Fic: In Depth With R. Wilson Monroe (PG-13)

Nov 20, 2007 09:41


Title: In Depth With R. Wilson Monroe
Rating: PG-13
Setting/Spoilers: Set in Terra Firma, spoilers up through ACOD
Disclaimer: Farscape is owned by the Jim Henson Co. I'm just having some fun
Beta'd by Officersun524. Thanks!

Summary and Author's note: R. Wilson Monroe has got the story of a life time on his hands.

I call this story a motivational filler--not in the sense that it's trying to motivate, but rather that I was exploring the motivation behind R.Wilson Monroe and the clearly negative slant he takes towards John Crichton in "Alien Visitation." This was originally written for Starburst Challenge 20 at Terra Firma (which wanted TF stories told from the POV of someone other than John's family.)

Happy Thanksgiving and I hope you enjoy.

In Depth with R. Wilson Monroe

R. Wilson Monroe walked off the set, went through the double doors that led to the back offices, took a right at the green room then a left at the crowded desks of the assistant producers, past the conference room and his own spacious office and into the production control room. The dome of his nearly bald forehead still glistened slightly from the heat generated by the studio lights. Normally, he’d unwind in his offices, but not today. He’d just taped the interview of a lifetime and he was anxious to see it on tape.

For years he’d been on the correspondent’s peripatetic career track. He’d covered the first gulf war from Bagdad, had a stint in the White House press core, been weekend anchor at ABC but was always a second fiddle. Once it became clear he was never going to land a network anchor desk-gravitas was not enough these days, you had to be Stone Phillips pretty and no amount of hair plugs or face lifts were going to change the fact that his head looked like a russet potato with glasses.

So, when Fox News asked him to anchor a new hour long news magazine program on Sunday nights, he jumped at the chance, even if his former colleagues razed him about going over to the evil empire. At least he had his eponymous show-In Depth with R. Wilson Monroe.

David Kassenberg, his producer was sitting at the bank of monitors and control panels already queuing up the raw footage on the switchers.

“Did we get it, Kass? Tell me we got that shot?”

“We absolutely got it. Had camera two zoomed in on her the entire time.”

The ‘her’ he was referring to was none other than Officer Aeryn Sun, an alien and one of a group of six aliens who had accompanied astronaut John Crichton on his surprising return home a few weeks ago. Since that time, John Crichton and the aliens had been the subject of unprecedented media coverage with every news agency on the planet vying for interviews. Landing the Aeryn Sun interview was a feather in his cap. Getting her to practically admit that she had a sexual relationship with Commander John Crichton was going to get him an Emmy.

Kassenberg finished rewinding and began playback on the second monitor from the left. “Better start working on your acceptance speech. Here it is.”

Officer Aeryn Sun appeared on the central monitor, dressed in a black leather duster that had a silky red lining, black leather pants and boots. She wore her long dark hair flowing straight around her face. She looked human enough and spoke English surprisingly well, and she radiated a certain deadly calm he’d only ever seen in battle hardened soldiers. Weapons of war were her expertise. Words were his. She never saw it coming.

He set her up by talking about differences, leading her to a discussion of similarities.

“You’re saying wherever you go in the universe-we’re all the same?”

“Essentially, yes. In that way, Earth is no different from other planets.”

He set the trap.

“Other species, from different worlds, do they have relationships? Marriage? Children?”

And she walked right into it.

“Most definitely. There are limits. The genetic patters would have to support such a union.”

Then he sprang it.

And could a Sebacean, such as yourself, procreate with a human male?”

She hesitated, almost spoke once, twice-like a fish caught on a hook, struggling to get away.

Kass froze the playback. “They say a picture’s worth a thousand words. This says, ‘I’m absolutely shtooping John Crichton.’ Suck on that, Rather!”

Monroe laughed. Koppel was interviewing Crichton tonight about the controversy surrounding the Explorer program.

“I think the no tie look worked, set her at ease. Great idea, Dave. Now, we need to firm this up. We need to get John Crichton in here before Sunday’s broadcast?”

“I’m working on it. I’m working on it. I’ve got the president of the network calling. Bastard’s doing Nightline tonight.”

“God damn it. We’ve got to have Crichton. I can’t run this without some corroboration, even if it’s just a denial. Promise him anything. Tell him we’ll let him prescreen all questions. Just get it done!”

Monroe walked out of the editing room across the hall and to his office. He tossed his brown jacket on the sofa and started pacing the floor. Kassenberg was a miracle worker. He’d get Crichton on the set somehow. It was his job to be ready.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Monroe sat in the makeup chair unmindful of the patting of foundation and careful arrangement of the few thin strands left on the top of his head. His mind was elsewhere, going over his planned line of attack, the feints, the softball questions designed to get Commander John Crichton to lower his guard. He’d watched every minute of tape on his target. Crichton could be unpredictable. And he was closed off, distant. But it was evident that something was going on behind that cool exterior.

John Crichton had returned and changed the world, and the world had a right to know what he was thinking. The technologies he offered could be earth’s greatest boon, or it could be a subterfuge, a prelude to a full on alien invasion. He hadn’t voiced these concerns; it wouldn’t do for America’s premier reporter to sound like one of the crazed UFO alien abduction conspiracy theorists that were all over late night radio. But when he’d seen the leaked classified footage of John Crichton walking off his ship wearing black leather from head to toe his gut told him this was a very dangerous man. His gut was never wrong.

“One minute to go, Mr. Monroe,” Francis Dutton, his personal production assistant said as she entered the room.

He’d wanted to do the interview live, but Crichton would only agree to the interview on condition that it be taped. Francis handed him a slim black loose-leaf notebook.

“And John Crichton?”

“In the green room, prepped and miked.”

The makeup artist finished powdering his face and removed the tissue protecting the collar of his white shirt. Monroe stood up, replaced his glasses and tightened his tie.

“Let’s do this.”

Francis followed a pace behind and they made their way to the set. Ahead, down the hallway that led to the set, another production assistant was leading their guest and his government assigned security guard through the double doors.

John Crichton wore a black suit with a royal blue button down shirt underneath and no tie, the collar open, relaxed. That was the only relaxed thing about him. He didn’t project nervousness or fear-just a tightly coiled control with a measure of cynical detachment.

“I hope you’re enjoyed your visit to Fox Studios,” Monroe said, offering his hand.

Crichton accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, steady. “Looks pretty much like the others. Like the blue, though. Nice touch.”

“Please, take a seat.” Monroe gestured towards one of the two plastic chairs.

The set was minimally designed, essentially a large triangle with two walls of frosted glassed panes set in a stainless steel grid that met in the back in a kind of grey-blue geometric corner that had the appearance of stone, but was really made out of plywood.

“Thank you,” Crichton sat down.

Monroe sat down about three feet away in a matching chair. The camera lights indicated that they were recording.

“We’re ready to start if you are.”

“Fire away.”

Monroe turned towards the camera and spoke. “Tonight I have the pleasure of interviewing IASA Commander John Crichton, once lost and presumed dead, now returned to Earth in the company of aliens. Commander Crichton, your return has shattered a lot of our perceptions of the galaxy. First contact with alien races has shaken this world to its core. How did you deal with it, out there on your own?”

“Some days were better than others,” Crichton replied and he smiled as he spoke.

So far, no one had been able to garner a more detailed reply.

“It must have been difficult, adjusting to such vastly different cultures and technologies.”

“You could say that. Took me a few hours just to learn how to open the doors; but I learned fast and I made friends.”

“Those would be General Ka D’Argo, Chiana, Utu Noranti Pralatong, Officer Aeryn Sun, Dominar Rygel the sixteenth, and Sikozu Svala Shanti Sugaysi Shanu.”

“As well as Moya and Pilot.”

“A living ship and her symbiotic navigator. You must have had many adventures together.”

“Yes. We did. But I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m here to talk about the future and the Explorer program-an opportunity for five hundred of our best and brightest scientific minds, our greatest poets and philosophers, to travel aboard Moya, to see and learn for themselves. And I’m here to talk about the importance of the United States government to supporting a selection process that includes full international participation.”

“With regard to the selection process, the issue you raised is really one of perception and identity. Of course you can understand the argument, that as a U.S. citizen and government employee whose explorations were made possible by hard earned tax payer dollars, you owe this nation a degree of primacy in the selection process?”

“I understand the argument. I just don’t see it like that.”

“Would you say that is because your perceptions have changed?”

“To a degree. Yes. Ask any astronaut, anyone whose gone into orbit and they’ll tell you the same thing. In space there are no national boundaries. There’s just one beautiful blue planet floating in sea of black.”

“And now, Earth is just one of many beautiful blue planet. We are not alone.”

“No. We’re not.”

“And how has your self-perception changed? Do you no longer see yourself as an American?”

“It’s not that I don’t see myself as an American, it’s that I see myself as human first. Homo Sapien Sapien.”

“And home?”

“This will always be my home.”

Monroe smiled. This was the opening he needed. “Home and family. It must be wonderful to see your family after so long.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Let me ask you something Commander. Is family a concept shared by the alien races you encountered?”

“Yes, in a generalized way.”

“As you know, we have different families as we grow. We have the family of our childhoods and the families we make for ourselves-our friends, spouses, children.”

He paused for a moment, to let his statement sink in. Crichton narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, the rest of his face unmoved from the friendly half smile he’d maintained so far.

“Your point?”

“Bear with me a little longer, Commander Crichton.”

He didn’t need the truth; he wasn’t even interested in it. Crichton could be banging green toad-man for all he cared. What he did care about was that Crichton was hiding it? What else might he be concealing?

“If you’ll watch the monitor behind me, I’d like you to comment on part of an interview we recorded yesterday with Officer Aeryn Sun.”

The clip ran and Monroe watched Crichton watch Officer Sun stumble and trip over her words. The smile had faded from the Commander’s face, replaced by a hard stare.

“So, I ask you, Commander Crichton, if perhaps you’ve made another family for yourself out there. If-”

John Crichton stood deliberately. “This interview is over.”

Monroe continued his assault. “If consequently, your loyalties are not to the people of this country, or even this planet? Have you fathered children with Officer Sun? Are you consequently allied with the Peacekeepers?”

Crichton did not answer. He tossed his portable microphone on the studio floor and strode off stage. But he didn’t head for the exit. Instead he walked towards their production offices, barging through the double door, the government body guard trailing him.

Monroe gave chase, catching up with him outside the production control room. Kassenberg stood in the door way, blocking Crichton’s progression.

“Trust me, you really do not want to stand in my way,” Crichton threatened.

“Or what?” Kassenberg said. “You’re going to shoot me with your invisible ray gun?”

Crichton spun on his heel, jabbing the government security guard in the face with one hand while he reached inside the man’s suit coat for his gun. He cocked the gun and aimed it at Kassenberg’s head. “Last chance. Move.”

He wasn’t kidding. He’d interviewed enough killers to know the look, the cold calculation and the will to pull the trigger. Kassenberg must have seen the same thing because he walked out of the doorway.

“You’re insane,” Monroe said, following Crichton as he went into the production control room and began ripping tapes out of the various switchers and smashing them with the butt of the gun. Crichton ignored him as he continued to methodically destroy all the footage in the room. “You won’t get away with this Crichton. I’ve taken down bigger fish than you.”

Crichton stopped for a moment and let out short sharp laugh, getting right in his face. “That’s funny. ‘Cause, news flash Mr. R. Wilson Monroe, right now, I’m bigger than the whole freakin ocean. Everyone wants what I have to offer. And you’re just another news making pimp putting out some sleazy tabloid exposé for a cheap ratings bump.”

He finished smashing the last tape into pieces. The rest of the production staff stood outside the door watching in stunned silence.

“I assume you have backups, with the exception of this lovely interview. Word of advice, I wouldn’t plan on airing it. Wouldn’t be healthy.”

With that he strode out of the production room and disappeared down the hall.

Monroe took in the destruction. They did indeed have backups and backups of the backups and there was no way in hell he was just going to sit on this story. Not now. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by some astronaut with delusions of grandeur.

“I’m not paying you to just stand there, people. Francis, go get the backups. The rest of you rubberneckers track down all the network footage we have on John Crichton. And Kass, get Murdock on the phone. We’re not going to take this lying down.”

~ The End ~

farscape, fan fiction

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