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crack_van2005-01-28 11:53 pm
simplystars.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-01-28 11:53 pm
Snowflakes by FloraStuart (PG)
Fandom: FARSCAPE
Pairing: John Crichton, the Ancients
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
florastuart
Author Website: n/a
Why this must be read:
The Ancients are directly responsible for implanting the knowledge in John Crichton's head that makes him the universe's most wanted man--preferably alive, but not necessarily worthless dead. At times it's difficult to be certain whether this knowledge was meant as a gift or cruel test; regardless, Crichton has to deal with the consequences of the power he unwillingly harbors.
Flora's fic, however, uses the Ancients' POV, as one in particular takes stock of the Human and his fitness as guardian of the very fabric of space-time. It's an emotionless assessment, a cold regard in more ways than those evidenced by the polar setting. One misstep, one selfish intent on John Crichton's part, and he will cease to exist.
Flora's weather comes alive in her fics. It's as much of a character as the hero and godlike alien, and the imagery adds a rich texture to the story.
No two snowflakes are exactly alike.
Billions upon billions to form this patch of ice, tiny crystals spun into delicate lace, patterns never repeating, always unique. Hanging in the air, drifting lazily downward, pulled from invisible clouds by illusory gravity. None of this is real.
All held within his mind, every design, every pattern. The human sees a ragged chunk of ice and packed snow. He sees the design behind every flake, a complex web of mathematical equations to make up oxygen and frozen water, enough to sustain one fragile life.
Only the wormholes are real, swirling blue, hypnotic, yawning open at the edges of the ice. Waves of raw, destructive energy lap the shore of his mind, beautiful and seductive.
Time is meaningless, and yet it is all that exists.
He should not be able to feel this cold.
I love how you lay it out there, Einstein. So let me ask you, without getting . . . existential on me--why am I, why are we . . . here?
Such a strange creature, fragile and scarred. Delicate as a snowflake, and as irreplaceable. But so much more deadly, even if it does not yet know.
You are present to perish. I am present to effect that outcome.
Snowflakes
Pairing: John Crichton, the Ancients
Author on LJ:
florastuart Author Website: n/a
Why this must be read:
The Ancients are directly responsible for implanting the knowledge in John Crichton's head that makes him the universe's most wanted man--preferably alive, but not necessarily worthless dead. At times it's difficult to be certain whether this knowledge was meant as a gift or cruel test; regardless, Crichton has to deal with the consequences of the power he unwillingly harbors.
Flora's fic, however, uses the Ancients' POV, as one in particular takes stock of the Human and his fitness as guardian of the very fabric of space-time. It's an emotionless assessment, a cold regard in more ways than those evidenced by the polar setting. One misstep, one selfish intent on John Crichton's part, and he will cease to exist.
Flora's weather comes alive in her fics. It's as much of a character as the hero and godlike alien, and the imagery adds a rich texture to the story.
No two snowflakes are exactly alike.
Billions upon billions to form this patch of ice, tiny crystals spun into delicate lace, patterns never repeating, always unique. Hanging in the air, drifting lazily downward, pulled from invisible clouds by illusory gravity. None of this is real.
All held within his mind, every design, every pattern. The human sees a ragged chunk of ice and packed snow. He sees the design behind every flake, a complex web of mathematical equations to make up oxygen and frozen water, enough to sustain one fragile life.
Only the wormholes are real, swirling blue, hypnotic, yawning open at the edges of the ice. Waves of raw, destructive energy lap the shore of his mind, beautiful and seductive.
Time is meaningless, and yet it is all that exists.
He should not be able to feel this cold.
I love how you lay it out there, Einstein. So let me ask you, without getting . . . existential on me--why am I, why are we . . . here?
Such a strange creature, fragile and scarred. Delicate as a snowflake, and as irreplaceable. But so much more deadly, even if it does not yet know.
You are present to perish. I am present to effect that outcome.
Snowflakes