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mardahinTitle: John Smith, ABD
Universe: Bridges
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miriel
Rating: PG
Author's Note: A birthday present for one of the reasons I'm still (mostly) sane, both in and out of fandom -ladyholder. This probably isn't exactly what she had in mind, but I hope she'll like it anyway. Thanks to druidspell for some off-the-cuff editing advice. Roughly 1,600 words. Tied, indirectly, to this, which is the brochure for the conference which follows the one in this fic.
Summary: Conference in Maui, the advert said. Bursaries available, the website said. They forgot to mention that it was members only, and John Smith just had one of those names...
February, 2008
It took John Smith, a (relatively) mild-mannered graduate student, about 30 minutes to realize that there was something...off about the too-good-to-be-true conference in Maui. It took another 15 to conclude that he wasn't the person the conference organizers had thought he was. He debated pulling someone aside to explain the mistake, but pragmatism kept him quiet – he'd gotten his university to pay for his travel expenses, and he'd received a bursary courtesy of some philanthropic organization called the PSN to cover the rest of it when he'd mentioned being a graduate student. He was there for the week either way at this point, and if he got kicked out of the conference he'd have to find somewhere else to stay. Even if his first glimpse of the planned activities seemed a little strange, his fellow attendees seemed nice enough; there was no reason the trip had to be a total waste. After all, it wasn't like he'd been slated to present; he was just a back-up.
Registration was his first clue that something was off. His plane had been delayed, and by the time he reached the hotel the sign-in was already well underway. He'd been to enough events that the paperwork was easy enough to navigate, but it was when he put on his name tag that things got odd. Strangers started walking up to him, smiling and asking “John Smith, Archeology, right?” Every time he corrected them, “No, Sociology” they'd nod sympathetically and say something about how sorry they were to hear about Doctor Silvanus. After the fourth such exchange, he'd retreated to his room under the guise of putting his paperwork away.
The program listing was his second clue that the conference wasn't quite what it had seemed on the website. The advertising had provided only minimal course descriptions, and he would fully admit that he hadn't looked too hard: it had been there, there was funding for graduate students, and it was in Maui. That there was mention of research methodology and field work specialty-training was just gravy. After all, he was thinking about doing a semester in the field, and he could use all the advice he could get. Flipping through courses outlining weapons training and hostage negotiations, he had to take a few minutes to consider if it was really worth saving the change-of-ticket fee. He hadn't actually decided when five o'clock came around, but he figured that he might as well go down to the welcome reception, because if nothing else it was bad to make such a serious decision on an empty stomach.
The food was excellent, and the company was good, even if the welcome speaker confirmed his belief that he'd landed in some kind of bizarre parallel universe. Or maybe just an incredibly well-educated cult, although the interpersonal dynamics didn't support that theory. It certainly wasn't any stranger than some of the things alluded to by Doctor Heightmeyer in her speech.
“It's been a Hell of a year, but we're still doing what we do best – surviving, and holding out hope for a rescue.” John had laughed because everyone else did, but he hadn't gotten the joke. “In all seriousness, it's great to see so many of you here. We've got a great program planned, and I hope everyone has a good time. There are a few mandatory seminars – medical refreshers, basic combat and weapons, the usual standards, as well as the evening guest speakers which I'm advising all of you to attend. Other than that, I want you to relax, enjoy the view, and talk to each other. Doctor's orders.” She had smiled, softening the scolding. “I'm serious, people. Gossip makes the world go 'round, and we don't have nearly enough chances to talk to each other without having to worry about security concerns, so take advantage of it. We've got the whole resort to ourselves, minus the staff and a few civilians who know not to ask too many questions. Now, I think that's more than enough from me, so I'll leave you to your own devices for the evening. If you have any problems or questions, I'm in room 245, and Miko's in 287. Cushman's RMO on site, and I've been asked to clarify that yes, he's in 287 as well, and no, he and Miko aren't dating. Between the three of us, we should be able to sort out just about anything that comes up. For tonight, the pools are open until midnight, the bar's free, and breakfast doesn't start until 8. Enjoy!”
By the time John was on his second Mai Tai, he'd decided to stick around. Open Bar was Open Bar, and he could always argue it as a research opportunity to study high-functioning crazies. He'd just have to practice his ability to observe and blend-in; it could be a trial run for his term in the field. And if he just happened to spend rather a lot of time on the beach, well, that was just a fringe benefit.
* * *
Blending in turned out to be easier than John had feared. He kept his responses short and vague, especially at first, and played dumb the rest of the time. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but after someone had muttered under their breath about “naive city dwellers”, he found that most of his unintentional blunders were casually overlooked. Everyone assumed that if you were there, you were one of “us.” Us being a group of survivors from some government research project, if what he'd gathered in offhand comments was anything to go by. Some things he had absolutely no context for, like the way they talked about Earth and “here” and a war that he was relatively sure had nothing to do with the Middle East. Other things were all too easy to understand, even if he couldn't place the details – death and sickness and missing friends. Ordinary things, which reinforced his belief that the members of the PSN were basically rational, even if their decks were padded with an extra suit or two.
Regardless of what had pulled the bizarre and eclectic group together, John was surprised to find that he enjoyed the sessions he decided to poke his head into. Some were potentially useful – such as the hand-to-hand combat refresher and “Diplomatic Courtesy 101 – How to Eat What You're Handed” – and some, like “Brew Your Own Booze,” were simply entertaining.
The guest speakers were different. The day sessions were practical, and often light-hearted. The night sessions were somber, filled with unpleasant realities and painful anecdotes. They dealt with topics like suicide and substance abuse, acceptable losses in tactical situations and psychological trauma. Everyone went to those, and everyone paid attention. John wondered how many of them had seen what the speakers described, how many had lived through similar circumstances doing whatever it was they had done for the government. There were certainly a disproportionate number of buzzcuts scattered through the crowd.
The one thing he didn't participate in was the Paintball Tournament, and when he saw the others staggering back muddy, exhausted, and in the case of two of the teams significantly bloodied, he was glad that he'd chosen to bow out. Instead, he was drafted by his “team” - the Observers – to act as their base man, coordinating rescue efforts should they be needed and ensuring that no one left the confines of the playing field. Watching the various games progress, he again wondered just what it was his new friends had done before landing in their current lives – those he'd talked to seemed to be primarily researchers and university professors, hardly careers which required the kind of skills that led to WWIII-esque games of Capture the Flag that were littered with insults about the “damn natives getting themselves killed” every time a park ranger wandered into a designated playing field.
* * *
When he left Maui, and the First Annual PSN Conference, John still had no clear idea what his new friends had done to wind up part of such an odd group. To bastardize a military phrase, he hadn't asked and they hadn't told. Asking would have given away the fact that his coming had been a mistake, and he couldn't say he regretted the trip. Odd topics of instruction or not, he left the conference with a new confidence in his ability to handle whatever might pop up while taking part in the field study he had applied for.
Three months later, when he literally staggered out of a formerly peaceful region of Western Asia that had suddenly decided it was sick of Chinese rule, he thanked every star in the heavens that he'd applied to that conference, and vowed to go back the next year and pay his own way, leaving the bursary to someone else. It would be money well spent.
~ Finis ~
Universe: Bridges
Author:
mirielRating: PG
Author's Note: A birthday present for one of the reasons I'm still (mostly) sane, both in and out of fandom -
ladyholder. This probably isn't exactly what she had in mind, but I hope she'll like it anyway. Thanks to druidspell for some off-the-cuff editing advice. Roughly 1,600 words. Tied, indirectly, to this, which is the brochure for the conference which follows the one in this fic.Summary: Conference in Maui, the advert said. Bursaries available, the website said. They forgot to mention that it was members only, and John Smith just had one of those names...
February, 2008
It took John Smith, a (relatively) mild-mannered graduate student, about 30 minutes to realize that there was something...off about the too-good-to-be-true conference in Maui. It took another 15 to conclude that he wasn't the person the conference organizers had thought he was. He debated pulling someone aside to explain the mistake, but pragmatism kept him quiet – he'd gotten his university to pay for his travel expenses, and he'd received a bursary courtesy of some philanthropic organization called the PSN to cover the rest of it when he'd mentioned being a graduate student. He was there for the week either way at this point, and if he got kicked out of the conference he'd have to find somewhere else to stay. Even if his first glimpse of the planned activities seemed a little strange, his fellow attendees seemed nice enough; there was no reason the trip had to be a total waste. After all, it wasn't like he'd been slated to present; he was just a back-up.
Registration was his first clue that something was off. His plane had been delayed, and by the time he reached the hotel the sign-in was already well underway. He'd been to enough events that the paperwork was easy enough to navigate, but it was when he put on his name tag that things got odd. Strangers started walking up to him, smiling and asking “John Smith, Archeology, right?” Every time he corrected them, “No, Sociology” they'd nod sympathetically and say something about how sorry they were to hear about Doctor Silvanus. After the fourth such exchange, he'd retreated to his room under the guise of putting his paperwork away.
The program listing was his second clue that the conference wasn't quite what it had seemed on the website. The advertising had provided only minimal course descriptions, and he would fully admit that he hadn't looked too hard: it had been there, there was funding for graduate students, and it was in Maui. That there was mention of research methodology and field work specialty-training was just gravy. After all, he was thinking about doing a semester in the field, and he could use all the advice he could get. Flipping through courses outlining weapons training and hostage negotiations, he had to take a few minutes to consider if it was really worth saving the change-of-ticket fee. He hadn't actually decided when five o'clock came around, but he figured that he might as well go down to the welcome reception, because if nothing else it was bad to make such a serious decision on an empty stomach.
The food was excellent, and the company was good, even if the welcome speaker confirmed his belief that he'd landed in some kind of bizarre parallel universe. Or maybe just an incredibly well-educated cult, although the interpersonal dynamics didn't support that theory. It certainly wasn't any stranger than some of the things alluded to by Doctor Heightmeyer in her speech.
“It's been a Hell of a year, but we're still doing what we do best – surviving, and holding out hope for a rescue.” John had laughed because everyone else did, but he hadn't gotten the joke. “In all seriousness, it's great to see so many of you here. We've got a great program planned, and I hope everyone has a good time. There are a few mandatory seminars – medical refreshers, basic combat and weapons, the usual standards, as well as the evening guest speakers which I'm advising all of you to attend. Other than that, I want you to relax, enjoy the view, and talk to each other. Doctor's orders.” She had smiled, softening the scolding. “I'm serious, people. Gossip makes the world go 'round, and we don't have nearly enough chances to talk to each other without having to worry about security concerns, so take advantage of it. We've got the whole resort to ourselves, minus the staff and a few civilians who know not to ask too many questions. Now, I think that's more than enough from me, so I'll leave you to your own devices for the evening. If you have any problems or questions, I'm in room 245, and Miko's in 287. Cushman's RMO on site, and I've been asked to clarify that yes, he's in 287 as well, and no, he and Miko aren't dating. Between the three of us, we should be able to sort out just about anything that comes up. For tonight, the pools are open until midnight, the bar's free, and breakfast doesn't start until 8. Enjoy!”
By the time John was on his second Mai Tai, he'd decided to stick around. Open Bar was Open Bar, and he could always argue it as a research opportunity to study high-functioning crazies. He'd just have to practice his ability to observe and blend-in; it could be a trial run for his term in the field. And if he just happened to spend rather a lot of time on the beach, well, that was just a fringe benefit.
Blending in turned out to be easier than John had feared. He kept his responses short and vague, especially at first, and played dumb the rest of the time. He didn't know exactly what it meant, but after someone had muttered under their breath about “naive city dwellers”, he found that most of his unintentional blunders were casually overlooked. Everyone assumed that if you were there, you were one of “us.” Us being a group of survivors from some government research project, if what he'd gathered in offhand comments was anything to go by. Some things he had absolutely no context for, like the way they talked about Earth and “here” and a war that he was relatively sure had nothing to do with the Middle East. Other things were all too easy to understand, even if he couldn't place the details – death and sickness and missing friends. Ordinary things, which reinforced his belief that the members of the PSN were basically rational, even if their decks were padded with an extra suit or two.
Regardless of what had pulled the bizarre and eclectic group together, John was surprised to find that he enjoyed the sessions he decided to poke his head into. Some were potentially useful – such as the hand-to-hand combat refresher and “Diplomatic Courtesy 101 – How to Eat What You're Handed” – and some, like “Brew Your Own Booze,” were simply entertaining.
The guest speakers were different. The day sessions were practical, and often light-hearted. The night sessions were somber, filled with unpleasant realities and painful anecdotes. They dealt with topics like suicide and substance abuse, acceptable losses in tactical situations and psychological trauma. Everyone went to those, and everyone paid attention. John wondered how many of them had seen what the speakers described, how many had lived through similar circumstances doing whatever it was they had done for the government. There were certainly a disproportionate number of buzzcuts scattered through the crowd.
The one thing he didn't participate in was the Paintball Tournament, and when he saw the others staggering back muddy, exhausted, and in the case of two of the teams significantly bloodied, he was glad that he'd chosen to bow out. Instead, he was drafted by his “team” - the Observers – to act as their base man, coordinating rescue efforts should they be needed and ensuring that no one left the confines of the playing field. Watching the various games progress, he again wondered just what it was his new friends had done before landing in their current lives – those he'd talked to seemed to be primarily researchers and university professors, hardly careers which required the kind of skills that led to WWIII-esque games of Capture the Flag that were littered with insults about the “damn natives getting themselves killed” every time a park ranger wandered into a designated playing field.
When he left Maui, and the First Annual PSN Conference, John still had no clear idea what his new friends had done to wind up part of such an odd group. To bastardize a military phrase, he hadn't asked and they hadn't told. Asking would have given away the fact that his coming had been a mistake, and he couldn't say he regretted the trip. Odd topics of instruction or not, he left the conference with a new confidence in his ability to handle whatever might pop up while taking part in the field study he had applied for.
Three months later, when he literally staggered out of a formerly peaceful region of Western Asia that had suddenly decided it was sick of Chinese rule, he thanked every star in the heavens that he'd applied to that conference, and vowed to go back the next year and pay his own way, leaving the bursary to someone else. It would be money well spent.
