Title: Five more ghosts that haunt the Destiny
Author: Shenandoah Risu
: G
Content Flags: unbearable cuteness; weeping men
Spoilers: none, if you already knew that Patrick Swayze is dead
Characters: the Destiny crew and assorted ghosts
Word Count: 998
Summary: There's no denying the fact that an occasional cathartic experience like this is good for the crew's mental health.
Author's Notes
: Written for prompt set #125 at the LJ Comm sg1_five_things.
Disclaimer: I don't own SGU. I wouldn't know what to do with it. Now, Young... Young I'd know what to do with. ;-)
Thanks for reading! Feedback = Love. ;-)


Five more ghosts that haunt the Destiny

"Will somebody please get this guy out of here," Brody yells over the radio.

Greer rolls his eyes but responds. "This is Greer. What do we got?"

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," a hollow, echo-y voice is heard in the background. "Rise and walk with me!"

"No! Git!" Brody yells again. Greer sighs.

"Brody hates Christmas," he explains to Becker who stands there with his mouth open. "He thinks it's an over-commercialized waste of money."

"Well, so do I," Becker says, "But I ain't seeing no ghosts. I thought that was just a fairy tale?"

"Oh, it's real, all right," Greer sighs. "Go grab a Purple Sweet Potato. That usually scares the sucker off."

And off they go, a-ghostbusting.


A few days later Becker is working on his mash in the kitchen, when he turns to head for the cold storage locker, only to find the way blocked by a large maroon-colored blob with giant fangs and green eyes.

"Oh my stars," Becker yelps. "What in the fresh hell is that?"

"I am the Purple Sweet Potato Ghost," the blob rumbles.

"You -… uh, what?"

"I am the Purple Sweet Potato Ghost," the blob repeats, enunciating clearly, as if speaking to a particularly dim-witted child.

"Oh, come on. There is no such thing as a Purple Sweet Potato ghost." Becker puts his hands on his hips.

"There isn't?" the blob grunts.

"Nope. Vegetables are non-sentient; therefore ghostification is not possible."


"Really. Rush said so."


"Now will you please scoot, because I got dinner to cook, and I have half a mind to mix you into the mash."

And the blob promptly begins to shrink, shrieking pitifully all the way, until it has turned back into one of the tubers, which Becker recognizes as the one he used to bust Brody's visitor. He picks it up, shakes his head, tosses it back into the bin with the others and continues with his food preparations.


"Eli? Eli, could you please check on-…"

Camile stops in mid sentence, staring at Eli who appears to be juggling a small white sheet.

"What is that?"

Eli turns. "Oh, hey Camile – meet Casper, the Friendly Ghost."

"Eli, that's a cartoon character."

"Nope, I'm real," the white thing giggles and runs up and down Eli's outstretched arm in a spiral pattern. "Wheeeeeee!" it hoots, and Eli laughs.

"Isn't he cute?"

"Um, yes, I guess so." She scratches her nose. "A ghost? Seriously?"

"Yup," the little white guy confirms, then sticks out a soft white hand. "Pleased to meet you."

Camile reaches out in reflex and her features soften as she shakes the little paw. "Likewise," she smiles. "What brings you here, Casper?"

"Oh, luck of the draw, luck of the draw," the ghost chirps. "I like it here, though. Lots of nice people, and nothing much fazes them. I feel accepted here."

"Can I keep him? He followed me home," Eli whines.

"Well, I suppose there is no harm, as long as your work doesn't suffer."

"Great! All right, Casper, let me show you how the water pressure diagnostic works…"

Camile watches the two of them focus intently on the console, and suddenly she has no idea why she even went there in the first place.


Dr. Morrison drags his feet as he goes to the mess in the dead of night to get a cup of water. He stops short when he notices an old man in unmistakably royal garb sitting at one of the tables, staring at nothing.

Morrison gets his water, then approaches the man.

"Do I know you?" he inquires.

The man looks up. "We very much doubt that, dear boy. Thou art not of our world."

"Oh yeah? Try me." Morrison sets his cup down and leans onto the table.

"We are King Hamlet, King of Denmark, slain by our own brother who now ruleth in our place."

Morrison scowls. "That's a play by Shakespeare. It's just a character. He doesn't really exist."

The ghost rubs his forehead. "Neither dost thou, dear boy, neither dost thou."

"Oh, I'm very real," Morrison fires back belligerently. "See?" He pinches his own arm. "Ow!"

The ghost laughs. "We should have liked thee as our fool at our court," he says, clapping his hands. "Thou hast good humor, boy."

"Me? Funny? Geez, you must have been out of the loop for a while."

The ghost roars. "Another, let us have another!"

"Ummm…" Morrison thinks hard. "Okay. What did the ocean say to the shore?"

"Why, pray tell," the ghost chuckles.

"Nothing – it just waved!"

Raucous belly laughs fill the mess for hours. Morrison can't even remember the last time he's had this much fun.


"Shush, everybody, this is a good part," Chloe yells, and silence falls as they all stare at the holoscreen.

It's movie night on the Destiny, and "Ghost" is an old favorite, especially for couples.

"I really hate chick flicks," Brody growls at Camile who has a sobbing Varro clinging to her shoulder. Then he pulls out a large handkerchief and honks into it for a long time.

Lisa turns around, annoyed at the interruption. "Do I have to stop the movie?" she hisses.

"Yes, stop the movie, stop the movie," the crowd choruses.

Lisa sighs.

"All right, everyone. Bawl break."

Vanessa gets up and passes out rags.

TJ leans over and whispers into Scott's ear. "Patrick Swayze is making a killing again tonight."

Scott surreptitiously wipes his eyes. "Well, he is dead now, so it all takes on a new meaning, doesn't it?"

"True, true," Rush sniffles and reaches for a rag, passes it on to Scott and takes one for himself.

"Dr. Park, I think we're ready to go again," Young speaks up, stuffing his own rag back into his pocket.

A final round of noseblowing nearly drowns out the next few lines of dialogue, and there's no denying the fact that an occasional cathartic experience like this is good for the crew's mental health.



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