepeace hated to think what the "wet" season might be like.
To add injury to insult, a cloud of flying insect-like creatures buzzed around him relentlessly. He slapped at an audacious bug that landed right in the center of his chest. The bugs had been a continual problem from the moment of his arrival on P1Y-233. They seemed to love humans and not even industrial strength insect repellent could keep them away. However, his physical discomfort was the least of his problems.
The aliens were the biggest.
Ten of them surrounded him, marching him through the woods. Not even vaguely humanoid, they evoked a visceral fear deep within him that he had trouble controlling.
The aliens didn't have any "front" or "back"; their bodies were cylindrical, tapering at the top to a dome. Near the crown a series of gill-like slits pulsed with an obscene rhythm. The creatures' mottled green skins were textured with vertical ridges and covered in thick, transparent mucous that shed the ever-present moisture far better than his own protective clothing. At such close proximity, their indefinable odor tickled Makepeace's gag reflex without actually triggering it.
Strange designs of lines and whorls and puckered circles ornamented their skins. Makepeace thought the scarring looked deliberate, the way some human cultures he'd read about in college used scarification as body decoration. The aliens were tall; the shortest was roughly seven feet—a foot taller than himself. The tallest alien in the group topped nine feet, and none of them appeared to have anything resembling a mouth.
They did have limbs, though. A set of six flexible tentacles ringed the creatures at their midsections. Thickest where it joined the body—as thick as his own forearm—each arm split into three, which in turn split three-ways again. From the way the aliens gripped their varied weapons—things that looked like spears, spear-throwers, knives or swords, slings and rocks—it was obvious that the split tentacles functioned like hands and fingers. The aliens walked—slithered?—along on a set of shorter, stubbier tentacles. The movement reminded him of a caterpillar's crawl, but quicker, more efficient. He knew from first-hand experience that the damned things could move lightning fast when they wanted to.
But the worst part was their eyes. At least he thought they were eyes. Each creature was crowned with six stalked orbs that could retract and swivel independently of one another; thin, crinkled membranes sheathed the pupilless globes, could blink them shut. Every eye the color of blood, staring at him without winking... He shuddered.
Two of the aliens carried his gear; his pack, his vest, his canteens, knife, and pistol. He supposed he ought to be grateful he still had the clothes on his back. These creatures had certainly been curious enough about his stuff. He didn't see his carbine and assumed it had been lost when he was taken. What he wouldn't give to feel its weight, to put it into auto mode and cut these obscene alien monstrosities to ribbons, lob a few grenades into their midst and blow them to pieces...
There came a rustling from the wet, round leaves overhead, and several flying creatures with thin, prehensile proboscises swooped down, straight at him. Makepeace ducked, cursing at them and at the way the sudden movement worsened his headache, as the aliens made clicking and whistling noises and waved their tentacles to drive the birdlike things away.
At least aggressive birds weren't as bad as some of the nightmares this world had to offer. Earlier, some *thing* out in the forest had been paralleling the group—something pale green, gelatinous and flowing and quivering like a hellish blob of Jell-O. Makepeace only caught a brief glimpse; it was more than enough to make something primal in the back of his brain gibber with near-insanity. The aliens had freaked, formed a tight circle around him, launched missiles of rock and sharpened wood at that half-seen *thing* until it seeped away.
He couldn't help but wonder at all the attention he attracted, from bugs to birds to mystery monsters stalking in the woods. Did he really smell that edible to so many of this world's critters? He assumed it was smell; he didn't know what else could fascinate the wildlife so much. Obviously, this wasn't normal forest behavior; from the disturbed and frankly edgy way the aliens behaved, Makepeace figured they were unaccustomed to having so many animals prowling along with them.
More bird-things dived at him, thin feelers waving above their tiny elephant trunks, stalked eyes focused on their prey. The aliens chased them off. Taking advantage of the confusion, one of his captors moved in close and groped at him. Makepeace shied away, slapping a probing tentacle away from his mouth. Another alien grabbed the first and pulled it aside, hissing through its breathing flaps.
That sort of thing had been a recurring problem on the long trek through the rain forest. Every so often one or another of the aliens would cop a feel. Most of the time they were happy with a few touches, but sometimes, like now, they had to be forcibly removed from his vicinity. Makepeace wasn't certain what the big appeal was, and dreaded finding out the answer. He hoped it was just his novelty—it was a cinch these beings had never encountered anything like a human before. He prayed that he didn't smell as tasty to these creatures as he obviously did to the bugs and wildlife, and that his ultimate destination wasn't a stew pot.
His fingers twitched; once again he wished for his carbine, lost during the ambush. SG-3 had been on P1Y-233 for roughly six hours before they were attacked—enough time to get too far from the Stargate to make a strategic retreat. He wondered if the party of natives had planned it that way. Their choice of weapons didn't seem to indicate much technological sophistication, but they had been plenty smart enough to scatter the hapless humans and take him prisoner, hadn't they? They had been invisible in the alien forest, their natural element. Makepeace didn't know what had happened to the rest of his team, but at least they weren't captives along with him. He touched his forehead, wincing as he felt the lump there. The aliens had caught him by knocking him senseless with a well-aimed rock.
Makepeace deliberately stopped walking. He was given a hard shove from behind, and stumbled forward. The gravity here was slightly lighter than Earth's, just different enough to throw off a man's balance and judgment, making ordinary footsteps precarious, and he fell flat on his face. He pushed himself onto his knees, and broke a few branches on the brambles before slimy tentacles yanked him back to his feet.
It was a deadly serious game he played with his captors: Every so often he dragged his butt, got shoved, and stumbled as clumsily as possible. As a result he was able to do a little something to mark the trail they were taking. He was also making sure to leave as many clear boot prints as he could manage. With luck, the aliens wouldn't catch on to him too soon, and his men should be able to track his movements.
Assuming they were still alive.