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Happy fandom swap, turtledove! [May. 3rd, 2006|10:22 pm]
The Fandom Swap Fiction Exchange



Happy fandom swap, _turtledove!

Title: subject (of the) verb (towards the) direct object (preposition in the) indirect object period
Author: phaballa
Fandom: Firefly
Summary: Girl's got issues.
Pairings: None. River gen.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing

I know what they say about me. Fools. Fools and scags, lies and false prophecies, gods and truth, lies and veracity or someone's version of it, anyway, so say we all. Lies, yes, lies and truths, it's a tangled web we weave.

You look surprised, as if I wouldn't know. But of course I've read the classics, of course she has, stretching them out word by word, syllable by syllable, letter—well, you get the idea. What's the point of a book if you don't enjoy it, have to take the time, gotta take it and make the most of what we have left, and so of course I savored them, of course she did. And it's a tangled tangled web we weave.

Or. We? They? They. I know what they say about me. Lies and truths, truth in the lies, falsities in the truths, so how's a person supposed to know anything anymore? It's not fact, it's not empirical, can't be tested, hypothesized, proved. No reports to write, but I know what they say about me. They think I don't hear but I do, of course she does, she hears everything.

Girl's got issues.

Girl's got issues, they say, fools and scags the lot. Of course girl's got issues, you would too if you were girl, lab rat, subject—but that's not right either, is it? Word by word—subject? Object. She objects. The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Too much? Not enough, never enough, and she knows when she starts thinking of herself in the third person that the drugs—oh Apothecary, thy poison is quick!—are working.

Working. Not their purpose, working, no, not either. She is a machine, a tool, every tool is a weapon if you hold it right, and that's what they call her, that's what they say. A weapon, they say, but she's just a little girl. Girl can't think, a person can't think with the medicine, poison in my bloodstream and he does it at night while she sleeps, a spindle prick and the air locks slam shut, no flow, no flow, no connection because—

She's dangerous, they say. Can't be trusted on the ship, ship of fools. Fools and scags, but he's just a man, after all. They're just men and it's not that I'm better, of course she isn't, the soul being equal above all else if such a thing exists, except that I am, of course she is. Better being a relative term, subjective, subjecting myself to protocol, just following orders. They want to maintain control, the control and the experiment, test subject two four six oh one.

I told you she read the classics. Listen up! Listen. Shhhh.

Look, here's the thing—girl's got Issues. Daddy issues, brother issues—they left her there and they are not to be trusted. Spindle pricks and blockages, she can't think can't formulate and the dreams.

Control and experiment, there's no method to their madness. Tuskegee, 1972, a cure is found but the data must be preserved, the conditions must be maintained for the good of all, and so it goes. For the good of all, for the good of all, lies and truths, fools and scags. Falsities in their lies, and they don't know that her real name was miranda.


I know what they think about me. She's just a kid they say, can't hear, doesn't see, doesn't understand. Sometimes plaintive—she's just a kid, damnit—sometimes cajoling, she's just a kid, dismissive. Seen and not heard, not heard, but that doesn't mean she doesn't see or hear or touch or taste or comprehend. She is a subject, she is a subject, by definition performing the action of the verb. By definition, it's the rules, the laws, and she must follow the protocols.

I know what they think about me. Just a kid, but I see everything they pretend I can't. The noises from behind closed doors, big brother isn't watching anymore, too busy for that, far too busy. Like she doesn't know what masturbation sounds like, or later, the change in breathing, two hearts, four lungs, ten fingers weaved together, in and out, and the limit of the function as lips approach skin if x equals i, imaginary i, it's equal to sex, like she doesn't know.

Fools and scags, but I know what they think. Naïve, they see me, but they don't. See me, they can't, an impossibility, highly unlikely occurrence, point oh one in ten thousand. She can disappear poof, and they don't notice, don't notice, because she's just a kid and it's a big ship and she could be hiding anywhere.

But she. She is a subject, and she said she would buy the flowers herself. Roses and daffodils, pansies are her favorite, the red ones with the black centers. She would buy the flowers herself, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that a girl in possession of a closed mind must be in want of some flowers.

Every tool is a weapon if you hold it right.


I know how they see me. Quiet, crazy, but cute, right, cute and deadly, like a teddy bear with a bomb strapped to its tiny tiny chest. Sometimes they forget, they forget her usefulness and she's just a kid, and then she reminds them by taking action, a subject is the part of the sentence that performs the action. The direct object isn't so important, she would buy the flowers herself, and the indirect object is almost inconsequential, except.

Except when it sees her, when it knows and then. The problem with these rules is the language, the language, English is too risky, too many irregular verbs and nouns that can be adjectives and you can never end a sentence with. A preposition, because of the Latin, the Latin, because of—

None of it matters when the gun is in my hand. Warm and smooth and heavy, it belongs to me, it is an extension and the girl is a subject and subjects take action. Subjects see and hear and fight and kill. It's like a dance, subjects do that too, they dance and bend and twist and pull the trigger, toss aside the gun when its warmth deserts it, use hands and feet and physics, calculate angles and break the floodgates. Poison be gone as she snaps his neck and flings his knife into a snarling thing that used to be a face, somewhere somehow it still is, she can see its former self, but now. Now just a thing, but come my friends, it's not too late to seek a newer world.

Or no, because that's what got us here, isn't it? Tangled web, lies and truths, and the girl. Girl's got issues. At least, that's what they say.

(Deleted comment)
From: (Anonymous)
2006-05-07 04:41 am (UTC)
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[User Picture]From: _turtledove
2006-05-04 07:36 am (UTC)
Wow, what an incredible River!fic. I love her voice, its fractured quality, all near-incoherent but poetic. Thank you so much! <33
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From: (Anonymous)
2006-05-07 04:41 am (UTC)
EEEeee yay I'm glad you liked it! I wasn't sure about it, felt sort of crazy to me, but yay. Thank you!
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[User Picture]From: _turtledove
2006-05-07 05:29 am (UTC)
No, thank you. I love it so. :D
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