cross-posted whispered challenge response
Feb. 10th, 2006 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chanter1944Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15minuteficlets but it was too long to post in a comment. I need to write something *way* less intense after this.
Title: Love Conquers All
Author: chanter
Series: TNG
Rating: PG13 for mild language and intensity
Pairings: Geordi/Leah
Summary: What was Geordi thinking while on Penthara IV during and after the 8.3 seconds that the Enterprise’s phasers fired?
Major spoilers for A Matter Of Time, with the very last line snipped from the actual script. You have been warned.
850 words
It was do... or die.
Or it was don’t or die. Either way it was die possibly and he was stuck in the middle. By choice. What an idiot.
Or what a hero. Or an optimist. Or maybe just foolish enough... arrogant enough... crazy enough to believe this idea would stand a chance in hell of working. Maybe just gallant enough to need to see firsthand whether it did or didn’t. Maybe just going on blind faith, blinder than he was.
Maybe a little of all that.
8.3 seconds in real time was a hell of a long leap of faith. Or madness, or… whatever it was. And from the order to fire on into the future was an infinitely long way down.
“Fire.”
Down he went.
And down they all went, Mosely and the colony leaders and everybody else on the surface, under the clouds, under the ash and the lava and god knew what else was in the atmosphere. Have a good time... in hell. Should he pray his way out of it, beg and plead and silently curse his way out of it or just lean over his console and watch numbers and readings and minute adjustments scroll by till it was over? Or just hold his breath and wait? Breathe in. Eight seconds.
Everybody down here, they were riding on calculations and power emissions and klingon fire control. He was, Mosely was. Everyone was. And who was to say that Worf or commander Riker or that creepy time traveling historian Rasmussen wasn’t praying just as hard as he was. Watch the console. Get religion. Hold your breath.
Seven seconds.
And everyone up there, they were making or breaking planetary history and one slipped finger and poof! Vaporized atmosphere. And that could happen anyway. Watch the numbers, keep the balance. Hold your breath.
Six seconds.
Mom, and Dad, and Ariana. If this worked he’d have one hell of a story to tell them the next time he sent a message home... or talked on subspace... or had a shore leave. What a time to appreciate the simple things. And if it didn’t work, well... Think it out, keep the balance. No time like the present when there might not be a future. Hold your breath.
Five seconds.
Starfleet was in his family, Mom, Dad, him and they all knew about death. They were prepared for it in training. Sort of. If one of them died tomorrow he was sure he’d bawl and just as sure he wouldn’t care who saw him, who heard him. Sure he wouldn’t understand. And if he died... If their plan failed and there was no tomorrow... Work it out, try for one tiny bit of closure. Hold your breath.
Four seconds.
Why try for a will now, when nobody would see it or hear it, when his thoughts could fragment before a telepath could sort them out and it might take a century to discover the puzzle and piece the shards. Don’t get maudlin, don’t get morbid. Keep the calculations in line. Hold your breath.
Three seconds.
Mom and Dad. He loved them, duh. There was his sense of adventure from one and his practical side from the other, and there was Starfleet and childhood and that whole procreation thing besides. Watch the console, nothing else. Think it clearly. Mom, Dad, I love you. Hold your breath.
Two seconds.
And Ariana, and Data--another couple givens. One was his sister, responsible for so many amazing memories, for the birthdays and the school plays and even for the arguments... the ones he didn’t start. And the other one was his best friend, violins and Sherlock Holmes and that damn cat, hundreds of adventures and missions all in the space of five years. Watch the viewscreen. Think it clearly. Ariana, I love you. Data, you’re my brother. Hold your breath.
One second.
The Enterprise, and everyone up there--what a blurr, what a mess, what a joy. His staff, and his friends, and all the adventures they’d had--Earth, Romulus, Menos Corva and a glimpse of command, Angel I and that damn virus and he still didn’t know if Dr. Crusher had heard him whisper. Leah, who he’d first loved as a reputation, then as a hologram, then as so much more than a hologram once they’d met and gotten past the initial explosion. Leah, who he still loved. Leah, who he might never get the chance to tell. Keep your eyes on the viewer, think it, mouthe the words across the lightyears. “Leah, I love you.”
Zero.
“It worked! Oh thank God!”
Mosely’s ecstatic gasp triggered his own, and the breath he’d been holding rushed out in a stream of words far above what he’d mouthed to the screen, loud in his ears, loud in the room but not loud enough, not hardly--“Love conquers all!”
“It worked, La Forge! What’d you say?”
“Um...” Whoops. But he wasn’t even embarrassed, he was so light-headed with relief. “Nothing Dr. Mosely. Still breathing, Captain. You see? I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
15minuteficlets but it was too long to post in a comment. I need to write something *way* less intense after this. Title: Love Conquers All
Author: chanter
Series: TNG
Rating: PG13 for mild language and intensity
Pairings: Geordi/Leah
Summary: What was Geordi thinking while on Penthara IV during and after the 8.3 seconds that the Enterprise’s phasers fired?
Major spoilers for A Matter Of Time, with the very last line snipped from the actual script. You have been warned.
850 words
It was do... or die.
Or it was don’t or die. Either way it was die possibly and he was stuck in the middle. By choice. What an idiot.
Or what a hero. Or an optimist. Or maybe just foolish enough... arrogant enough... crazy enough to believe this idea would stand a chance in hell of working. Maybe just gallant enough to need to see firsthand whether it did or didn’t. Maybe just going on blind faith, blinder than he was.
Maybe a little of all that.
8.3 seconds in real time was a hell of a long leap of faith. Or madness, or… whatever it was. And from the order to fire on into the future was an infinitely long way down.
“Fire.”
Down he went.
And down they all went, Mosely and the colony leaders and everybody else on the surface, under the clouds, under the ash and the lava and god knew what else was in the atmosphere. Have a good time... in hell. Should he pray his way out of it, beg and plead and silently curse his way out of it or just lean over his console and watch numbers and readings and minute adjustments scroll by till it was over? Or just hold his breath and wait? Breathe in. Eight seconds.
Everybody down here, they were riding on calculations and power emissions and klingon fire control. He was, Mosely was. Everyone was. And who was to say that Worf or commander Riker or that creepy time traveling historian Rasmussen wasn’t praying just as hard as he was. Watch the console. Get religion. Hold your breath.
Seven seconds.
And everyone up there, they were making or breaking planetary history and one slipped finger and poof! Vaporized atmosphere. And that could happen anyway. Watch the numbers, keep the balance. Hold your breath.
Six seconds.
Mom, and Dad, and Ariana. If this worked he’d have one hell of a story to tell them the next time he sent a message home... or talked on subspace... or had a shore leave. What a time to appreciate the simple things. And if it didn’t work, well... Think it out, keep the balance. No time like the present when there might not be a future. Hold your breath.
Five seconds.
Starfleet was in his family, Mom, Dad, him and they all knew about death. They were prepared for it in training. Sort of. If one of them died tomorrow he was sure he’d bawl and just as sure he wouldn’t care who saw him, who heard him. Sure he wouldn’t understand. And if he died... If their plan failed and there was no tomorrow... Work it out, try for one tiny bit of closure. Hold your breath.
Four seconds.
Why try for a will now, when nobody would see it or hear it, when his thoughts could fragment before a telepath could sort them out and it might take a century to discover the puzzle and piece the shards. Don’t get maudlin, don’t get morbid. Keep the calculations in line. Hold your breath.
Three seconds.
Mom and Dad. He loved them, duh. There was his sense of adventure from one and his practical side from the other, and there was Starfleet and childhood and that whole procreation thing besides. Watch the console, nothing else. Think it clearly. Mom, Dad, I love you. Hold your breath.
Two seconds.
And Ariana, and Data--another couple givens. One was his sister, responsible for so many amazing memories, for the birthdays and the school plays and even for the arguments... the ones he didn’t start. And the other one was his best friend, violins and Sherlock Holmes and that damn cat, hundreds of adventures and missions all in the space of five years. Watch the viewscreen. Think it clearly. Ariana, I love you. Data, you’re my brother. Hold your breath.
One second.
The Enterprise, and everyone up there--what a blurr, what a mess, what a joy. His staff, and his friends, and all the adventures they’d had--Earth, Romulus, Menos Corva and a glimpse of command, Angel I and that damn virus and he still didn’t know if Dr. Crusher had heard him whisper. Leah, who he’d first loved as a reputation, then as a hologram, then as so much more than a hologram once they’d met and gotten past the initial explosion. Leah, who he still loved. Leah, who he might never get the chance to tell. Keep your eyes on the viewer, think it, mouthe the words across the lightyears. “Leah, I love you.”
Zero.
“It worked! Oh thank God!”
Mosely’s ecstatic gasp triggered his own, and the breath he’d been holding rushed out in a stream of words far above what he’d mouthed to the screen, loud in his ears, loud in the room but not loud enough, not hardly--“Love conquers all!”
“It worked, La Forge! What’d you say?”
“Um...” Whoops. But he wasn’t even embarrassed, he was so light-headed with relief. “Nothing Dr. Mosely. Still breathing, Captain. You see? I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
