posted on 25-Jan-2002 4:02:04 AM by Trinity Star1323
Title: Garden of Stones
Author: Trinity
Rating: R
Disclaimer: UPN owns Roswell, the characters, and situations. No infringement intended. Based off Apocalypse Now. Nothing is mine.
Summary: Post Apocrypha. Ten years later. The end of the world has come and it is burnt out Captain Parker who is sent out with orders to find and kill Khivar. As she descends into the world she is slowly over taken by the world’s mesmerizing powers and the battles and insanity which surround her. Her crew begins to succumb to drugs and is slowly killed off one by one. As Liz continues her journey she begins to become more and more like the man she was sent to kill.
Authors Notes: I’m going to tell you right now that this is going to be a two-fic series and Max and Liz will never get together. This will be a Liz and the human’s piece, more then anything. And it will be dark- very dark.

Read Apocrypha first. viewthread?forum=dreamer-fanfiction&id=54862

It was very early in the dawn- blue light filtered through the jungle and across a foul swamp. A mist clung to the trees.

This could have been the jungle of a million years ago.

A small bubble rose to the surface of the tepid water; then another. Suddenly, but quietly, a form began to emerge; a helmet. Water and mud poured off revealing a set of beady eyes just above the mud. Printed on the helmet, in a psychedelic hand, were the words: “Good Killer.”

The head emerged revealing a tough-looking soldier.

A tough-looking soldier with a feminine figure.

She wore a simple green shirt with bandoliers of ammunition. The remainder of her showing flesh was painted with an odd camouflage pattern. She looked to the right; looked to the left; looked front and center before sinking back into the swamp, disappearing completely.

Far off in the distance various natural, though unrecognizable jungle sounds could be heard. Clumps of hollow logs were half submerged in the swamp and part of what appeared to be a beer can was stuck in the mud. A hand reached out and the beer can disappeared. Inside it housed the rear of a M-60 machine gun, hand painted in a paisley design.

Across the ancient growth, past the glimmer of what seemed to be another soldier hiding in ambush, wearing an exotic hat made from birds and bushes, was yet another clump of logs.

Across from that, in a dark trail were legs of those in black pajamas, moving silently across. Their feet, both boots and sandals, made no impressions and no sound.

A slight flicker of light revealed a pair of eyes in the foliage across the path, waiting and watching.

The Antarians moved a little bit quicker, until suddenly, directly in front, about ten feet away, an enormous American, clad in rags and bushes and holding a 12 gauge automatic shotgun casually at his side, stepped in front of them. He smiled laconically before blasting out five shots that ripped through them.

By the second shot the whole jungle blazed out with automatic fire.

Men were thrown and torn. They screamed and scattered into the jungle. More Americans appeared, unexplainably, out of the growth. They were dressed in some sort of bizarre manner. Some wore helmets, others wore strange hats made from feathers and parts of animals. Some of them had long savage-looking hair, others had crew-cut or completely shaved heads. They wore bandoliers, flak jackets, shorts or pants and little else.

They wore Montagnard sandals or no shoes at all, and their bodies and faces were painted in bizarre camouflage patterns. They appeared one with the jungle and mist while firing at the Antarians as they moved.

The soldier in the swamp emerged, dripping mud, her machine gun blasting fire.

Breathlessly, the Antarian’s ran for their lives’. They moved through the jungle only to be impaled by large spears, coming from the hands of smiling Americans who were painted and wore feathers like an Indian. Men screamed and died all around. The screams amid the gunfire and explosions were piercing and terrible, as though the jungle itself were frightened.

An American wearing a jungle hat with a large Peace Sign on it and war paint, reached down with a large knife, preparing to scalp the dead.

The running sandals continued, only to be stopped by yet another savage-looking American with primitive ornamentation, wearing only a loin-cloth and green beret. He opened his flame-thrower directly on the Antarians, incinerating them in flames of bright psychedelic orange-red flames.


A practically luxury cabin cruiser harbored at a particular dock late in the day.

It was a large pleasure boat: the people were relaxing in bathing suits and towels and robes. They were drinking cocktails and snapping pictures. The boat belonged to the head of a large American Corporation, and this was their party. One man in particular sat with his shirt off so as to catch some of the late sun. Others had their faces smeared with white suntan oil.

“… It’s crazy- sugar is up to $600 a ton- sugar!”

“What about oil?” The lawyer beside the CEO asked.

“Food, oil- look, let me show you something. This is the economy of the United States in two years—“ He took a newspaper and drew a circle. “This is West Germany,” he drew a circle. “This is Japan, “ he drew a bigger circle. “This is Italy,” he drew an even bigger circle. “This is Iran,” he drew a humongous circle. “And this is Saudi Arabia… in two years,” he drew a gigantic circle. “Do you understand?”

“What’s to prevent it?” An accountant asked.

“Maybe nothing. But I’ll tell you, I didn’t build a two-billion dollar company in the last twenty years by doing nothing, We cab protect our interest.” He paused for a drink. “We are still the most powerful nation in the world. Militarily wise.” He leaned toward his associates and spoke in a half-whisper. “You know bodyguard; she was a captain in the last war. You talk to her, except she won’t talk. This kind of woman can kill you with her pinky. A nice quiet gal, though.” He smiled and gazed over at the young woman near his side. “Carries a attaché case at all times. You know what’s in it?” He took another sip. “An Ingram Machine pistol.”

The other men nodded and smiled at the woman.

“I don’t take chances, and neither should this country. If we’re strong, we should protect our interest, and we should have the respect of the world, even if it take another war…”

Bullshit. You can kill with the ridge of your hand to the throat; you can crush a skull with your knee… but you can’t kill anybody with your pinky.

Pictures were being taken, some people were swimming. It was the good life.

The attaché case has been empty for three years, but it makes him feel safe to think there’s a machine pistol in it.

I don’t like automatic weapons.

They jam.

I saw a friend of mind get ripped open because he flicked his M-16 to automatic, and it jammed.

How much money did the contractors make on the M-16?

Some of the people read, some flirted, and others drank.

He likes to hear stories about the End of the World. I tell him I can’t; they’re not cleared.

The truth is he wouldn’t understand.

Looking the opposite way was a young woman with her back to everyone. An attaché case rested near to her.

There’s no way I can tell them what really happened over there.

I wouldn’t’ve believed it if someone’d told me.

Occasionally she sipped from a champagne glass, but no one could see her face.

There was only one part that mattered- for me, anyway. I don’t even know if I remember all of it. I can’t remember how it ended, exactly.

Because when it ended, I was insane.

That's right kiddies. There will be NO M/L in this. But Max will be mentioned, especially about his where abouts, Tess' whereabouts and their son's whereabouts. However, this will not have any relationships. Now it is humans against Antarians.

[ edited 4 time(s), last at 28-Jan-2002 1:41:35 AM ]
posted on 28-Jan-2002 1:40:53 AM by Trinity Star1323

Part 2

Pañacocha, shit. I’m still only in Pañacocha; every time I think I’m going to wake up back in the jungle.

When I was home after my first tour, it was worse. I’d wake up and there’d be nothing…

I hardly said a word to my husband until I said yes to a divorce.

When I was here I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle.

I’ve been here a week now. I’m waiting for a mission while getting softer. Every minute I stay in this room I get weaker. And every minute those fucking Chezch’s squat in the bush they get stronger.

Each time I look around the walls move in a little tighter…

Everyone gets everything he wants. I wanted a mission, and for my sins they gave me one.

Even brought it up to me like fucking room service.

A Pañacocha boom street in late 2005.

There were bars and shops for the servicemen; the rickshaws and the motorbikes.

In uniform, a Captain of the Airborne, was followed by four or five Antarian children who tried to shine her shoes and sell her things.

But I know how it started for me- I was on R. and R. in Pañacocha; my first time south of the DMZ in three months. I wasn’t sure, but I thought this guy was following me.

The young captain looked back, her eyes scanning the streets for anyone or anything that looked suspicious.

Her eyes finally landed on an American civilian.

Quickly she ducked into a bar.

During my time in the compound I was taught a number of things. But the one thing that Pierce taught me was to always watch my back.

After all, I was dead now. And anyone who saw me alive and knew me, would have to die soon after.

The place was fairly vacant. There was a bar, linoleum flooring, a few tables and chairs and a jukebox. The lounge was fairly crowded.

The young woman took off her cap and walked quietly past the soldiers at the bar. Some them, catching sight of her ribbons, stopped talking as she moved by.

As this occurred, an infantry captain entered the bar, buying a couple of drinks before he approached the young woman’s table.

“How about a drink?”

“Sure, thanks,” the woman smiled as the infantry captain sat down at the table with the drinks.

For a moment the infantry captain merely stared at the ribbons and medals adorning the woman’s uniform.

“Winning the war by yourself there, ain’t ya?”

“Part.” The woman called for the waiter.

“Which part is that?” The man asked.

“My part.” The woman turned and spoke to the waiter, “Beer, with ice and water.”

“That’s good gin,” the man insisted as he pushed a drink in front of her.

“I’m sure it is, but I had hepatitis,” the woman said sadly. She pushed the drink away.


“No.” The woman waved him off, as though offended.

“North?” The man was even sure if he should ask. Most who fought in the north never came back, and when they did it was only to rest and relax until they could return.

It was those who were the real heroes in this war.

“Yeah,” the woman said before tossing back a large gulp of her beer. “Way north.”

“What unit were you with?”

“None.” This was becoming more interesting then he had first thought. Originally, upon seeing the young woman, the man had thought little of her. But now he wondered.

Why was she fighting up north?

Why was she fighting in the heart of the battle?

Why did she not have a single scratch on her.

“Rangers, eh?”

“Sort of,” the woman laughed, cracking a smile over her dry lips.

Chap stick had become a leisure object which was often never seen.

But the woman was growing annoyed.

“Were you Longe Range Recon—“

“No.” The woman looked at him pointedly. “I worked too far north for LRRP”

She reached into her pocketbook for a cigarette, and the Captain leaned over the table to light it for her. It was at that point that the young woman once again noticed the civilian on the street, only now he was glancing at her. She watched him enter the bar and sit down at a table by the doorway.

“That’s quite an array of ribbons,” the man started up again. But the woman wouldn’t have it.

“Let’s talk about you.”

“I was an FO for the 25th,” the man explained with a sigh. War wasn’t his favorite thing to talk about, but then, at least he was still alive.



“Fat. That’s real fat,” the woman commented.

“Sometimes,” the man said dismissively.

“At least you always have enough water! How many gallons does each one of those damn things carry?” The woman asked irritably. She couldn’t believe this man’s audacity.

He didn’t know real war.

“Thirty—sometimes fifty.”

“You know, I can remember once, getting back below the DMZ—and the first Americans we ran into were a track squadron. I just couldn’t believe how much water they had. We’d been chewing plants and bamboo shoots for almost a week, and before that, for two weeks, we’d been drinking anything—rain water, river shit, stuff right out of the paddies,” the woman scoffed. “And there were these guys standing by their trucks spilling water all over. I could’ve killed them.” Suddenly the woman turned solemn. “I swear to God, I would have, too, if…”

“I didn’t know we had units up there in North Ecuador.”

“We do.”

The man’s interest piqued. Obviously this woman had seen and accomplished things he would never be privy to.

“How long were you up there?”

“A long time,” the woman answered sorrowfully.

“A year?” The man paused and signaled to the waiter. “Another beer.”

“I go up on missions.” Suddenly the woman stopped and looked at the man, her eyes fixed on his. “Listen Captain, buy me all the beer you want, but you better tell that asshole over there you’re not going to find out anymore about me.” The woman glanced over the man’s shoulder and indicated to the civilian.

The Captain gave the civilian a signal. He rose and came over to the bar.

“What do you want?” The woman asked.

“If you’re L. Parker, 4th Recon Group, we’d like you to come with us,” the civilian instructed softly. He pointed out towards his jeep.

“Whose orders?” Liz asked.

“Headquarters 11 Corps—405th A.S.A. Battalion—S-2 –Com-Sec—Intelligence—Agent Pierce.”

“Who are you?” Liz asked.

“The agency.”

Liz looked at the civilian for a moment, and then she walked right out toward the jeep without saying another word.

The civilian followed.

I know some people are wondering how this is connected to Apocrypha, but just wait. All will be revealed.