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crack_van2010-07-16 12:23 am
beatrice_otter) wrote in crack_van2010-07-16 12:23 am
Entry tags:
The Battle of Songhu by azn_jack_fiend (PG-13)
Fandom: DOCTOR WHO
Pairing: Ninth Doctor, Rose, Jack Harkness
Length: 5k words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
azn_jack_fiend
Author Website: fic tag, AO3
Why this must be read:
The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances is possibly the best story of the Ninth Doctor. It's also the story that introduces the fan-favorite Captain Jack Harkness, a conman from the fifty-first century scamming Time Agents in WWII London, posing as an American-volunteer RAF pilot during the Battle of the Bulge. Despite a dark beginning due to the con having gone horribly wrong, it ends in happy triumphant ending: the Doctor saves the day, Jack goes off to travel with Rose and the Doctor, and "Everybody lives! Just this once, everybody lives!" One of the highpoints is Rose telling Nancy, a young Londoner, that no matter how dark things seem with Nazis bombing them every night, Britain will win--a stirring example of the British triumphalism of which Doctor Who is occasionally fond.
But what if Jack Harkness didn't fit 20th-Century definitions of "white"? What if he looked Asian, instead, and chose to run his con as an American-volunteer pilot named Captain Jack Hark Lee in China in the 1930's?azn_jack_fiend explores 1937 Shanghai in this moving, evocative AU. Shanghai is a city on the verge of falling to the Japanese, battered by colonialism, torn apart from the inside by the division between imperialists and communists, and yet still proud and unbowed. The characters (canon and original) are well-drawn and rounded, the details are chosen with care, and the dialogue is note-perfect. Although the story focuses on events before and off-screen in the plot of EC/TDD, you don't need to be familiar with it to understand this story. And the scene where Lin asks what's going to happen to Shanghai will break your heart.
August 13th, 1937
Nightclub in International Settlement, Shanghai
"Your money's no good, Captain Lee," said the nightclub owner, his long, sharp-boned face lit up with patriotic gratitude. "But don't drink too deeply; you need to hammer the Japanese tomorrow."
"Thanks, and don't worry. One more baijiu and I'll be back to base." He raised his cup and smiled. The nightclub owner widened his eyes and took a half-step backward. Slipped. Got to stop showing my teeth when I smile. Too straight, and way too white.
"Your... accent. Where are you from?" asked the owner. His own Mandarin had a heavy Shanghainese pitch.
"Born and raised in Los Angeles, but my parents came from Guangdong province." That should cover it.
"So tall for a southerner!" said the owner with a touch of envy.
"I eat my wheaties. It's an American saying."
"You're a true hero, coming back to fight for China. America's the best of them. Do you think they'll join the war? You must have some idea. The British -- those bloodsucking bastards, they're cringing from the Japanese. But the Americans --"
"The word is, the better we fight, the more chance they'll step in. And we'll fight like crazy. The Japanese have better planes, but they don't have our spirit."
I'm sick of feeding them lines, he thought. The volcano's exploding and there's no way to hold it back. I can't spare any sympathy. Really. Just wish they didn't have to keep looking at me like that. Not much longer, though. A Time Agent's gonna drop into 1937 any minute.
"Hammer them into the sea!" exhorted the owner.
"You bet we will. Say, who's that lady over there?" He raised an eyebrow. "The one with the cute mean look on her face?"
"An actress. I think her name is Lan Ping." The owner ruined his discretion by waving in her direction.
"Famous?"
"She's famous for tearing up men like a typhoon. An ex-husband tried to kill himself over her."
"Interesting. Marriage is the last thing on my mind. Can your bartender get her a drink?"
"Sure. I'll excuse myself. Good luck, Captain. Tonight and tomorrow." The owner left. A minute later, the crackling, skirling warble of Peking opera changed to a cleaner recording of a Count Basie tune.
Lan Ping was a tall woman in a tight apricot cheongsam, striking rather than pretty, guarded and gathered into herself. Eyes darting all around, but they kept coming back to him. Hard to read. Once she had her drink, he moved next to her.
She didn't even let him introduce himself. "I don't step out with Kuomintang men."
She could go off like a pistol. Which way, he wasn't sure yet. He smiled, not holding anything back. Full teeth. "So you're a Communist. I don't mind. You know, it's only a matter of time before we come together to form a united front. And we could make it happen early. Tonight, even."
"You're very forward!"
"Tell me more about dialectical materialism, sweetheart, and don't leave me behind in the dustbin of history."
"Reactionary. Meet me by the streetlight in ten minutes. Bring a bottle of champagne."
He left half the bills in his wallet in payment for the Dom Pérignon, hiding them under a napkin so the bartender wouldn't refuse. Outside, the street was crowded with Chinese dressed in everything from refugee rags to silk changshans and three-piece suits, mixed lightly with the international cream and scum of the Old World, come to Shanghai on a mission or a layover or to make their fortune. A breeze from the ocean stirred the air, thick and wet as soup steam, rich with all the smells of Shanghai's summer: spice and fish and smoke and sewage and fresh jasmine. In a few days, it would smell like blood and gunpowder, too.
All of this, and there's a typhoon about to hit. A literal typhoon. I could have pulled this con in London 1941. The timing would've been easier. I just didn't want the temporary nanosculpt for the right cover identity. Let's face it -- ha! -- I'm too vain. The poster boy for Bo Shan? You don't mess with this level of perfection. And the food in wartime London? Save me. The mood in Shanghai is grim as hell, but the restaurants are a little slice of heaven. And the sing-song girls and sailors are always ready for a good time. After the dust settles, maybe I'll skip to Shanghai 2337 for some R&R. All the nightlife, none of the cholera, and hardly any bombing. Love that saying these people have: one joy scatters a hundred griefs. I could live by those words.
A curvy black car pulled to a stop in front of him. Lieutenant Bao from Intelligence was in the back.
"Captain Lee! We've got a briefing in half an hour on the Zhabei district defenses. They want you for the CAF liaison."
Too bad, Lan Ping. You lost your chance to pump me for information. Don't think I'll ever see you again. This champagne is too good to waste, though. I'll keep it on ice back at the spaceship.
He stepped into the car.
The Battle of Songhu
Pairing: Ninth Doctor, Rose, Jack Harkness
Length: 5k words
Author on LJ:
azn_jack_fiend Author Website: fic tag, AO3
Why this must be read:
The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances is possibly the best story of the Ninth Doctor. It's also the story that introduces the fan-favorite Captain Jack Harkness, a conman from the fifty-first century scamming Time Agents in WWII London, posing as an American-volunteer RAF pilot during the Battle of the Bulge. Despite a dark beginning due to the con having gone horribly wrong, it ends in happy triumphant ending: the Doctor saves the day, Jack goes off to travel with Rose and the Doctor, and "Everybody lives! Just this once, everybody lives!" One of the highpoints is Rose telling Nancy, a young Londoner, that no matter how dark things seem with Nazis bombing them every night, Britain will win--a stirring example of the British triumphalism of which Doctor Who is occasionally fond.
But what if Jack Harkness didn't fit 20th-Century definitions of "white"? What if he looked Asian, instead, and chose to run his con as an American-volunteer pilot named Captain Jack Hark Lee in China in the 1930's?
azn_jack_fiend explores 1937 Shanghai in this moving, evocative AU. Shanghai is a city on the verge of falling to the Japanese, battered by colonialism, torn apart from the inside by the division between imperialists and communists, and yet still proud and unbowed. The characters (canon and original) are well-drawn and rounded, the details are chosen with care, and the dialogue is note-perfect. Although the story focuses on events before and off-screen in the plot of EC/TDD, you don't need to be familiar with it to understand this story. And the scene where Lin asks what's going to happen to Shanghai will break your heart.August 13th, 1937
Nightclub in International Settlement, Shanghai
"Your money's no good, Captain Lee," said the nightclub owner, his long, sharp-boned face lit up with patriotic gratitude. "But don't drink too deeply; you need to hammer the Japanese tomorrow."
"Thanks, and don't worry. One more baijiu and I'll be back to base." He raised his cup and smiled. The nightclub owner widened his eyes and took a half-step backward. Slipped. Got to stop showing my teeth when I smile. Too straight, and way too white.
"Your... accent. Where are you from?" asked the owner. His own Mandarin had a heavy Shanghainese pitch.
"Born and raised in Los Angeles, but my parents came from Guangdong province." That should cover it.
"So tall for a southerner!" said the owner with a touch of envy.
"I eat my wheaties. It's an American saying."
"You're a true hero, coming back to fight for China. America's the best of them. Do you think they'll join the war? You must have some idea. The British -- those bloodsucking bastards, they're cringing from the Japanese. But the Americans --"
"The word is, the better we fight, the more chance they'll step in. And we'll fight like crazy. The Japanese have better planes, but they don't have our spirit."
I'm sick of feeding them lines, he thought. The volcano's exploding and there's no way to hold it back. I can't spare any sympathy. Really. Just wish they didn't have to keep looking at me like that. Not much longer, though. A Time Agent's gonna drop into 1937 any minute.
"Hammer them into the sea!" exhorted the owner.
"You bet we will. Say, who's that lady over there?" He raised an eyebrow. "The one with the cute mean look on her face?"
"An actress. I think her name is Lan Ping." The owner ruined his discretion by waving in her direction.
"Famous?"
"She's famous for tearing up men like a typhoon. An ex-husband tried to kill himself over her."
"Interesting. Marriage is the last thing on my mind. Can your bartender get her a drink?"
"Sure. I'll excuse myself. Good luck, Captain. Tonight and tomorrow." The owner left. A minute later, the crackling, skirling warble of Peking opera changed to a cleaner recording of a Count Basie tune.
Lan Ping was a tall woman in a tight apricot cheongsam, striking rather than pretty, guarded and gathered into herself. Eyes darting all around, but they kept coming back to him. Hard to read. Once she had her drink, he moved next to her.
She didn't even let him introduce himself. "I don't step out with Kuomintang men."
She could go off like a pistol. Which way, he wasn't sure yet. He smiled, not holding anything back. Full teeth. "So you're a Communist. I don't mind. You know, it's only a matter of time before we come together to form a united front. And we could make it happen early. Tonight, even."
"You're very forward!"
"Tell me more about dialectical materialism, sweetheart, and don't leave me behind in the dustbin of history."
"Reactionary. Meet me by the streetlight in ten minutes. Bring a bottle of champagne."
He left half the bills in his wallet in payment for the Dom Pérignon, hiding them under a napkin so the bartender wouldn't refuse. Outside, the street was crowded with Chinese dressed in everything from refugee rags to silk changshans and three-piece suits, mixed lightly with the international cream and scum of the Old World, come to Shanghai on a mission or a layover or to make their fortune. A breeze from the ocean stirred the air, thick and wet as soup steam, rich with all the smells of Shanghai's summer: spice and fish and smoke and sewage and fresh jasmine. In a few days, it would smell like blood and gunpowder, too.
All of this, and there's a typhoon about to hit. A literal typhoon. I could have pulled this con in London 1941. The timing would've been easier. I just didn't want the temporary nanosculpt for the right cover identity. Let's face it -- ha! -- I'm too vain. The poster boy for Bo Shan? You don't mess with this level of perfection. And the food in wartime London? Save me. The mood in Shanghai is grim as hell, but the restaurants are a little slice of heaven. And the sing-song girls and sailors are always ready for a good time. After the dust settles, maybe I'll skip to Shanghai 2337 for some R&R. All the nightlife, none of the cholera, and hardly any bombing. Love that saying these people have: one joy scatters a hundred griefs. I could live by those words.
A curvy black car pulled to a stop in front of him. Lieutenant Bao from Intelligence was in the back.
"Captain Lee! We've got a briefing in half an hour on the Zhabei district defenses. They want you for the CAF liaison."
Too bad, Lan Ping. You lost your chance to pump me for information. Don't think I'll ever see you again. This champagne is too good to waste, though. I'll keep it on ice back at the spaceship.
He stepped into the car.
The Battle of Songhu