Aug. 4th, 2008 09:44 pm

random fic

clocketpatch: A small, innocent-looking red alarm clock, stuck forever at 10 to 7. (Default)
[personal profile] clocketpatch
So... I've started another fic. But don't worry! I haven't abandoned my works in progress! Honest! I have more chapters of Forever Tomorrow up and coming!

Anyway... I'm not actually posting this to anywhere because it's not finished and I'm not sure if it ever will be finished. So click the link at your own risk. It's Seven, Ace, Hex, and it's my first time really writing anything plotty for Seven and Ace and my first time writing Hex period. I have no idea if I have their voices right so please: comments welcome.

Morning in the jungle was made of illusions; light came with tropical suddenness, but was slow to reached its zenith over the hills and the mist. Cool dew beaded off every frilled leaf, catching the sun, soon to be consumed by it, and evaporation, and the mist. Thousands of insects, the monkeys and the birds – parrots, toucans, grackles and chickens – raised their calls over the canopy.
Evans finished in the outhouse, but didn’t return to his tent. He moved away from the smelly, blue-tarp and thatch structure to somewhere with cleaner air and fewer flies. He took a deep breath, hoping the heady scent of green morning would chase away his exhaustion. When that failed he dug in his pocket for a cigarette.
The damp and slightly crumpled payaso was difficult to light, but it took the edge off. Not so well as several beers would have, but he wasn’t in a position to take that luxury – yet. Coffee would help, but breakfast was still half an hour away, and Evans hoped to be on the road before that. He would eat in town. Despite the cool air his clothes, beige workpants and a light, long-sleeved cotton top, plaid and half undone (those buttons that were done were the wrong ones), were clingy with sweat and dirt. Mud and jungle were worked through all the creases. His hair, sun-dyed and in need of a trim, hung lank by his ears.
Last night had been his first sleep in two days, and it had been short and disturbed. He, along with most of the staff, had spent the day and night previous hiking through the bush searching for the lost students. Two of them: Irene and Fuller. They’d slipped off from the excavation site during lunch, probably to do some jungle loving behind a fern, and hadn’t returned. That was over forty hours ago.
Worried, angry, and sick at the thought of the paperwork and phone calls awaiting him when he drove into town, Evans didn’t register the noise at first. It was a low grinding that blended in with the booming calls of a troop of howlers. The monkeys responded by doubling their already formidable volume. There was an unexpected breeze. It rustled the vegetation along the outhouse path. Rattled a cluster of cohune nuts. The smoke from Evans’ cigarette blew back in his face.
A few moments later he heard voices. Their accents were British. Evans coughed in disbelief. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it against the path with his heel. He knew there were a couple of Brits staying at the guesthouse in town, tourists looking for the ‘real experience’, but if they’d somehow managed to get themselves out here…
Evans bunched his fists and gritted his teeth to keep from cursing. He had enough problems without some crazy adventure-seekers complicating things.
From the voices there seemed to be two of them. Man and woman. The man might have been Irish, but Evans didn’t know the accent well enough to judge. He started back down the trail towards the outhouse, following the sound of their conversation.
“…and we appear to have landed in an alien jungle, again, where we will probably be the victims of attempted cannibalism, again, and you said vacation. I’m getting thick. I should know by now what vacation means with you two.”
“Oh Hex, quit moaning. You’ve only taken two steps out of the TARDIS, and so far nothing’s tried to eat you. That’s got to count for something, besides, this is Earth. It feels like Earth…” There was a pause in the conversation, an uneasy shuffling.
“Whew! What a stink!” said the woman.
“It’s an outhouse. Two steps out and there’s an outhouse. Does that bode well? Hey, what are you laughing at?”
“I stepped in it! You could’ve said! Ow! Earth, right, and this tree has giant spikes on it… very funny, no, stop laughing… do you hear that? It’s like… roaring…”
“Those,” said a new voice with a dark rippling accent Evans identified as Scottish, Maybe, “Would be the monkeys. Alouatta caraya. Completely harmless. Come along Ace, come along Hex, we’re on vacation. And hello who might you be?”
Evans and the Brits turned a corner at the same time, bringing them face to face on the trail. Evans’ had heard their nationality was eccentric, but he’d always figured that was a media stereotype. The ones he’d met, different academics, had been mostly normal, but then, academics were prone to being a bit off.
These three were more than a bit off. The maybe-Scot was clutching a novelty umbrella, and wore what looked like a knit sweater and suit jacket. Jungle mornings were a bit cool, yes, but it was still a lunatic dress choice for the climate. Things were warm enough, and would be far warmer soon as the sun was properly up. Still, even though he looked to be an unfit, middle-age, forty at the least, the Scot wasn’t sweating. Instead he was looking up at Evans expectantly with eyes that were black pits bordered blue. There was a good foot in height difference, no reason to be intimidated, but still, Evans broke gaze quickly, feeling unsettled.
The woman was worse. She had leather pants. Leather. And a tight silver tank-top with a black chain belt. Evans couldn’t help looking for the whip. She wasn’t wearing jewellery or make-up and her hair was pulled back into a painful bun.
The other man was maybe the most normal in jeans and a rumpled t-shirt, but he was tagging along with those two in the middle of the jungle, in the middle of Evans’ project’s camp where, quite frankly, they had no right to be.
“Name’s Evans,” said Evans to the odd little Scottish guy. On second glance his eyes were normal, blue, sparkling, and no swirling vortexes of darkness. Evans put it down to stress and not enough sleep.
“Nice to meet you Evans,” Scottish guy said, doffing his hat (a panama that he’d probably picked up at some souvenir stand) and bowing ever so slightly, “I’m the Doctor. This is Hex and Ace.” He indicted the maybe-normal young man and the dominatrix chick with his umbrella.
Loopy, Evans thought, completely loopy. Completely cracked out of their minds. Or drunk. Or –
He didn’t want to give any credence to the thought “other-worldly”.
“Interesting names,” he said.
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “Very. I was wondering. This is Earth, somewhere tropical, hmmm, Central America by the monkeys, somewhere I’d say between your time Ace and your time Hex. Maybe 2006?”
“2010,” said Evans.
“Ah well, close enough,” said the Doctor. “Now, Evans, now that we’ve narrowed the generalities where are we exactly and why do you look so worried?”
“For starters, you’re in the middle of Parc-ap base camp,” said Evans, trying to sound formidable. He had a feeling it wasn’t working. “…I don’t know how you got here but –”
“And what is Parc-ap?” interrupted dominatrix girl, Ace, Evans thought, or maybe Hex. He wasn’t sure really. He’d missed in the introductions which was which and it wasn’t like the names were gendered. It wasn’t like they were real names.
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “it is an interesting acronym.” He rolled the words off in a way that Evans took as a mockery. The Doctor was smiling slightly. So was Dominatrix girl. Normal man looked… he’d turned his back and was sulking to a tree.
“Psychological archaeology application project,” Evans snapped. “This is a research project and we aren’t equipped to deal with tourists. If you’re lost I’ll be going into town soon and can give you a ride back to wherever you’re staying.”
“Oh, but we aren’t staying in town,” said the Doctor.
Evans’ had had an uneasy feeling that that was the case. Before he could reply, the Doctor continued talking; what Evans’ had taken for a full stop was only a pause.
“You’re an archaeologist?” the Doctor said, “that’s strange. I knew an archaeologist once. Several actually, but one in particular. She doesn’t exist any more though; her time line was erased.”
Loopy, Evans thought again, certifiable probably, and not his problem.
“Look,” Evans said, “We’ve kind of got a situation going on here, and whoever you are we can’t really deal with you. If you’ve got transport I suggest you go back to it now and leave, or you can follow me and I’ll get someone to sort you out if you promise to <i>stay out of the way</i>. Otherwise we all might become a bit less happy. Now what’s it going to be?”
“We wouldn’t dream of getting in your way, would we Ace?”
“Oh, not at all Professor.”
“Coming Hex?”
“Always,” maybe-normal said, turning away from the tree. “And I won’t get in your way either,” he said, looking at Evans and smiling weakly. Apologetically.
Evans didn’t bother to reply. He turned and started walking, hoping that the lunatics would follow him, and that they would, indeed, stay out of the way.
Wishful thinking was a terrible thing.
Camp consisted of an ash-floored clearing walled by jungle. Thirty-two tents were set up in a jumble of multi-coloured vinyl, drooping rain flies, and sagging clotheslines. A small palapa, set up earlier in the season, served as lab hut. Another small thatched building, with open air walls, worked as the kitchen. A pair of tractors, one sporting a badly abused trailer, sat proud in the central plaza next to a battered, rust-splashed pick-up truck. Evans’ truck.
Chickens pecked aimlessly at the ash, occasionally crowing.
“Luxury digs!” said the Dominatrix girl upon emerging from the trees and getting her first sight of the camp. 
“Be nice,” said the Doctor.
She grinned and nudged Maybe-normal in the ribs. He flinched slightly at the contact and drew back before rolling his eyes.
There was a thin wisp of smoke coming from the kitchen. It blended with the mist and the jungle and the general camp smells – mostly socks and damp earth.
Evans led the trio of crazies to the kitchen. It was still twenty minutes to breakfast but maybe – maybe – there would be early coffee. There was, and the majority of the project’s non-native staff were standing bleary-eyed around the pot drinking it. The hut was crowded with their bodies, and the body of the camp-cook stirring the beans and heating tortillas.
“Greetings,” said Andy, a second year Master’s student working on ceramic distribution. Red hair and ruffled. He’d helped with the search before it got dark.
Evans grunted. One of the staff handed him a mug which he quickly downed, wiping the stray drip off his chin with a grimy sleeve.
Andy nodded at the Brits as they wandered in. “Who are they?”
“They some kind of officials?” asked Lodge. She was thirty-eight. The project’s lab director. She kept herself nearly bald and looked like a man as a result, yet she insisted on jewellery, even in camp. The day’s selection was a giant faux gold locket.
“I think they’re tourists,” said Evans, “they just popped out of the trees like wee little bunny rabbits.”
“Hey!” protested Dominatrix girl, “I’m not a –”
“Cool it Ace. We don’t want to cause any trouble.”
Ace glared at Maybe-normal. <i>Hex</i>, Evans’ corrected in his head.
“Well hell,” said Lodge, looking from the Brits to Evans, “like we don’t have enough problems. You staying for breakfast?”
Evans shook his head and set his empty mug down on the table. “Right into town, got to…” he didn’t finish.
No one in the hut spoke. All of the staff examined the floor, the ceiling, the noxious brew in the coffee pot.
“I’d be very interested to hear about your problems,” said the Doctor.
“The Professor’s good at sorting problems,” said Ace.
“Are you now?” said Lodge as Evans slipped out. “Hey!” she shouted after him before any of the three Brits could reply. “What you doing? You leaving them here?”
“They don’t want a ride back,” said Evans.
“Don’t care what they want,” said Lodge, “what the fuck I’m supposed to do with them?”
“We aren’t staying in town,” said the Doctor, “and we have our own transport.”
“That so,” said Lodge. She waved Evans on his way. “Then why don’t you get in it and vamoose? Could have you arrested for coming into our camp. Might be looking for a few souvenirs to remind you of your trip?”
“What?” asked Ace.
“He means looters,” said the Doctor, “and we aren’t. We’re only travellers, passing through.”
“A bit out of the way to be just ‘passing through’,” said Lodge.
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “Quite. I didn’t catch your names. I’m the Doctor. This is Ace and my sullen friend by the door is Hex.”
“Lodge,” said Lodge, “And Andy, Jo, Betty, Scot, Norman and Rita.” She pointed to each of the staff in turn, and to the cook.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the Doctor, doffing his hat again.
“Wish the same applied both ways,” said Lodge, “but it don’t.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “I did catch that sentiment.”
“Professor…” Ace grumbled, “Can we just go. Hex is pitching a fit, there’s nothing here to see, and you’re annoying the locals.”
“Hush Ace.”
“Professor eh,” said Lodge, “Professor of what?”
“Of many things.” There was a twinkle in the Doctor’s eye. “Ace and Hex are my graduate students. We heard about the work you were doing here. Psychological archaeology – verrry interesting, and decided to stop by. I do apologise for not working through the proper channels, but perhaps you will forgive us?”
Somewhere a rooster crowed. There was a loud, guttering bang as Evans’ truck started and rolled noisily out of the camp.
“Is that so,” said Lodge, cocking an eyebrow. “From what university.”
“Cambridge,” said the Doctor. He started looking through his pockets, muttering; “now where is it… where is it…” under his breath.
“I have a friend who went to Cambridge,” said Andy.
“That Sean?” asked Jo. She was short and thickly built with a smudge of ash under her left eye.
“No, Jerald,” said Andy.
Lodge glared them into silence.
“I know it’s here somewhere…” muttered the Doctor, still sorting through his pockets. He kept pulling out strange bits and pieces and laying them on the table. “… 500 year diary, no… UNIT pass, no… bishonian mechanical beetle, I’d forgotten I had that… no… oh where is it… yes… very good.”
The Doctor withdrew a slim black wallet and opened it to reveal a Cambridge University identity card. The face in the picture ID was a blurry black and white, and, though dark haired, its resemblance to the Doctor was questionable.
Lodge blinked, slowly, disbelievingly.
“Where’d you get that Professor?” asked Ace, craning for a look.
“A long time ago,” said the Doctor, snapping the wallet shut and placing it, and the items discarded across the table, back into his pocket.
“Well, Professor John Smith,” said Lodge, extending a hand. “Welcome to Parc-ap. Too bad you couldn’t have chosen a better day to fall out of the sky on. We’re in a bit of a crisis at the moment.”
“So I hear,” said the Doctor, “So I hear. I’m very interested in learning all about it…”
Date: 2008-08-05 03:10 am (UTC)

From: [identity profile]
Oooooh. I wanna hear more! I love Hex. So long as there's a beer tent, he's happy.

Several actually, but one in particular. She doesn’t exist any more though; her time line was erased.”

Date: 2008-08-05 03:14 am (UTC)

From: [identity profile]
I like it! I do see though that you could use a betaer. Might I offer my services. :)

But I really think it is a great start. I think you did a very good job with the personification particularly for Ace and the Doctor. I can also tell you are an anthropology buff from how you chose to begin. ;) That's not a bad thing at all.

I hope you do continue you.
Date: 2008-08-05 03:41 am (UTC)

ext_22618: (slipnbleedicons - Seven and Ace)
From: [identity profile]
You know, I was just complaining this morning that there isn't enough Seven fic! This is brilliant and I can't wait to read more. A couple of dropped commas and a sentence fragment or two, but hey, stuff happens. When do we get the next part?
Date: 2008-08-05 05:30 am (UTC)

ext_22618: (Default)
From: [identity profile]
I've written one but haven't posted it yet - I'm still trying to decide whether I've gotten Seven's personality right.

Will this Friday be all right for you? I should be able to get them done by then.
Date: 2008-08-06 12:50 am (UTC)

ext_22618: (Default)
From: [identity profile]
You're welcome!

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