Rediscovered Fic
Just found this old fic of mine that I still quite like. It has been on FC, but it isn't archived anywhere.
The Damp Patch
Space Commander Blake was glad that he had decided not to go outside the
dome that night. The whole idea of it seemed ridiculous now. He chuckled as
his gaze took in his surroundings. His apartment was the largest and most
luxurious of all of those in the officer's section of the barracks.
Admittedly, there was a large damp patch on one wall, but Blake didn't mind
all that much. It wasn't as if anybody ever came round to see him. Not any
more. Besides, this was all a damn site better than he would have got if he
had gone outside with those two bloody scruffy hooligans. What had their
names been? He forgot. It didn't matter. Two of them: a man and a woman.
Little more than youths really. Both far too young to be mixed up with
outsiders.
Blake's eyes settled on the damp patch as his mind started to
drift back. As ever, the discoloured section of wall obeyed his unspoken
command. Like an all-seeing eye opening up to scrutinize Blake's past, the
damp patch seemed to shift and change colour. The change was almost
imperceptible at first; dirty greens and browns swirling around, sometimes
merging, sometimes forming new colours. Finally, they resolved themselves
into an image. Blake sat bolt upright. The image was of the rebel leader
known as Travis.
Travis had been at the top of the Federation's wanted list for several
months now. Shunned by society because of his outrageous accent and forced
to wear a prosthetic finger after a bizarre embroidery incident, Travis had
started out as a small-time political agitator. His lucky break had come
whilst he had been on holiday at the well-known pills, bondage and ritual
sacrifice theme resort on Cygnus Alpha. Returning to the hotel late one
night with some friends from his reading group:- Jenna, Vila and Gan, a man
rendered tragically unable to cook due to a faulty limiter implanted in his
brain; they were offered a lift by a mysterious stranger called Avon. Once
on board Avon's ship, the group liked it so much, they decided to stay.
Orac, Avon's "speak your weight" machine, hadn't been too keen on the idea,
but Zen, the flight computer, had managed to talk him round. Zen even
decided to rename the ship "Beaded Rabbit" after an image taken
telepathically from Jenna's mind.
Blake's train of thought was broken by a news story on the vid-screen.
It concerned an attempted attack on a Federation communications base. Travis
and his crew were thought to have been trying to steal the new Mark-IV
Vending Machine. The raid appeared to have been thwarted by an Auron woman,
possibly a deep-cover agent working for the Federation. She had apparently
managed to destroy the base before Travis got there, sacrificing her own
life in the process. At least the vending machine hadn't fallen into the
wrong hands.
There was a knock at Blake's door. The door slid open to reveal Blake's
second-in-command, Section Leader Avalon. Avalon snapped to attention.
"Nothing to report, sir." she reported.
"Thankyou, Section Leader, carry on." Blake's attention returned to the
vid-screen. The news channel was now showing footage of Travis' crew in
action. When Jenna's image filled the screen, Blake became aware of a
shuffling noise behind him. It was only then that he realised that Avalon
was still in the room. She blushed and returned her hands to her sides.
"Sorry, sir." She left hurriedly.
Blake had never understood the Section Leader's fascination with the
smuggler woman. She wasn't even that good-looking. Now Avon, on the other
hand, was a different story. Blake considered himself to be quite the ladies
man. All Space Command officers were. The leather outfits alone were enough
to prove that. But Blake couldn't help but be drawn to the mysterious
dark-eyed Avon. Space Commander Blake could never tell anybody else about
this. He just hoped that nobody ever saw the poster of Avon on his wall. It
was his favourite picture, a centrefold from Rebel Stud magazine.
Blake looked again at the damp patch on the wall. Sure enough the
colours were shifting again. This time, however, there was no image. There
was just blurring, blurring, blurring...
Roj Blake's eyes snapped open and he looked around wildly for a moment
or two. He'd been having the dream again. He was relieved to discover that
he was still here in his familiar surroundings. His chair, his table, his
books, the damp patch on the wall. At this point Avon walked in and kissed
him on the forehead.
"Servalan's here," he whispered urgently, "you'd better get ready."
Blake got dressed and followed Avon out. He was further relieved to see the
old sign on the window. It had once read "Roj and Kerr's Hair Style Studio".
The weather and the passage of time had taken it's toll on the lettering to
such an extent that it now read "Roj and Kerr's _a_r S_ _ _e Stud_ _". This
was, unfortunately, attracting the wrong sort of customer. In fact, they had
only one remaining prestigious client. Goodness only knew what they would do
if President Servalan ever cancelled her Tuesday afternoon
appointment. He gave Kerr a smile and picked up his scissors. He glanced
again at the damp patch, and then turned to his customer. "Lovely to see you
again, Madame President. A little off the top, is it?"
The Damp Patch
Space Commander Blake was glad that he had decided not to go outside the
dome that night. The whole idea of it seemed ridiculous now. He chuckled as
his gaze took in his surroundings. His apartment was the largest and most
luxurious of all of those in the officer's section of the barracks.
Admittedly, there was a large damp patch on one wall, but Blake didn't mind
all that much. It wasn't as if anybody ever came round to see him. Not any
more. Besides, this was all a damn site better than he would have got if he
had gone outside with those two bloody scruffy hooligans. What had their
names been? He forgot. It didn't matter. Two of them: a man and a woman.
Little more than youths really. Both far too young to be mixed up with
outsiders.
Blake's eyes settled on the damp patch as his mind started to
drift back. As ever, the discoloured section of wall obeyed his unspoken
command. Like an all-seeing eye opening up to scrutinize Blake's past, the
damp patch seemed to shift and change colour. The change was almost
imperceptible at first; dirty greens and browns swirling around, sometimes
merging, sometimes forming new colours. Finally, they resolved themselves
into an image. Blake sat bolt upright. The image was of the rebel leader
known as Travis.
Travis had been at the top of the Federation's wanted list for several
months now. Shunned by society because of his outrageous accent and forced
to wear a prosthetic finger after a bizarre embroidery incident, Travis had
started out as a small-time political agitator. His lucky break had come
whilst he had been on holiday at the well-known pills, bondage and ritual
sacrifice theme resort on Cygnus Alpha. Returning to the hotel late one
night with some friends from his reading group:- Jenna, Vila and Gan, a man
rendered tragically unable to cook due to a faulty limiter implanted in his
brain; they were offered a lift by a mysterious stranger called Avon. Once
on board Avon's ship, the group liked it so much, they decided to stay.
Orac, Avon's "speak your weight" machine, hadn't been too keen on the idea,
but Zen, the flight computer, had managed to talk him round. Zen even
decided to rename the ship "Beaded Rabbit" after an image taken
telepathically from Jenna's mind.
Blake's train of thought was broken by a news story on the vid-screen.
It concerned an attempted attack on a Federation communications base. Travis
and his crew were thought to have been trying to steal the new Mark-IV
Vending Machine. The raid appeared to have been thwarted by an Auron woman,
possibly a deep-cover agent working for the Federation. She had apparently
managed to destroy the base before Travis got there, sacrificing her own
life in the process. At least the vending machine hadn't fallen into the
wrong hands.
There was a knock at Blake's door. The door slid open to reveal Blake's
second-in-command, Section Leader Avalon. Avalon snapped to attention.
"Nothing to report, sir." she reported.
"Thankyou, Section Leader, carry on." Blake's attention returned to the
vid-screen. The news channel was now showing footage of Travis' crew in
action. When Jenna's image filled the screen, Blake became aware of a
shuffling noise behind him. It was only then that he realised that Avalon
was still in the room. She blushed and returned her hands to her sides.
"Sorry, sir." She left hurriedly.
Blake had never understood the Section Leader's fascination with the
smuggler woman. She wasn't even that good-looking. Now Avon, on the other
hand, was a different story. Blake considered himself to be quite the ladies
man. All Space Command officers were. The leather outfits alone were enough
to prove that. But Blake couldn't help but be drawn to the mysterious
dark-eyed Avon. Space Commander Blake could never tell anybody else about
this. He just hoped that nobody ever saw the poster of Avon on his wall. It
was his favourite picture, a centrefold from Rebel Stud magazine.
Blake looked again at the damp patch on the wall. Sure enough the
colours were shifting again. This time, however, there was no image. There
was just blurring, blurring, blurring...
Roj Blake's eyes snapped open and he looked around wildly for a moment
or two. He'd been having the dream again. He was relieved to discover that
he was still here in his familiar surroundings. His chair, his table, his
books, the damp patch on the wall. At this point Avon walked in and kissed
him on the forehead.
"Servalan's here," he whispered urgently, "you'd better get ready."
Blake got dressed and followed Avon out. He was further relieved to see the
old sign on the window. It had once read "Roj and Kerr's Hair Style Studio".
The weather and the passage of time had taken it's toll on the lettering to
such an extent that it now read "Roj and Kerr's _a_r S_ _ _e Stud_ _". This
was, unfortunately, attracting the wrong sort of customer. In fact, they had
only one remaining prestigious client. Goodness only knew what they would do
if President Servalan ever cancelled her Tuesday afternoon
appointment. He gave Kerr a smile and picked up his scissors. He glanced
again at the damp patch, and then turned to his customer. "Lovely to see you
again, Madame President. A little off the top, is it?"