Title: No Vacancy
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: You never read this. This fic never happened. You will now begin to forget that all characters and situations in this fic belong to James Cameron and Charles Eglee. You never knew that the title of this fic came from the Dashboard Prophets song, "Ballad for Dead Friends."
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for lack of hope.
Distribution: Just ask, please.
***will sell soul for feedback and/or grape juice***
Notes: One of Anna's five-minute-fic challenges. ghost-adrenaline-scream. Also one of the first (if not the only) Ashafics written.
+++++
Have you been dreaming?
I don't dream at all.
I have nightmares...
Memories careening,
Have you come to kill what's left,
Of my smile...
There's no vacancy in Paradise
+++++
Adrenaline is the only thing keeping her going, nowadays. The thrill of fighting, the thrill of knowing - wishing - that somebody, somewhere in the corrupt government she tries to fight might have the balls to pull a gun on her, put her out of her misery. Out of her confusion.
See, she doesn't really understand, deep down, why the fact that Logan can abandon the S1W when she needs his help bothers her so much. Or why she hates that he can manufacture fake documents for a bunch of kids that Max has taken a shine to, instead.
She doesn't understand much, anymore. Back before the Pulse, she was studying archaeology at Stanford on a full academic scholarship. She could tell you the sine of 52 to eight digits, and why the sky was blue, and what the name "Barbara" meant in Gaelic. Now, she can't tell you much of anything. She's a shell, a shadow of her former self, as the clichŽ goes.
If she'd been herself, intelligent, reliable Ashley Allen, she'd probably know why she wakes up screaming every night, crying out for a man who will never be there for here. She'd know why the night she spent in his guest bedroom, feverish and raving from an infected bullet wound, was the happiest night of her life.
If she'd been herself, she'd be working with her father on that dig east of Athens. She wouldn't have to live with the ghost of the men she's killed, scraping for food and trying to forget the memories, vivid as if they'd been yesterday.
But she's not herself. She can't even remember her last name now. She's just Asha, Ringleader Of Those Damn Free-Thinking Treehugger Activists, doomed to an early, unnoticed grave. And it doesn't matter if she understands. Because that's just the way it's going to be.
By: Jane, the Frog on the Wall
Disclaimer: You never read this. This fic never happened. You will now begin to forget that all characters and situations in this fic belong to James Cameron and Charles Eglee. You never knew that the title of this fic came from the Dashboard Prophets song, "Ballad for Dead Friends."
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for lack of hope.
Distribution: Just ask, please.
***will sell soul for feedback and/or grape juice***
Notes: One of Anna's five-minute-fic challenges. ghost-adrenaline-scream. Also one of the first (if not the only) Ashafics written.
+++++
Have you been dreaming?
I don't dream at all.
I have nightmares...
Memories careening,
Have you come to kill what's left,
Of my smile...
There's no vacancy in Paradise
+++++
Adrenaline is the only thing keeping her going, nowadays. The thrill of fighting, the thrill of knowing - wishing - that somebody, somewhere in the corrupt government she tries to fight might have the balls to pull a gun on her, put her out of her misery. Out of her confusion.
See, she doesn't really understand, deep down, why the fact that Logan can abandon the S1W when she needs his help bothers her so much. Or why she hates that he can manufacture fake documents for a bunch of kids that Max has taken a shine to, instead.
She doesn't understand much, anymore. Back before the Pulse, she was studying archaeology at Stanford on a full academic scholarship. She could tell you the sine of 52 to eight digits, and why the sky was blue, and what the name "Barbara" meant in Gaelic. Now, she can't tell you much of anything. She's a shell, a shadow of her former self, as the clichŽ goes.
If she'd been herself, intelligent, reliable Ashley Allen, she'd probably know why she wakes up screaming every night, crying out for a man who will never be there for here. She'd know why the night she spent in his guest bedroom, feverish and raving from an infected bullet wound, was the happiest night of her life.
If she'd been herself, she'd be working with her father on that dig east of Athens. She wouldn't have to live with the ghost of the men she's killed, scraping for food and trying to forget the memories, vivid as if they'd been yesterday.
But she's not herself. She can't even remember her last name now. She's just Asha, Ringleader Of Those Damn Free-Thinking Treehugger Activists, doomed to an early, unnoticed grave. And it doesn't matter if she understands. Because that's just the way it's going to be.
