Fic: "Neither Fish Nor Fowl" (Pre-McShep)

Title: Neither Fish Nor Fowl
Author: owleyes_arisen
Rating: PG-13
Summary:In his first week at the assassin's guild, John had many new experiences.
Notes: A prequel to lavvyan's excellent SGA/Discworld crossover fic entitled High Stakes. With their permission, I've written a short story detailing John's first encounter with DEATH.
This is McShep pre-pre slash.
It was fun writing it. Maybe I'll write more in this universe someday.



Neither Fish Nor Fowl

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be an assassin, but when he’d asked about alternatives, he’d only been told that it was the place for a growing lad to receive an education and learn an interesting trade. A smart young man like himself could easily make a name for himself in the world* and besides, he’d be following in the family footsteps.

His father had been the Sir Sheppard. Formally acknowledged as being a serious candidate for the leadership of the guild (he’d turned down the offer, citing prior commitments), three-time winner of the iron grapple, and famed for being utterly deadly, methodical, and never leaving a man behind. With a reputation like that, it was practically an inevitability that his son would enter the guild.

John only vaguely remembered his father as a tall man with an awkward look on his face whenever they spoke. He’d never been around all that much, leaving his wife to inform his son about his activities.

It wasn’t that he was a bad father. It was just, John’s mother told him in the evenings, when tucking him into bed**, he’d been unprepared for the addition of a wife into his life, to say nothing of children. John had wisely refrained from asking about their relationship. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

His absence had the basic affect of having John be raised almost entirely by said mother. His mother, a thin wisp of a woman, was wise enough to realize that her son was of a fey temperament and imposed few rules upon him. She’d given him free run of the mansion – most of it was cordoned off, and the dust alone was enough of a determent to unlicensed thieves. It is a universal fact, however, that young boys will gravitate towards the closest source of filth with a pull not unequal to that of a neutron star, and John had spent many happy hours exploring with a bandana over his lower face and a pair of goggles he had “borrowed” from one of the many tutors his baffled father had thrown in the vague direction of his offspring.

Life for John hadn’t changed that much after his father died. Everyone agreed that it was an honor, being called upon to inhume the Patrician. The mere fact that the man had a 100% success at avoiding said inhumations made him a legend. All bright young students at the academy fantasized of the day they would be called upon to meet the challenge. Sir Sheppard’s attempt was still whispered about in corridors – even the Patrician had to admit that the man had been the closest to success of all those who had been sent after him. His words had the instant effect of raising John’s father to near-godhood within the guild.

It was a lot for a young man to live up to.

+++

*usually on other people’s tombstones.

**she never checked beneath it for monsters. The few times John had asked her about them, she gave him a strange, serene smile and told him that no monster would dare haunt her son.

+++

The sons of dead assassins always got free scholarships, John reflected gloomily.

It was his first day in the guild, and he already had his doubts about the profession. He’d been hurried through the enrollment process with several dozen other boys* of his own age (the process itself consisted basically of this – “Name? Age? Right then. Move that way, if you please, and if you don’t stop with that insolent look, it will be a ten-page report on Why I Must Respect My Elders”) and given a brief speech about how lucky and honored he was to be attending the school, as well as the statistical probability of any one child passing. John, who had always had something of a head for numbers, had quietly spent most of the lecture calculating his chances, and found that his probabilities of walking out with his liver still attached were quite a bit lower than stated.

After the introductory dinner, he had said goodbye to his mother. It had been a quiet, brief affair, not like some of the others he observed. He, on the other hand, was much too old to be crying about being separated from his mother – unlike some of the others he could see. The one who had to be literally pried away with a crowbar and three ushers had been entertaining, but the look that one boy had given his mother was just plain disturbing.

John was good at watching. On the few occasions his father’s peers had stopped by, they had remarked that his natural proficiency for observation would take him far.

In this case, it had taken him to bed number seven in the Viper House dormitory, where the Head of House apparently believed that exposing boys to sub-freezing temperatures was a necessary ingredient to healthy living**.

John stared up at the ceiling from beneath musty sheets that vaguely smelled of cabbage. There had been the usual chatter after the lights went out – introductions, bribes, a small shouting match or two. As time went on, more and more of the voices faded away, as did the stifled sobs of some of the children more “fragile in constitution”***.

He couldn’t seem to sleep. It wasn’t the mattress, which he was privately certain had been designed in order to offer the maximum level of discomfort to the sleeper. It wasn’t the temperature, or the unfamiliar surroundings.

He couldn’t pin down what was keeping him awake. But whatever it was, John decided, as he scrunched his eyes tightly shut, he was going to be very cross with it when he figured it out.

+++

*and girls. The guild was, as compared others, relatively free of gender bias. It was of the not-untrue opinion that women, given a little polish, make among the deadliest of predators.

** theirs, not his.

***A phase his mother used. John had wondered about it for a time, and eventually come to the conclusion that it had something to do with petunias.

+++

It couldn’t have been an exploding swamp dragon, John mused from behind closed eyes, that woke him so suddenly. The air was curiously lacking the shouts, screams, and crackle of flames that announced to one and all that the Sunshine Sanctuary had exploded once again, not to mention the wash of a vaguely chemical-like smell that always preceded the event*.

And – right. He wasn’t in the family mansion anymore, which happened to be just a few blocks removed from Lady Sybil’s residence.

So what had woke him?

He lay perfectly still, breathing deeply and regularly.

All right then, so what do you know?

Touch. Thin, slightly damp blankets, twisted around him in a vain attempt to ward off the chill in the air. No movement upon the air – no sensation of an unexpected weight upon the lumpy mattress or the slight movements that signifies a visitor already waiting for you. Slight case of indigestion, but with a dinner like that, what could you expect…**

Taste. Thick, clammy air, tasting of dust and the peculiar musk which identifies buildings half-conquered by history. The leftovers from dinner – not important, but distracting. Put it out of your mind…

Scent: Wasted effort. The mingled odor of cabbage and age shut down the sinuses almost instantly.

Sound: The quiet wufflings of the fellow students as they dreamed. The silvery bells of the guild – sharp and stylish, but partially muffled by the thick stone walls. The wordless hum of the city in the background, ever present.

Sight…

Faint flickers of light danced upon John’s eyes as they opened, dancing like ethereal tongues of flame, save for the color. If one were to ask him later to describe what they looked like, they would get a confused description of “a sort of florescent purple-green”. A light that did not penetrate the darkness, but lent it substance, illuminating the curves of shadows uncast by any outline…

The figure standing in the middle of the room did not cast a shadow.

It turned, as if in response to the pressure of his eyes upon it, and John saw a tall, thin outline, cloaked in black – not the velvet that his father had worn, or the dull shade of shadow. This was the black that lies on the other side of the sky, past the place where day and night are just two sides to a coin rolling slowly into an unknown abyss.

And then all considerations were lost as eyes that were two pinpricks of glowing blue set into a polished skull gazed into his.

John blinked.

He sat up, swallowing weakly. “I didn’t think my indigestion was that bad.” he protested feebly.

IT ISN’T. THIS IS HIGHLY IRREGULAR…

The voice was the slam of the coffin lid, the dull thud of tombstones into packed dirt. It told reality in no uncertain terms exactly what was going to happen if it didn’t behave.

The only consolation was that Death seemed to be just as bemused as he was.

“Oh. Sorry?”

They stared at each other for a moment. John swallowed again.

“You know, you’re kind of thin.”

Death blinked at him. That is, the light in the eye sockets faded for a moment before brightening again.

John coughed softly. “So – I’m not dying?”

EVENTUALLY. NOT AT THIS PRECISE MOMENT, HOWEVER.

“So – why can I see you?”

I’M NOT QUITE SURE. YOU’RE NOT A WIZARD, ARE YOU?

“Nope.” John had had a wizard once for a tutor, for a grand total of thirty seconds. The man had taken one look at him, paled slightly, and ran for the door.

HMM. Death scratched his head with a sound like two billiard balls clinking softly together. YOUR NAME, PLEASE? He reached inside his robe.

“John Sheppard.”

THANK YOU. The faint hissing of sand permeated the room as he withdrew an hourglass. John could just make out the name etched onto the glass as it was raised to one glowing eye socket.

Death lightly tapped it with a finger bone, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a conductor tapping his baton. A soft, high-pitched tone resonated in the air for a moment.

AH YES. YOU’RE ONE OF HERS. I SHOULD HAVE SUSPECTED. The hourglass was tucked away again as John strained for a closer look. He nodded to John, and then turned away slightly. IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME…

“Not at all.” John twisted on the bed to watch him leave. “A pleasure to meet you.”

He’d expected that he’d run into death sooner or later in the guild. He hadn’t expected it to be so literal.

+++

*John had spent many a happy afternoon sneaking into the dragon pens and watching, fascinated, as the small-horned, grubby little lizards blew themselves up with a flare unmatched by any but old Emerkin’s five-dollar fireworks: “Eyebryow Begonne! Five Dolarrs a Styck”.

**The meals served at the assassin’s guild can best be described as part of the coursework: they were specifically themed as to help hard-working lads build up a resistance to any of the myriad poisons they might accidentally stumble upon.

+++

In his first week at the Assassin’s Guild, John had many new experiences. He slept though his first lecture in Politics and Prejudice, won the unthinking hatred and admiration (primarily of the females) of many of his fellow classmates by displaying a natural talent in Traps and Deadfalls*, discovered the joy that is take-out Klatchian pizza with extra sausage and received an official complaint from the next-doors Fool’s Guild for his performance in Music and Art**.

During a quiet afternoon in Modern Language and Philosophy, he wrote a letter home to his mother, detailing his various encounters, and asking a few questions. Primarily, that of “Exactly why can I see supernatural phenomena?”

In her return letter, she simply replied that it was “a matter of heritage”.

John decided that he really didn’t want to know.

+++

*He ended up using many of the class lessons to escape both the admirers and enemies he made in that lecture.

**Bagpipes. Please don’t ask for details.

+++

Well? Questions? Comments? Political Statement?