Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my OCs.
A.N: This is an entirely OC-filled fic. You won't see any of the Atlantis gang.
A.N#2: Takes place several centuries after Season 5 and the Stargate: Legacy book series.
A.N#3: Warning, there's some pretty heavy themes in this like suicide, suicide ideation, suicidal thoughts, forced sexual relations for repopulation purposes. Proceed with caution if any of that's triggering—please take care of yourself, people.
A.N#3: Written mostly to the first Stranger Things Vol.1 soundtrack, The Livelong Day album by Lankum, and "Jolenta Clears the Table" by Doctor Turtle.
.
"The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her."
― Sylvia Plath, Ariel
.
.
The Shape of Yesterday
.
We're dying out.
It feels strange to say, even in my own mind, but there it is. No one wants to admit it, but the dead villages and empty worlds are indisputable at this point. Even the plague flare-ups are rarer now with so little of us left, but still—despite the Wraith's best efforts to save us, it's only a matter of time. There's comfort in that.
The man—boy, really—grunts above me. He stops, face tight with pleasure that seems bordered on pain, then sighs. Sweat beads his forehead. One falls and hits my cheek.
"Did you—?" he starts to ask, but I push him off. It doesn't matter if I did or not, the result'll be the same. I've tried telling anyone who'd listen, but the council thinks I haven't been doing my best. Maybe if I want enough, they say, the gods will bless me with a babe.
I knuckle his sweat off my face as the boy puts his clothes back on. I'm a sweaty mess too, but at least the rest belong to me. I sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to leave. He'd told me his name but I've already forgotten. At this point they're just throwing younger and younger ones at me, hoping something would stick. When he's finally gone I wish I could run to the river and fall in. It's too shallow for a proper drowning, has been for awhile. Then again, I'm sure if I want enough, I could make a puddle work.
I clean myself. When I no longer smell of sex I leave the tent with its solitary bed, pausing in the sunlight. I'm still basking when I see Kryka and her brood walking by. Her eyes crinkle at me in greeting but she doesn't stop, her children like little shadows behind her considerable girth. She's pregnant again.
I make my way to the main intake tent. Isoka's usually there, handing out meals to the hungry. A few glance my way as I enter, but they can go bed a Wraith for all I care for the rules. I find her ladling cups of soup to girls no taller than my shoulder. They're thin and waifish, more like weeds than potential rebuilders of the human race. Poor things. My eyes meet Isoka's and she gestures to the empty ladling station next to her.
I wait for the girls to leave before turning to Isoka. "Where do they keep finding them?" I ask, trying to keep my voice low. "Do they overturn rocks?"
Isoka's smile's distracted. Usually she's ready to spar with her optimism, but today I can sense something's different.
"Isoka?"
"The council received a transmission from the Wraith early this morning."
"So? We get them all the time." The new girls and occasional man come from somewhere, after all. If you avoid the edges, the breeding colony can seem like a happy, thriving little settlement. One can almost believe the lie.
But Isoka's already shaking her head. "It's for a Selection."
"Oh." It's been some time since that's happened.
Then we're both quiet, because we're serving another throng of hungry mouths. Some of them are not so fresh, having learned what their purpose is. Others still have that lost look, as if they couldn't believe the Wraith brought them here and for why. How many years has it been since I stood where they stand now? Eight? Nine? At this point it feels both a dream and a memory that belongs to someone else. I glance at my unswollen belly and know gladness. I stroke it, as if I were like any of the expecting mothers, and catch Isoka noticing. She doesn't ask. She knows my thoughts about it. To exist for the sake of existing, to breed and reproduce just so the Wraith had a food supply? It's maddening. I've spared the child I'll never have.
I think we're meant to end as a species. If we die, the Wraith die—it's the perfect end to a different kind of plague.
When we're alone again I try to pull Isoka back to our previous conversation, but she's preoccupied and evades my questions. She really isn't in the mood for me today, so I fall quiet and stay with her in the kitchen, just glad for her company.
.
.s.
.
I watch the Wraith shuttle buzz to the landing pad, huge swaths of dust and sand flying everywhere. I'm far enough away so my eyes don't sting but close enough that the hot wind buffets my hair. People stop to watch the Wraith stride out. There're no new people with them, only the coterie of Wraith and their drones. Over the years I'd like to think I've come to recognize the ones who tend the colony, because this time there're two I don't immediately place. I enjoy the way they squint and shield their faces from the unrelenting suns.
The whole camp watches the Wraith disappear in the council's tent. The children lose interest first and continue their play. They've seen Wraith come and go all their lives, the patrolling drones routine for them. It's only us adults who linger, all feeling something's about to change but unable to prevent it.
The twin suns are setting on the horizon when someone approaches me. I've made myself scarce by my favorite bend in the river, so whoever it is, it's no accident. In the golden light I see it's Garen, Isoka's current bed-mate. Perspiration runs down the sides of his face.
"Eshae, there you are!" he says. He takes a moment to catch his breath, hands on knees. "You're being summoned. Bathe and wear your nicest clothes, then go to the council's tent. You've half a cycle."
He's gone before I can even ask a question. For a moment my heart jumps in my mouth, panic all I can taste. Swallowing the fear's like choking on a small stone. I've never been at a Selection before, uncommon enough as those were, but this'll be fine. I'll be fine.
I go to my tent and do as Garen says, bathing though I've already washed this morning. As for my best wear, everything I own is shaded like the desert, brown and tan and red. Everything, except for a blue-vested shift Isoka gave me when I first arrived, before our friendship knew what it wanted to be. This I put on. Maybe Isoka'll be there, her presence a comfort.
Despite the fading sunset lots of people milling are about, even some children. It seems everyone's found an excuse to be near the council's tent, too curious to have the sense to stay away.
When I enter the tent, I immediately see I'm not the only who's been called in. There's at least ten of us, all dressed in varying formality. There's only one other woman. Jonyo, I think her name is. The rest are men. I recognize several—I've been paired with them before, one recently. Everyone's sizing each other up, the unspoken fears buzzing like a subsonic murmur in the air. No council are here, just some of their guards by the entrance. Five others show up shortly after, all men. Everyone greets each other with frowns. I join in, scowling at anyone who'd meet my eye.
Just as I'm beginning to wonder if there'd been a mistake, three of the council file in. One of them claps her hands, taking charge. She's the one fond of telling me I need to want more.
"Line up, line up, thank you everyone. Line up, please. Order doesn't matter. Quickly, quickly—yes, thank you. Thank you."
My face grows cold as my blood tries to hide within myself. I shuffle into place, the bodies hot next to me.
When all the Wraith glide in, my heart's in my mouth again and this time I can't swallow it down. The two men stiffen next to me, but none of us run. We all stand at attention, gazes fixed to the floor, holding our collective breath. Two of the Wraith break off from the group, their long leather coats creaking as they stop before each of us. I'm near the end of the line, so I endure the long wait for their scrutiny. Step, creak, pause. Step, creak, pause. The man on my left's shivering little tremors.
Finally the black shoes stop before me. Time congeals.
Madness takes over. I look up.
The first Wraith's brutish like all the others, tattoo at its temple, but the other's tall and slender with salt hair and twin mustachios and sharp cheekbones oh its eye what happened to its eye—
My gaze snaps to my feet as a sharp hiss cuts through the tent. The men are frozen beside me. I forget how to breathe as the Wraiths loom, oh gods why did I look, why did I look?
"Does not matter." The voice's rough yet smooth, rocks wrapped in cloth. An undergrowl chases its elocution. It's the first words the Wraith have spoken aloud, yet it feels part of an ongoing conversation. I'm shocked it spoke at all. I'd thought they kept to their telepathy to exclude us filthy animals.
There's a contemplative silence. Sweat trickles down the knobs of my spine.
I resist an explosive gasp of relief as the Wraith keep moving down the line. The man on my left gives me a side-eye that screams How can you be so stupid? I respect his anger. There's no good answer for him. There must be something wrong with me, because as subtly as I can, I dare another peek. The Wraith are still in separate groups, the two who examined us off to one side. They're clearly conferring, heads bent together, the shorter one's fingers on the other's wrist. After a moment their hands drop.
The shorter Wraith points to one, two, oh—
"These three," it says aloud, sizing us. My ears begin to ring, making it hard to hear the council members thank the ones who came, can those selected step forward please? Everyone else please hang back, thank you, thank you.
I force my body to move, legs like rusted metal. In my periphery two other hapless men move with me. I recognize one as Troku, an old bed-mate. I hope to the underdark we don't have to have sex in front of the Wraith.
"This one too, my lord?" one of the council says, gesturing my way. In that one moment, gratitude overwhelms me. Yes, there must be a mistake.
The shorter, tattooed one sneers at him, but it's the Wraith with the ruined eye who replies. "It is clear breeding attempts are unsuccessful," it says. "She might serve another purpose." Its tone's impartial, as if discussing an animal that's formed wrong. Oh, its eye. There's knotted scarring all around its left socket, as if something had gouged it over and over, leaving a boiled egg sunk in the centre. I thought Wraith could regenerate a wound like that. Its good eye flicks to me and suddenly I find the floor interesting.
"We will sample them first," Tattoo says. "Bring their documents."
"Yes, of course. At once, my lord," the councilman says, already snapping his fingers at one of the guards. The guard's back in a heartbeat, all of who we are clutched in his hand. He gives it to the councilman, who, bowing, gives it to Dead Eye. The Wraith glances over the papers before turning its attention to us.
Tattoo has already moved to the first man, Troku. It growls when Troku's slow at unbuttoning his shirt, and gives him no time to prepare before shoving a hand to his chest. Troku's face contorts as the Wraith feeds.
I should get ready too. My shift already rides low on my neck, stopping above my breasts. All I need to do is unlace the vest. I do so, listening to the grunts of pain. It's completely inappropriate, but I choke back a surge of laugher. It's the perfect irony, isn't it? Their feeding no longer kills us, yet we all go ahead and die anyway. What a cosmic joke. I'm sure the gods out there are laughing at us.
Tattoo finishes with Troku and moves onto the second man. The process is repeated, hand-to-chest, the man trying to stifle his groans. It's not supposed to last long—this is a sampling, not a proper feeding. I wonder what my barrenness tastes like.
I'm so focused on Tattoo I don't realize Dead Eye's in front of me. I jolt back, too surprised to remember I'm not supposed to move, when it's reaching for me. Its hand seems unbelievably large, dark gash splitting its palm. For a moment the slit widens and then it's on me, pulsing—
White-hot pain explodes, blistering all thought and sensation. The pain changes and becomes worse, becomes like someone gulping from a bottle and they're dying of thirst.
The hand's suddenly gone and I stagger to a knee, reeling. I swallow, struggling not to vomit on the Wraith's shoes. When the nausea passes I force myself to my feet. I'm not any older than I was moments ago—none of us are. The retrovirus, a joint effort between the Atlantians and Wraith centuries ago, protects everyone born from inoculated parents. The only way a feeding could kill me now is if too many ate too quickly in a row. Otherwise, I could do it indefinitely. And as I lock gazes with the Wraith who just fed on me, I sense that's exactly what's going to happen.
"We accept," Dead Eye says. It stares back without blinking, its expression untranslatable. My heart catches. Isoka had once tried to warn me what standing before a Wraith felt like, how small it'd make you, but her words had seemed exaggerated. I think I'd even laughed. I wasn't laughing now. At first it felt like an animal was watching me, but the longer we looked at each other, the more I understood its cold appraisal underlined this was a predator and I was its food. It's hard to think beyond it.
Several of the Wraith in the background hiss.
Tattoo growls and whirls on the council. "The selections are acceptable. We are finished," it says, and strides out of the tent. After a moment Dead Eye follows it.
There's no more talking or fanfare after that.
The drones surround the three of us and we're herded outside. I crane my head to see if Isoka's nearby—maybe she joined the onlookers?—but it's too dark to see anything beyond the halo of light, and we're soon corralled onto the shuttle. It's been near a decade since I've been on one, but the dimness stirs memories. The three of us are put in a cage, the organic bars slithering shut. Only the drones linger as guards, dull as tent posts, while the other Wraith go deeper in their ship.
The shuttle shudders awake, the engines humming beneath us as everything lifts upward. At some point I can feel the shift from plant-bound to outer-orbit. It's something about the artificial gravity, maybe. It feels more oppressive, like entering a tunnel and the walls are constricting, as if converging on some unseen point and you're trapped amongst it all.
…
TBC