(no subject)
Title: Deus Ex Asteroid: A Tragicomedy of Errors
Or, What the Frak Was Up With 4.5?
Chapter 1 of 2
Author: safenthecity
Beta: The ever-glorious brennanspeaks, with a few fun suggestions from my darling khavi
Rating: PG-13 for language, implied sex
Characters: Pretty much everyone, but mostly Baltar and Gaeta
Pairings: Gaeta/Hoshi, Baltar/Caprica, implied past Baltar/Gaeta
Notes: Crossover with the Thursday Next universe, though only one TN character is involved, and briefly at that. The premise: all characters within the world of written words have a secret life that we, the Outlanders (those who live in the real world, if you will), are unaware of. Friendly digs at a few other shows (I mock because I love). Absolute crack. (Well, that’s what they want you to believe. In truth, this is actually what happened. Clearly.)
Note 2: Yes, I am aware of the claims that SaGN was written pre-writer’s strike. But, as you will see when you read this, that's just what they want us to think.
Summary: When a seemingly simple mission goes wrong just before the last ten episodes are written, the surviving Battlestar Galactica characters are left picking up the pieces.
Relevent info on the Bookworld:
Mispeling Vyrus: The plague of the written world, if left unchecked it can wreak havoc on plot and characterizations. Direct, prolonged contact is nearly always fatal. Contained by use of dictionaries.
Grammasites: Grammar-eating parasites which roam the Bookworld. Adjectivores feed on descriptive terms, often causing a piece to be bland. Verbisoids are capable of killing characters by reducing them to nothing but a few expositional phrases, but are baffled by the use of irregular verbs, preferring the simplicity of verbs with “ed” endings. Typically held off by in-text use of the verb "to sing," which leaves them confused enough to be easily killed.
Jurisfiction: The Bookworld police force.
The Bellman The elected leader of Jurisfiction.
The Well of Lost Plots: Where fiction begins, home to works-in-progress before they make it to the Outland. Also- Where bad ideas go to die.
TravelBook: A book with descriptions of thousands of settings in fiction. By finding the appropriate page and reading it, characters are easily transported from one work to another.
Footnoterphone: The fictional world’s version of a Bluetooth. Allows communication by means of footnote.
A note on Bookworld life and death: When characters are not busy doing their written roles within books/scripts/poems/etc, they have lives of their own. Also, simply because they have died in the story does not mean they are actually dead- they need to be around for whenever the piece they are in gets re-read, after all. However, it is possible for a fictional character to die. Grammasites, the mispeling vyrus, and being reduced to text all can cause real death. In these cases, if the character is important enough to the story, he or she will be replaced by a Generic character brought in to cover the role.
“Ok everyone, move them in closer,” Admiral Adama’s voice called out across the muggy jungle air.
Kneeling, Felix complied, nudging a set of dictionaries across the ground, making sure to keep their edges touching. On either side of him, Sam and Galen were doing the same, and further around the circle, so were Laura, Dee, Sharon, Lee, Caprica, Saul, Kara, and Bill Adama himself. Everyone was exercising caution, being careful to keep their gloved hands away from the contained purple glow.
Felix glanced at Sam, who wore a look of such concentration that Felix had to laugh. “Sam, you look like you’re about to take on fifty Heavy Raiders in a broken down Raptor. Calm down.”
Sam grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. It’s my first real mission as an apprentice. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Just keep the edges from separating and there’s no way you can go wrong. Trust me.”
They both went back to work, slowly pushing the dictionaries ever further, watching with satisfaction as the mispeling vyrus was forced back and mangled glass transformed back into tangled grass with every inch.
It seemed ridiculous that this had been allowed to go on for so long. Truly, in any other script, a solar flare suddenly becoming a polar bear would have caused someone in Text Grand Central to notice. But everyone in the scripts of Lost had thought it was somehow part of the plot, and it had gone unreported. Outlanders had eaten it up, of course, but that was no big shock. They still hadn’t realized platypuses were fictional.
It was no wonder no one had any idea what was happening on this show.
Felix paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, enjoying the sunshine and the hot island breeze. The writer’s strike was causing a backup in the Well of Lost Plots, as all scripting of TV shows had come to a standstill. Jursifiction agents from television had been given extra assignments in the downtime, but if it allowed him the chance to visit a setting as close to paradise as this, he wasn’t going to complain.
“You doing ok?” Sam asked in concern, motioning at his leg.
“I’m fine. I’m great, actually,” Felix replied with a smile. And he was. Outside the confines of the Battlestar Galactica script, he was free to use a proper prosthetic, one that was fitted correctly and equipped with upgrades from various other sci-fi shows that made it feel nearly as natural as his real leg. He’d forgotten about it until Sam had said something.
“Man, you know I’m sorry about that, right?” Sam asked him anxiously. “It wasn’t my idea to put that plot device into play, I swear I’m better with a gun than that, I mean, I frakking ran the Caprica Resistance. I tried to protest, but-”
“Sam,” he cut him off gently, “I know. It was all part of the plan. I don’t blame you. And anyway, it gave me a chance to develop my character further. Hell, I got to sing for an entire episode. Do you know what a relief that was after three seasons of almost nothing but ‘Dradis contact’ and being hung up on Baltar?”
Sam moved a dictionary a little further, not meeting Felix’s eyes. “I still feel bad about it.”
Felix looked over to tell Sam not to worry about it, and suddenly stood. A swarm of ugly creatures in striped socks were making their way toward them, nasty intentions clear in their beady eyes. Batlike wings flapped slowly as the verbisoids surveyed the situation, clearly planning to attack. “Heads up!” he called, and immediately broke into his lament. “Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man…”
The grammasites slowed down, watching him warily. He could see his comrades readying their weapons out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t stop singing. “With my three wishes clutched in her hand…”
“Should we be nervous?” he heard Sam ask.
“Nah,” Galen replied. “Felix has it under control. See?” He motioned to the way a few of the brown creatures were beginning to back away. “Get your gun ready, let’s take ‘em out- oh, frak.”
And Felix immediately knew what he was talking about. All around them, more of the grammasites were emerging from the brush. It wasn’t just a few dozen verbisoids- it was hundreds. He raised his voice. “The first that she be spared the pain…”
Saul and Galen came up beside him, starting to sing All Along the Watchtower. “There must be some way out of here…”
The three of them managed to hold the verbisoids at bay, the two songs sounding utterly out of place together. Behind him, he heard Sam tentatively join the other Cylons in the second verse, and noted with some surprise that he actually sounded good. Saul raised his pistol when suddenly Caprica screamed.
Felix turned with a start, and his song caught in his throat as he realized that adjectivores had snuck up on their group while they were preoccupied with the verbisoids. This is impossible! he thought wildly, not believing his eyes. Different breeds of grammasites working together…
He hit the dirt as a verbisoid jumped on his back, knocking the breath from him. Shots starting ringing out through the trees as everyone with a firearm did their best to hold off the enemy. He fought the grammasite, struggling to avoid getting impaled on its spear-like beak, unable to get enough air in his lungs to start singing again. From his position on the ground, he could see the chaos raging around him.
Starbuck was firing for all she was worth, a gun in each hand. Caprica and Sharon were back-to-back, taking out as many of the frakkers as they could. Lee and Galen were surrounded, and Felix noted with fear that he couldn’t come up with a single descriptive word for the expressions on their faces. Saul tried hopelessly to fight his way toward them. Felix saw Laura backing away from a group of adjectivores, shakily trying to aim a gun she didn’t know how to wield. He glanced around desperately, but Dee was nowhere to be seen.
A few yards away, he saw Adama go flying through the air, crashing into the row of dictionaries that was holding the mispeling vyrus at bay and landing right in the middle of the purple glow.
No!
Tangled grass began turning back into mangled glass, and he turned his eyes away, mostly so he could focus on his attacker, but partially because he couldn’t bring himself to see what was to become of his Admiral.
Another shot, and the grammasite slumped on top of him, dead. He looked up to see Sam standing over him, covered in ink and blood.
“Keep singing!” Felix gasped, shoving the body off him and struggling to his feet. Sam nodded, opening his mouth to belt the chorus of Watchtower for all he was worth.
Felix hadn’t brought his gun- hadn’t thought he would need it. He was useless without it, so he made a decision. He took off for the camp, his enhanced prosthetic causing him no trouble as he ran through the brush, hoping beyond reason that at least one member of the Lost cast had access to some firepower.
He looked over his shoulder and saw he was being chased by verbisoids. He barely had time to process that fact before his foot caught on some wild vines and he went sprawling, head connecting hard with a large rock. His last conscious thought was Lie, lay, lain. And then the world went dark.
***
Gaius sat in shock at the Bellman’s words. He looked around the meeting room of Colonial One at Tory, Tom, and Karl, and saw they all wore expressions of horror and disbelief similar to his own.
Feeling as though he were moving in slow motion, he turned to the Bellman and asked, “Were there any survivors?”
The Bellman rubbed his temples. “The only one we’ve found is Caprica-Six. She’s badly decharacterized, but we think she’s going to make it. She’s going to need some intense adjective therapy in order to fully regain her personality. As far as her performance within the script… she may be inconsistent.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Tom asked, strangely calm, “that the four of us are essentially the only living characters with reasonably recognizable faces left in Battlestar Galactica?”
“Five, if you count Caprica, but… Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
There was silence as they tried to take that in. They met each other’s eyes, unable to speak, unable to fully comprehend that they were it. All the other main characters… Gone. Gaius stared at his hands.
Karl turned to the Bellman angrily. “Why did you send them all on the same mission? What the frak were you thinking? Doesn’t that go against all the codes of Jurisfiction, to place an entire cast of characters in jeopardy like that?”
The Bellman looked helpless. “They volunteered. It was supposed to be a simple job- jump to the Lost island, locate the mispeling vyrus that was causing incomprehensible plot contrivances and utterly gratuitous character deaths, and wipe it out. It was a fairly weak strain- your fellow characters had planned on dealing with the vyrus quickly and spending some time on the beach. We never would have given the go-ahead if we thought for a moment they would be in danger.”
“So what the frak happened?”
Rubbing his hands together, the Bellman replied, “It seems they were set upon by a large horde of grammasites.- it appears verbisoids and adjectivores collaborated to stage the attack. It’s unprecedented, though I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, considering everything else that goes on over there. That, combined with the nearby vyrus…” He trailed off, looking down at the table.
“So what are we going to do? Battlestar Galactica is a character-driven show! The writer’s strike will be over in three days! How are we supposed to finish out our final season with just the four of us?”
Leave it to Tory to ask the practical question. Gaius let himself focus on that. It was easier than thinking about just how many characters had died today.
“The Council of Genres generally doesn’t interfere in matters of television shows, but due to the critical acclaim and popularity of yours, they have offered to send a plotsmith to you, and are even now searching the Bookworld for appropriate Generics to replace your fallen comrades.”
“Generics? You can’t possibly think Generics will be able to capture all the complexities-”
“A frakking plotsmith? As though we don’t have enough loose ends to tie up already? We still don’t know why everyone hallucinates my daughter in that damn opera house-”
“We’ve made it all the way to Earth and it’s a damn wasteland and we haven’t even revealed the final Cylon-”
“-all the development we’ve put into our characters-”
“-last frakking thing we need is another plot twist-”
“-and nobody knows what the deal is with the Final Five anyway-”
Something about the way the others were all shouting over each other like panicked children woke Gaius from his stupor.
“Shut the frak up, all of you!”
They stared at him, and he took a steadying breath. “Listen. We have three days to come up with appropriate Generics, story directions, and character arcs. Fighting isn’t going to help right now. We have to pull together and somehow make this work. Karl, do damage control, see if you can put together some coherent outlines of various character motivations so we'll be ready to brief the Generics. Tom, rally the supporting characters, see if there’s any way you can work them into the larger storyline without being too obvious about it. And Tory- we need a fifth Cylon. We certainly can’t go the direction we’d originally planned. Figure something out.”
Everyone was quiet, looking at him in surprise. Gaius wasn’t sure who had expected his outburst less- his fellow characters, or he himself.
Tom leaned back. “And what are you going to do, Gaius?”
Gaius rubbed his temples. “I’ll talk to the damn plotsmith.”
***
Gaius’s first impression of the young man was that he was a pompous asshat. He sat there with his briefcase and his tweed suit, a year out of his training at most, and looked over his glasses at Gaius as he presented his plan.
“Seeing as how there are only ten episodes left, this isn’t nearly as devastating as it could have been. All we have to do is find some filler storyline so you have time to train the Generics in their new roles.”
Gaius took a deep breath. “I don’t think you understand. We have about seven thousand hanging plotlines to address. We simply don’t have time for filler. We need resolution, not pointless distractions.”
The plotsmith took off his glasses, fixing Gaius with a stern look. “No, it’s you who don’t understand. The writer’s strike is nearly over, and most of the truly relevant storylines have been taken by shows struggling to stay on the air. It’s not my fault that you were counting on the strength of your character development to make it through these last ten hours and didn’t think to acquire some backup plots. There is really very little I can do about that. I’m just here as damage control, and I’m not even getting paid for this, so consider yourself fortunate.”
Gaius resisted the urge to stick a pen in his neck. Instead, voice shaking with suppressed anger, he asked, “What do you have, then?”
He opened his briefcase and spread out various bags of plot devices. “At the moment, there is a special on ‘Character Thought To Be Dead Comes Back To Life,’ and ‘Bloody Mutiny.’”
He seemed to take Gaius’s blank look as an invitation to elaborate, so he continued. “They started getting produced en masse after the success of the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, but it seems we jumped the gun a little. If you buy one, you get the second for a quarter of the price.”
Oh, for the love of God, of all the ridiculously contrived…. “And what the frak am I supposed to do with those!?” Gaius snapped.
The plotsmith regarded him coolly. “Dr. Baltar, I realize you are under a great deal of stress right now, but really. You aren’t in script. It’s entirely unnecessary to use specialized, made up swear words. Out of context, it makes you look foolish.”
Rational thoughts fled from his mind and he stood, glowering down at the arrogant bastard. “Is that so? How about this: Fuck you! You have no fucking idea what the fuck I’m going through right now. All the characters in my show have been killed, and I’m stuck with the task of trying to hold this fucking thing together and I haven’t even had a chance to think about all the friends I’ve lost today. Today. It happened fucking today, and I have not had a single moment to myself since I found out, so you do not get to fucking sit there and fucking sneer at me like I’m some sort of fucking moron. I am the most brilliant fucking scientist humanity has ever fucking seen, so fuck you and show me something I can fucking work with. Fuck!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Frak me!” he added as an afterthought.
The plotsmith seemed unfazed by this tantrum. He picked up another plot device and showed it to Gaius. “You could do a musical.”
Gaius sank back into his chair and buried his head in his hands. “Give me the frakking mutiny.”
***
As he was walking through the corridors of Colonial One, Tom came up behind him and pulled him aside.
“How did it go today?”
Gaius couldn’t meet his eyes. “Not well,” he admitted, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Tom.
Tom took a drag, staring at the smoke as he blew it from between his lips.
“Does your character even smoke?” Gaius asked dully, leaning back against the wall.
Tom smiled bitterly and inhaled again. “No. But it doesn’t matter. We’re not in script.”
He held the cigarette out to Gaius, who shook his head and lit a new one for himself. They stood together for a moment, not saying anything, pretending that the nicotine helped. Finally, Tom spoke.
“We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
Gaius let his unfinished cigarette fall to the floor and extinguished it with his foot. “You can’t talk that way. We’ll make this work.” He said the words, but he knew neither of them believed him.
Tom sighed, then straightened, as though he had just made a decision. “Give me the mutiny.”
“What?” Gaius was startled. He hadn’t told anyone about the plot devices he’d acquired- hadn’t really planned on using them. “How did you-”
“I have ways of finding things out, Gaius. That’s not the issue. Give me the mutiny.”
“And what in the world will you do with it?”
Tom met his eyes. “This world is falling apart all around us. Adama and Roslin and Lee are gone, and Karl is refusing to acknowledge that. He’s insisting their Generics be allowed to stay the focus of the show, rather than allow me to take over as president.”
Gaius leaned his head back against the wall. “He has a point. None of them would ever allow a Zarek presidency, and the chances of all three dying at once are so low… Even the Outlanders would notice something was off.”
Tom didn’t relent. “Tory has this insane idea that the fleet is going to grant the Cylons citizenship… Can you imagine? Granting citizenship to the race that tried to wipe out humanity less than five years after it happened?”
“I’m sure she has a reasonable explanation-”
“There is no justification for a thing like that.” He took one last drag, the red glow reflecting in his determined eyes. “Give me the mutiny,” he said again, voice quiet and sure. “You know I could never stand for an alliance with the Cylons. Give me the mutiny, and I swear I can make it last for at least two episodes. It’ll buy you time to train the Generics. You can stick them into action sequences to help them get used to their roles without actually giving them much dialogue. I already have a plan for how to make it happen.”
Gaius didn’t move. “You’ll be killed. You know that, don’t you? Not even with a half-rate Generic in his place would Admiral Adama ever forgive Tom Zarek for a mutiny. You will die, and you will leave us with one less developed character to work with.”
Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know. But at least I’ll go out in character. We’re all frakked anyway, Gaius. Please. Trust me to do this.”
He held Tom’s eyes for long moments, then slumped in defeat. “Two episodes?” he asked softly, handing the device to the vice-president.
“With luck, I can even work some lead-in into a third,” Tom promised solemnly. Gaius nodded, feeling lost. Tom turned and left, and Gaius watched him go, wondering what he was going to do- what any of them were going to do.
Small fingers worked their way up his arm, and he looked down to see Tory’s beautiful, calculating face. “So, Gaius,” she purred, “I hear you have a ‘Bring Back A Dead Character’?”
He gave it to her and walked away without a word.
***
Gaius sat in the room with the Council representative, sinking further into despair with every word the woman spoke.
“We think we may have found someone to replace Adama- he went through Military Character training at the Academy, anyway. Mind you, he has a slight drinking problem and this strange thing with toothpaste, but really, it shouldn’t affect his work too terribly.”
Gaius stared at the floor.
“As far as Lee goes, it wasn’t like he was a horribly unique individual to begin with, so we found at least two suitable Noble Do-Gooders who have an affinity for tough blondes and backgrounds in politics- that was the trickiest part, actually, finding politicians who actually give a damn, but once we sent someone to search the scripts of The West Wing, it became quite simple. Either of them would suit your purposes.”
He counted the cracks in the tiles.
“For Athena, we did a little digging and found a Competent Loving Mother/Military Woman, but for the life of us we can’t seem to make her dislike Caprica. I know there is supposed to be some sort of animosity between them, but the two of them get along rather well. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not like we have much of a choice but to utilize her. I’m sure there’s a way to make it work.”
Funny, he’d never noticed how if he let his eyes lose focus, the colors and patterns of the ground blurred together like an abstract painting.
“And as for Laura… Well, this one was tough. Your Madame President was truly one-of-a-kind, but we did our best. We managed to get our hands on an Intelligent Woman in Politics, and she passed with a reasonably high score on her Cancer Patient exams- she took them when she was trying to get a role in a Lifetime movie. The only real problem is…” She trailed off.
Gaius didn’t raise his head. “Go ahead and tell me. Nothing you say can possibly make things worse.”
There was a hesitation, then, “The only character motivation she has is Living for Love.”
Gaius wept.
***
Avoiding corridors where the mutiny was raging, Gaius wandered aimlessly through Galactica, wondering whether a bullet to the head would be a less painful way to die than slitting his wrists in the shower. He already knew trying to hang himself would be unpleasant. Maybe he’d mix alcohol with drugs- he had a precedent for that. Dying in scene would certainly solve his problems, and no one would have to find a Generic to take his place. It was beginning to look like Tom had the right idea.
“Gaius! Frak, Gaius, there you are! Why haven’t you been answering your footnoterphone?”
He turned and saw Karl, who was panting as though he’d been running through the entire ship searching for him. “I had it turned off- I was doing scenes on the baseship. What’s wrong?”
Karl smiled at him, obviously elated. “It’s Felix. They found Felix. He’s asking for you."
***
Felix was sitting in a bed in a small set of officer’s quarters, completely surrounded by people. One of the background characters was holding his hand, and Gaius recognized him as Hoshi from the CIC. Felix was talking animatedly, in the middle of telling his story.
“So this woman, Danielle, she’s ranting about Others and Alex and who-knows-what-all, and she’s dressing my wounds even as she’s holding me prisoner. I try to explain that I’m Jurisfiction, and I keep asking her to call the Council of Genres to get this thing sorted out, and it’s clear that she has no idea that she’s not in script, nor any idea what season she’s in, for that matter. I don’t know if it’s the strike or just having been in that universe for too long, but let me tell you, I counted my blessings that she didn’t torture me. I was beginning to resign myself to spending the rest of my days chained to this crazy woman’s bed- which isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds, by the way.”
Everyone laughed, and Felix grinned, waiting for it to die down before continuing.
“And finally today Alex actually stopped by, which goes a long way toward convincing Danielle I didn’t kidnap her,” there were more appreciative chuckles, “and the girl gets me loose and apologizes and loans me her TravelBook, and that’s how I got back.” He spread his arms and gave a little bow as he finished his tale to thunderous applause.
Hoshi beamed with happiness, and all around the room cries of triumph and celebration rang out. Felix laughed, looking at everyone, and finally spotted Gaius standing in the doorway. His smile darkened slightly. Gaius swallowed.
“Hey guys, thanks for the welcome home, but can I have a moment alone with Baltar?”
A dozen sets of eyes fixed on him, and the room went uncomfortably quiet. Slowly, the revelers filed out, CIC officers patting Felix on the back as they went. Hoshi gave Felix a quick peck on the cheek and followed the others. Gaius watched him go, then stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. He looked askance at Felix.
“You didn’t think I was going to spend the rest of my life pining over you?” Felix asked dryly.
“I had heard you had taken up with someone during the hiatus,” Gaius admitted. “But I didn’t realize it was just some technobable drone.”
Felix flushed. “I started as a ‘technobable drone,’ if you recall,” he said irritably. “Characters evolve.”
“Ah, so you’re the one who got him lines in Razor.”
“He had every reason to be the one to show Kendra around!”
Felix was getting angry now, and Gaius held up his hands. “I apologize. I didn’t come here to fling insults. It’s been very stressful around here, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Truly, it’s good to see you again.”
Mollified, Felix nodded. “It’s good to see you, too. It’d be better, though, if every time I asked someone what’s happening with my storyline they didn’t break eye contact and tell me to talk to you.”
Gaius looked away, unsure how to explain.
“There! That! That look. Everyone is doing that look. You’re freaking me out. What? Was my Generic awful?”
“No, no… the Generic did a fair job. I’m sure your Outlander will be able to play off the slight inconsistencies. You may even have time to smooth some of them out in rewrites.”
“Ok, so, what then? Gaius, just tell me. What’s going on?”
“You…” Felix waited. Gaius couldn’t think of any easy way to say it, so he just took a deep breath and laid it bare. “You form an alliance with Zarek and start a Bloody Mutiny against Adama.”
“WHAT?” Gaius winced at Felix’s yelp and cautiously glanced at his face. Felix was staring at him, uncomprehending. “Wait -what- how? Why?”
“He forced an alliance with the Cylons on the civilian government.”
Felix looked at him, waiting for more. “And?”
“…That’s it.”
“I don’t understand. Is this- what, some sort of character development? Give me something to angst over when I realize…” Gaius must have looked as guilty as he felt, because Felix leaned back and trailed off. “You didn’t. You picked someone else?”
“Felix, I’m so sorry. We thought you were dead. We couldn’t put a Generic in that position, not with so many leads being taken by Generics already.”
Felix closed his eyes and took a breath. “So what happens?”
Another agonizing pause as Gaius steeled himself. “You’re… executed for treason.”
“WHAT?” It was more than a yelp this time, and Felix looked at him in horror. “No, Adama would never do that, he wouldn’t execute one of his crew, that’s not who he is.”
“That’s not who he was,” Gaius reminded him as gently as he could. “But Adama’s gone, fatally mispeled, and the Generic in his place…” Gaius looked away. “Well, he’s certainly not the man we all knew.”
He gave Felix some time to process that. “And you’re telling me this because the Outlanders have already seen the scripts, I take it?”
“Filming is due to start tomorrow.”
Felix ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He sat quietly for a moment, and Gaius was just wondering whether he should go when Felix softly said, “We need a final scene.”
“Pardon me?”
Felix shot him an annoyed look. “A final scene, Gaius. You and me. I’m assuming you didn’t script one with the Generic?” Gaius shook his head, and Felix went on. “If my storyline is going to be cut short like this, I need to have a memorable exit. A last conversation. A culmination of my character. And it needs to be with you.”
Gaius nodded, realizing he was right. “So, when should we-”
“Right now,” Felix said, tugging at his enhanced prosthetic and placing it out of view. “We can’t wait. This has to get to the Outlanders in time. Help me to the table.”
Throwing his arm around Felix’s shoulder, Gaius did so, noting it still had celebratory cigars and coffee on it. He moved to clear them out of the way, but Felix stopped him. “No. Those are good. Those will work. Sit down, Gaius, we don’t have much time and we have to do this right.”
Gaius watched as Felix lit himself a smoke, and realized with a jolt that this was truly the last time he would create a scene with his old friend. Felix had survived his ordeal and returned to find that not only was his planned arc in pieces, but his entire role was being cut short. With shaking hands he lit a cigar, looked at Felix sadly, and then they were in script.
***
Felix sighed as they finished the scene, both elated and drained. It was always a rush for any character to get to experience complex emotions, and he knew he had just scripted something brilliant. At the same time, he was only really starting to process the fact that this was going to be how it ended for him. He stared at his mug.
“Restaurants shaped like food?” Gaius inquired, breaking his reverie.
Felix sent him a sidelong glance. “Just because you never asked me my backstory doesn’t mean I never crafted one.”
Gaius smiled. “It’s exactly that kind of diligence that elevated you from a background player to a fully developed character.”
Nodding at the compliment, Felix took another sip of coffee. “So where does the show go from here?”
Gaius winced. “It’s hard to say. The Generics seem to be settling in, but it’s just not the same. Hopefully, the Adama replacement will shape up, but…” He shrugged. “It’s hard to say just yet.” Gaius stood and handed Felix back his prosthetic. “If there’s anything I can do for you…”
Felix thought for a moment, then met Gaius’s eyes. “Make this mean something. You’ve been attempting to set yourself on this little Redemption Story path for five years, and I think it’s about time you followed through.” Gaius looked down, and Felix figured it would be better not to count on it. He swirled his coffee, then added, “Oh, and see if you can get Hoshi some lines, would you?”
Gaius smiled slightly at that. “I’ll see what I can do.”
***
Felix walked away from his execution with his arms crossed, pointedly ignoring Tom and Gaius. Though he preferred the term ‘brooding,’ he was pretty sure his expression was going to be interpreted as a pout. He’d rather they not see it.
He knew it wasn’t their fault, he knew they had done what they had to do, given the circumstances. Not dragging his storyline out with a Generic in his place had probably been Gaius’s idea of mercy, really. It hadn’t even been a bad way to go out, all things considered.
That didn’t make Felix less annoyed that he didn’t get to be the fifth Cylon. They had gone through all the trouble of shooting his leg off just so he could have that stupid song… It irked him that he had gone through all the setup and then not gotten to follow through. And dammit, getting shot had hurt.
He wondered for a moment who had been chosen in his place. Felix had been so caught up in trying to make sense of his part in the mutiny that he hadn’t thought to ask.
Ellen chose that moment to wander down the corridor at Tory’s side. The smaller woman was trying to work out some kind of backstory for the Five, and Ellen appeared to be listening intently, even throwing in a few suggestions of her own. As they passed, she glanced at Felix and gave him a little smirk. He stood stock-still, unable to believe his eyes. Tory kept walking, and Ellen tossed her hair and turned away, humming Watchtower as she went.
There was a moment of silence as they turned the corner. Felix tried to process what he had just seen, because surely, surely his vision had deceived him. As the seconds dragged on and no one said anything, he realized that yes, that had been exactly what it looked like.
Felix turned to Gaius and Tom. “I hate you both.”
On to chapter 2
Or, What the Frak Was Up With 4.5?
Chapter 1 of 2
Author: safenthecity
Beta: The ever-glorious brennanspeaks, with a few fun suggestions from my darling khavi
Rating: PG-13 for language, implied sex
Characters: Pretty much everyone, but mostly Baltar and Gaeta
Pairings: Gaeta/Hoshi, Baltar/Caprica, implied past Baltar/Gaeta
Notes: Crossover with the Thursday Next universe, though only one TN character is involved, and briefly at that. The premise: all characters within the world of written words have a secret life that we, the Outlanders (those who live in the real world, if you will), are unaware of. Friendly digs at a few other shows (I mock because I love). Absolute crack. (Well, that’s what they want you to believe. In truth, this is actually what happened. Clearly.)
Note 2: Yes, I am aware of the claims that SaGN was written pre-writer’s strike. But, as you will see when you read this, that's just what they want us to think.
Summary: When a seemingly simple mission goes wrong just before the last ten episodes are written, the surviving Battlestar Galactica characters are left picking up the pieces.
Relevent info on the Bookworld:
Mispeling Vyrus: The plague of the written world, if left unchecked it can wreak havoc on plot and characterizations. Direct, prolonged contact is nearly always fatal. Contained by use of dictionaries.
Grammasites: Grammar-eating parasites which roam the Bookworld. Adjectivores feed on descriptive terms, often causing a piece to be bland. Verbisoids are capable of killing characters by reducing them to nothing but a few expositional phrases, but are baffled by the use of irregular verbs, preferring the simplicity of verbs with “ed” endings. Typically held off by in-text use of the verb "to sing," which leaves them confused enough to be easily killed.
Jurisfiction: The Bookworld police force.
The Bellman The elected leader of Jurisfiction.
The Well of Lost Plots: Where fiction begins, home to works-in-progress before they make it to the Outland. Also- Where bad ideas go to die.
TravelBook: A book with descriptions of thousands of settings in fiction. By finding the appropriate page and reading it, characters are easily transported from one work to another.
Footnoterphone: The fictional world’s version of a Bluetooth. Allows communication by means of footnote.
A note on Bookworld life and death: When characters are not busy doing their written roles within books/scripts/poems/etc, they have lives of their own. Also, simply because they have died in the story does not mean they are actually dead- they need to be around for whenever the piece they are in gets re-read, after all. However, it is possible for a fictional character to die. Grammasites, the mispeling vyrus, and being reduced to text all can cause real death. In these cases, if the character is important enough to the story, he or she will be replaced by a Generic character brought in to cover the role.
“Ok everyone, move them in closer,” Admiral Adama’s voice called out across the muggy jungle air.
Kneeling, Felix complied, nudging a set of dictionaries across the ground, making sure to keep their edges touching. On either side of him, Sam and Galen were doing the same, and further around the circle, so were Laura, Dee, Sharon, Lee, Caprica, Saul, Kara, and Bill Adama himself. Everyone was exercising caution, being careful to keep their gloved hands away from the contained purple glow.
Felix glanced at Sam, who wore a look of such concentration that Felix had to laugh. “Sam, you look like you’re about to take on fifty Heavy Raiders in a broken down Raptor. Calm down.”
Sam grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. It’s my first real mission as an apprentice. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Just keep the edges from separating and there’s no way you can go wrong. Trust me.”
They both went back to work, slowly pushing the dictionaries ever further, watching with satisfaction as the mispeling vyrus was forced back and mangled glass transformed back into tangled grass with every inch.
It seemed ridiculous that this had been allowed to go on for so long. Truly, in any other script, a solar flare suddenly becoming a polar bear would have caused someone in Text Grand Central to notice. But everyone in the scripts of Lost had thought it was somehow part of the plot, and it had gone unreported. Outlanders had eaten it up, of course, but that was no big shock. They still hadn’t realized platypuses were fictional.
It was no wonder no one had any idea what was happening on this show.
Felix paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, enjoying the sunshine and the hot island breeze. The writer’s strike was causing a backup in the Well of Lost Plots, as all scripting of TV shows had come to a standstill. Jursifiction agents from television had been given extra assignments in the downtime, but if it allowed him the chance to visit a setting as close to paradise as this, he wasn’t going to complain.
“You doing ok?” Sam asked in concern, motioning at his leg.
“I’m fine. I’m great, actually,” Felix replied with a smile. And he was. Outside the confines of the Battlestar Galactica script, he was free to use a proper prosthetic, one that was fitted correctly and equipped with upgrades from various other sci-fi shows that made it feel nearly as natural as his real leg. He’d forgotten about it until Sam had said something.
“Man, you know I’m sorry about that, right?” Sam asked him anxiously. “It wasn’t my idea to put that plot device into play, I swear I’m better with a gun than that, I mean, I frakking ran the Caprica Resistance. I tried to protest, but-”
“Sam,” he cut him off gently, “I know. It was all part of the plan. I don’t blame you. And anyway, it gave me a chance to develop my character further. Hell, I got to sing for an entire episode. Do you know what a relief that was after three seasons of almost nothing but ‘Dradis contact’ and being hung up on Baltar?”
Sam moved a dictionary a little further, not meeting Felix’s eyes. “I still feel bad about it.”
Felix looked over to tell Sam not to worry about it, and suddenly stood. A swarm of ugly creatures in striped socks were making their way toward them, nasty intentions clear in their beady eyes. Batlike wings flapped slowly as the verbisoids surveyed the situation, clearly planning to attack. “Heads up!” he called, and immediately broke into his lament. “Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man…”
The grammasites slowed down, watching him warily. He could see his comrades readying their weapons out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t stop singing. “With my three wishes clutched in her hand…”
“Should we be nervous?” he heard Sam ask.
“Nah,” Galen replied. “Felix has it under control. See?” He motioned to the way a few of the brown creatures were beginning to back away. “Get your gun ready, let’s take ‘em out- oh, frak.”
And Felix immediately knew what he was talking about. All around them, more of the grammasites were emerging from the brush. It wasn’t just a few dozen verbisoids- it was hundreds. He raised his voice. “The first that she be spared the pain…”
Saul and Galen came up beside him, starting to sing All Along the Watchtower. “There must be some way out of here…”
The three of them managed to hold the verbisoids at bay, the two songs sounding utterly out of place together. Behind him, he heard Sam tentatively join the other Cylons in the second verse, and noted with some surprise that he actually sounded good. Saul raised his pistol when suddenly Caprica screamed.
Felix turned with a start, and his song caught in his throat as he realized that adjectivores had snuck up on their group while they were preoccupied with the verbisoids. This is impossible! he thought wildly, not believing his eyes. Different breeds of grammasites working together…
He hit the dirt as a verbisoid jumped on his back, knocking the breath from him. Shots starting ringing out through the trees as everyone with a firearm did their best to hold off the enemy. He fought the grammasite, struggling to avoid getting impaled on its spear-like beak, unable to get enough air in his lungs to start singing again. From his position on the ground, he could see the chaos raging around him.
Starbuck was firing for all she was worth, a gun in each hand. Caprica and Sharon were back-to-back, taking out as many of the frakkers as they could. Lee and Galen were surrounded, and Felix noted with fear that he couldn’t come up with a single descriptive word for the expressions on their faces. Saul tried hopelessly to fight his way toward them. Felix saw Laura backing away from a group of adjectivores, shakily trying to aim a gun she didn’t know how to wield. He glanced around desperately, but Dee was nowhere to be seen.
A few yards away, he saw Adama go flying through the air, crashing into the row of dictionaries that was holding the mispeling vyrus at bay and landing right in the middle of the purple glow.
No!
Tangled grass began turning back into mangled glass, and he turned his eyes away, mostly so he could focus on his attacker, but partially because he couldn’t bring himself to see what was to become of his Admiral.
Another shot, and the grammasite slumped on top of him, dead. He looked up to see Sam standing over him, covered in ink and blood.
“Keep singing!” Felix gasped, shoving the body off him and struggling to his feet. Sam nodded, opening his mouth to belt the chorus of Watchtower for all he was worth.
Felix hadn’t brought his gun- hadn’t thought he would need it. He was useless without it, so he made a decision. He took off for the camp, his enhanced prosthetic causing him no trouble as he ran through the brush, hoping beyond reason that at least one member of the Lost cast had access to some firepower.
He looked over his shoulder and saw he was being chased by verbisoids. He barely had time to process that fact before his foot caught on some wild vines and he went sprawling, head connecting hard with a large rock. His last conscious thought was Lie, lay, lain. And then the world went dark.
***
Gaius sat in shock at the Bellman’s words. He looked around the meeting room of Colonial One at Tory, Tom, and Karl, and saw they all wore expressions of horror and disbelief similar to his own.
Feeling as though he were moving in slow motion, he turned to the Bellman and asked, “Were there any survivors?”
The Bellman rubbed his temples. “The only one we’ve found is Caprica-Six. She’s badly decharacterized, but we think she’s going to make it. She’s going to need some intense adjective therapy in order to fully regain her personality. As far as her performance within the script… she may be inconsistent.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Tom asked, strangely calm, “that the four of us are essentially the only living characters with reasonably recognizable faces left in Battlestar Galactica?”
“Five, if you count Caprica, but… Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”
There was silence as they tried to take that in. They met each other’s eyes, unable to speak, unable to fully comprehend that they were it. All the other main characters… Gone. Gaius stared at his hands.
Karl turned to the Bellman angrily. “Why did you send them all on the same mission? What the frak were you thinking? Doesn’t that go against all the codes of Jurisfiction, to place an entire cast of characters in jeopardy like that?”
The Bellman looked helpless. “They volunteered. It was supposed to be a simple job- jump to the Lost island, locate the mispeling vyrus that was causing incomprehensible plot contrivances and utterly gratuitous character deaths, and wipe it out. It was a fairly weak strain- your fellow characters had planned on dealing with the vyrus quickly and spending some time on the beach. We never would have given the go-ahead if we thought for a moment they would be in danger.”
“So what the frak happened?”
Rubbing his hands together, the Bellman replied, “It seems they were set upon by a large horde of grammasites.- it appears verbisoids and adjectivores collaborated to stage the attack. It’s unprecedented, though I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, considering everything else that goes on over there. That, combined with the nearby vyrus…” He trailed off, looking down at the table.
“So what are we going to do? Battlestar Galactica is a character-driven show! The writer’s strike will be over in three days! How are we supposed to finish out our final season with just the four of us?”
Leave it to Tory to ask the practical question. Gaius let himself focus on that. It was easier than thinking about just how many characters had died today.
“The Council of Genres generally doesn’t interfere in matters of television shows, but due to the critical acclaim and popularity of yours, they have offered to send a plotsmith to you, and are even now searching the Bookworld for appropriate Generics to replace your fallen comrades.”
“Generics? You can’t possibly think Generics will be able to capture all the complexities-”
“A frakking plotsmith? As though we don’t have enough loose ends to tie up already? We still don’t know why everyone hallucinates my daughter in that damn opera house-”
“We’ve made it all the way to Earth and it’s a damn wasteland and we haven’t even revealed the final Cylon-”
“-all the development we’ve put into our characters-”
“-last frakking thing we need is another plot twist-”
“-and nobody knows what the deal is with the Final Five anyway-”
Something about the way the others were all shouting over each other like panicked children woke Gaius from his stupor.
“Shut the frak up, all of you!”
They stared at him, and he took a steadying breath. “Listen. We have three days to come up with appropriate Generics, story directions, and character arcs. Fighting isn’t going to help right now. We have to pull together and somehow make this work. Karl, do damage control, see if you can put together some coherent outlines of various character motivations so we'll be ready to brief the Generics. Tom, rally the supporting characters, see if there’s any way you can work them into the larger storyline without being too obvious about it. And Tory- we need a fifth Cylon. We certainly can’t go the direction we’d originally planned. Figure something out.”
Everyone was quiet, looking at him in surprise. Gaius wasn’t sure who had expected his outburst less- his fellow characters, or he himself.
Tom leaned back. “And what are you going to do, Gaius?”
Gaius rubbed his temples. “I’ll talk to the damn plotsmith.”
***
Gaius’s first impression of the young man was that he was a pompous asshat. He sat there with his briefcase and his tweed suit, a year out of his training at most, and looked over his glasses at Gaius as he presented his plan.
“Seeing as how there are only ten episodes left, this isn’t nearly as devastating as it could have been. All we have to do is find some filler storyline so you have time to train the Generics in their new roles.”
Gaius took a deep breath. “I don’t think you understand. We have about seven thousand hanging plotlines to address. We simply don’t have time for filler. We need resolution, not pointless distractions.”
The plotsmith took off his glasses, fixing Gaius with a stern look. “No, it’s you who don’t understand. The writer’s strike is nearly over, and most of the truly relevant storylines have been taken by shows struggling to stay on the air. It’s not my fault that you were counting on the strength of your character development to make it through these last ten hours and didn’t think to acquire some backup plots. There is really very little I can do about that. I’m just here as damage control, and I’m not even getting paid for this, so consider yourself fortunate.”
Gaius resisted the urge to stick a pen in his neck. Instead, voice shaking with suppressed anger, he asked, “What do you have, then?”
He opened his briefcase and spread out various bags of plot devices. “At the moment, there is a special on ‘Character Thought To Be Dead Comes Back To Life,’ and ‘Bloody Mutiny.’”
He seemed to take Gaius’s blank look as an invitation to elaborate, so he continued. “They started getting produced en masse after the success of the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy, but it seems we jumped the gun a little. If you buy one, you get the second for a quarter of the price.”
Oh, for the love of God, of all the ridiculously contrived…. “And what the frak am I supposed to do with those!?” Gaius snapped.
The plotsmith regarded him coolly. “Dr. Baltar, I realize you are under a great deal of stress right now, but really. You aren’t in script. It’s entirely unnecessary to use specialized, made up swear words. Out of context, it makes you look foolish.”
Rational thoughts fled from his mind and he stood, glowering down at the arrogant bastard. “Is that so? How about this: Fuck you! You have no fucking idea what the fuck I’m going through right now. All the characters in my show have been killed, and I’m stuck with the task of trying to hold this fucking thing together and I haven’t even had a chance to think about all the friends I’ve lost today. Today. It happened fucking today, and I have not had a single moment to myself since I found out, so you do not get to fucking sit there and fucking sneer at me like I’m some sort of fucking moron. I am the most brilliant fucking scientist humanity has ever fucking seen, so fuck you and show me something I can fucking work with. Fuck!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Frak me!” he added as an afterthought.
The plotsmith seemed unfazed by this tantrum. He picked up another plot device and showed it to Gaius. “You could do a musical.”
Gaius sank back into his chair and buried his head in his hands. “Give me the frakking mutiny.”
***
As he was walking through the corridors of Colonial One, Tom came up behind him and pulled him aside.
“How did it go today?”
Gaius couldn’t meet his eyes. “Not well,” he admitted, lighting a cigarette and offering it to Tom.
Tom took a drag, staring at the smoke as he blew it from between his lips.
“Does your character even smoke?” Gaius asked dully, leaning back against the wall.
Tom smiled bitterly and inhaled again. “No. But it doesn’t matter. We’re not in script.”
He held the cigarette out to Gaius, who shook his head and lit a new one for himself. They stood together for a moment, not saying anything, pretending that the nicotine helped. Finally, Tom spoke.
“We’re screwed, aren’t we?”
Gaius let his unfinished cigarette fall to the floor and extinguished it with his foot. “You can’t talk that way. We’ll make this work.” He said the words, but he knew neither of them believed him.
Tom sighed, then straightened, as though he had just made a decision. “Give me the mutiny.”
“What?” Gaius was startled. He hadn’t told anyone about the plot devices he’d acquired- hadn’t really planned on using them. “How did you-”
“I have ways of finding things out, Gaius. That’s not the issue. Give me the mutiny.”
“And what in the world will you do with it?”
Tom met his eyes. “This world is falling apart all around us. Adama and Roslin and Lee are gone, and Karl is refusing to acknowledge that. He’s insisting their Generics be allowed to stay the focus of the show, rather than allow me to take over as president.”
Gaius leaned his head back against the wall. “He has a point. None of them would ever allow a Zarek presidency, and the chances of all three dying at once are so low… Even the Outlanders would notice something was off.”
Tom didn’t relent. “Tory has this insane idea that the fleet is going to grant the Cylons citizenship… Can you imagine? Granting citizenship to the race that tried to wipe out humanity less than five years after it happened?”
“I’m sure she has a reasonable explanation-”
“There is no justification for a thing like that.” He took one last drag, the red glow reflecting in his determined eyes. “Give me the mutiny,” he said again, voice quiet and sure. “You know I could never stand for an alliance with the Cylons. Give me the mutiny, and I swear I can make it last for at least two episodes. It’ll buy you time to train the Generics. You can stick them into action sequences to help them get used to their roles without actually giving them much dialogue. I already have a plan for how to make it happen.”
Gaius didn’t move. “You’ll be killed. You know that, don’t you? Not even with a half-rate Generic in his place would Admiral Adama ever forgive Tom Zarek for a mutiny. You will die, and you will leave us with one less developed character to work with.”
Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know. But at least I’ll go out in character. We’re all frakked anyway, Gaius. Please. Trust me to do this.”
He held Tom’s eyes for long moments, then slumped in defeat. “Two episodes?” he asked softly, handing the device to the vice-president.
“With luck, I can even work some lead-in into a third,” Tom promised solemnly. Gaius nodded, feeling lost. Tom turned and left, and Gaius watched him go, wondering what he was going to do- what any of them were going to do.
Small fingers worked their way up his arm, and he looked down to see Tory’s beautiful, calculating face. “So, Gaius,” she purred, “I hear you have a ‘Bring Back A Dead Character’?”
He gave it to her and walked away without a word.
***
Gaius sat in the room with the Council representative, sinking further into despair with every word the woman spoke.
“We think we may have found someone to replace Adama- he went through Military Character training at the Academy, anyway. Mind you, he has a slight drinking problem and this strange thing with toothpaste, but really, it shouldn’t affect his work too terribly.”
Gaius stared at the floor.
“As far as Lee goes, it wasn’t like he was a horribly unique individual to begin with, so we found at least two suitable Noble Do-Gooders who have an affinity for tough blondes and backgrounds in politics- that was the trickiest part, actually, finding politicians who actually give a damn, but once we sent someone to search the scripts of The West Wing, it became quite simple. Either of them would suit your purposes.”
He counted the cracks in the tiles.
“For Athena, we did a little digging and found a Competent Loving Mother/Military Woman, but for the life of us we can’t seem to make her dislike Caprica. I know there is supposed to be some sort of animosity between them, but the two of them get along rather well. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not like we have much of a choice but to utilize her. I’m sure there’s a way to make it work.”
Funny, he’d never noticed how if he let his eyes lose focus, the colors and patterns of the ground blurred together like an abstract painting.
“And as for Laura… Well, this one was tough. Your Madame President was truly one-of-a-kind, but we did our best. We managed to get our hands on an Intelligent Woman in Politics, and she passed with a reasonably high score on her Cancer Patient exams- she took them when she was trying to get a role in a Lifetime movie. The only real problem is…” She trailed off.
Gaius didn’t raise his head. “Go ahead and tell me. Nothing you say can possibly make things worse.”
There was a hesitation, then, “The only character motivation she has is Living for Love.”
Gaius wept.
***
Avoiding corridors where the mutiny was raging, Gaius wandered aimlessly through Galactica, wondering whether a bullet to the head would be a less painful way to die than slitting his wrists in the shower. He already knew trying to hang himself would be unpleasant. Maybe he’d mix alcohol with drugs- he had a precedent for that. Dying in scene would certainly solve his problems, and no one would have to find a Generic to take his place. It was beginning to look like Tom had the right idea.
“Gaius! Frak, Gaius, there you are! Why haven’t you been answering your footnoterphone?”
He turned and saw Karl, who was panting as though he’d been running through the entire ship searching for him. “I had it turned off- I was doing scenes on the baseship. What’s wrong?”
Karl smiled at him, obviously elated. “It’s Felix. They found Felix. He’s asking for you."
***
Felix was sitting in a bed in a small set of officer’s quarters, completely surrounded by people. One of the background characters was holding his hand, and Gaius recognized him as Hoshi from the CIC. Felix was talking animatedly, in the middle of telling his story.
“So this woman, Danielle, she’s ranting about Others and Alex and who-knows-what-all, and she’s dressing my wounds even as she’s holding me prisoner. I try to explain that I’m Jurisfiction, and I keep asking her to call the Council of Genres to get this thing sorted out, and it’s clear that she has no idea that she’s not in script, nor any idea what season she’s in, for that matter. I don’t know if it’s the strike or just having been in that universe for too long, but let me tell you, I counted my blessings that she didn’t torture me. I was beginning to resign myself to spending the rest of my days chained to this crazy woman’s bed- which isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds, by the way.”
Everyone laughed, and Felix grinned, waiting for it to die down before continuing.
“And finally today Alex actually stopped by, which goes a long way toward convincing Danielle I didn’t kidnap her,” there were more appreciative chuckles, “and the girl gets me loose and apologizes and loans me her TravelBook, and that’s how I got back.” He spread his arms and gave a little bow as he finished his tale to thunderous applause.
Hoshi beamed with happiness, and all around the room cries of triumph and celebration rang out. Felix laughed, looking at everyone, and finally spotted Gaius standing in the doorway. His smile darkened slightly. Gaius swallowed.
“Hey guys, thanks for the welcome home, but can I have a moment alone with Baltar?”
A dozen sets of eyes fixed on him, and the room went uncomfortably quiet. Slowly, the revelers filed out, CIC officers patting Felix on the back as they went. Hoshi gave Felix a quick peck on the cheek and followed the others. Gaius watched him go, then stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. He looked askance at Felix.
“You didn’t think I was going to spend the rest of my life pining over you?” Felix asked dryly.
“I had heard you had taken up with someone during the hiatus,” Gaius admitted. “But I didn’t realize it was just some technobable drone.”
Felix flushed. “I started as a ‘technobable drone,’ if you recall,” he said irritably. “Characters evolve.”
“Ah, so you’re the one who got him lines in Razor.”
“He had every reason to be the one to show Kendra around!”
Felix was getting angry now, and Gaius held up his hands. “I apologize. I didn’t come here to fling insults. It’s been very stressful around here, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. Truly, it’s good to see you again.”
Mollified, Felix nodded. “It’s good to see you, too. It’d be better, though, if every time I asked someone what’s happening with my storyline they didn’t break eye contact and tell me to talk to you.”
Gaius looked away, unsure how to explain.
“There! That! That look. Everyone is doing that look. You’re freaking me out. What? Was my Generic awful?”
“No, no… the Generic did a fair job. I’m sure your Outlander will be able to play off the slight inconsistencies. You may even have time to smooth some of them out in rewrites.”
“Ok, so, what then? Gaius, just tell me. What’s going on?”
“You…” Felix waited. Gaius couldn’t think of any easy way to say it, so he just took a deep breath and laid it bare. “You form an alliance with Zarek and start a Bloody Mutiny against Adama.”
“WHAT?” Gaius winced at Felix’s yelp and cautiously glanced at his face. Felix was staring at him, uncomprehending. “Wait -what- how? Why?”
“He forced an alliance with the Cylons on the civilian government.”
Felix looked at him, waiting for more. “And?”
“…That’s it.”
“I don’t understand. Is this- what, some sort of character development? Give me something to angst over when I realize…” Gaius must have looked as guilty as he felt, because Felix leaned back and trailed off. “You didn’t. You picked someone else?”
“Felix, I’m so sorry. We thought you were dead. We couldn’t put a Generic in that position, not with so many leads being taken by Generics already.”
Felix closed his eyes and took a breath. “So what happens?”
Another agonizing pause as Gaius steeled himself. “You’re… executed for treason.”
“WHAT?” It was more than a yelp this time, and Felix looked at him in horror. “No, Adama would never do that, he wouldn’t execute one of his crew, that’s not who he is.”
“That’s not who he was,” Gaius reminded him as gently as he could. “But Adama’s gone, fatally mispeled, and the Generic in his place…” Gaius looked away. “Well, he’s certainly not the man we all knew.”
He gave Felix some time to process that. “And you’re telling me this because the Outlanders have already seen the scripts, I take it?”
“Filming is due to start tomorrow.”
Felix ran his hands through his hair and sighed. He sat quietly for a moment, and Gaius was just wondering whether he should go when Felix softly said, “We need a final scene.”
“Pardon me?”
Felix shot him an annoyed look. “A final scene, Gaius. You and me. I’m assuming you didn’t script one with the Generic?” Gaius shook his head, and Felix went on. “If my storyline is going to be cut short like this, I need to have a memorable exit. A last conversation. A culmination of my character. And it needs to be with you.”
Gaius nodded, realizing he was right. “So, when should we-”
“Right now,” Felix said, tugging at his enhanced prosthetic and placing it out of view. “We can’t wait. This has to get to the Outlanders in time. Help me to the table.”
Throwing his arm around Felix’s shoulder, Gaius did so, noting it still had celebratory cigars and coffee on it. He moved to clear them out of the way, but Felix stopped him. “No. Those are good. Those will work. Sit down, Gaius, we don’t have much time and we have to do this right.”
Gaius watched as Felix lit himself a smoke, and realized with a jolt that this was truly the last time he would create a scene with his old friend. Felix had survived his ordeal and returned to find that not only was his planned arc in pieces, but his entire role was being cut short. With shaking hands he lit a cigar, looked at Felix sadly, and then they were in script.
***
Felix sighed as they finished the scene, both elated and drained. It was always a rush for any character to get to experience complex emotions, and he knew he had just scripted something brilliant. At the same time, he was only really starting to process the fact that this was going to be how it ended for him. He stared at his mug.
“Restaurants shaped like food?” Gaius inquired, breaking his reverie.
Felix sent him a sidelong glance. “Just because you never asked me my backstory doesn’t mean I never crafted one.”
Gaius smiled. “It’s exactly that kind of diligence that elevated you from a background player to a fully developed character.”
Nodding at the compliment, Felix took another sip of coffee. “So where does the show go from here?”
Gaius winced. “It’s hard to say. The Generics seem to be settling in, but it’s just not the same. Hopefully, the Adama replacement will shape up, but…” He shrugged. “It’s hard to say just yet.” Gaius stood and handed Felix back his prosthetic. “If there’s anything I can do for you…”
Felix thought for a moment, then met Gaius’s eyes. “Make this mean something. You’ve been attempting to set yourself on this little Redemption Story path for five years, and I think it’s about time you followed through.” Gaius looked down, and Felix figured it would be better not to count on it. He swirled his coffee, then added, “Oh, and see if you can get Hoshi some lines, would you?”
Gaius smiled slightly at that. “I’ll see what I can do.”
***
Felix walked away from his execution with his arms crossed, pointedly ignoring Tom and Gaius. Though he preferred the term ‘brooding,’ he was pretty sure his expression was going to be interpreted as a pout. He’d rather they not see it.
He knew it wasn’t their fault, he knew they had done what they had to do, given the circumstances. Not dragging his storyline out with a Generic in his place had probably been Gaius’s idea of mercy, really. It hadn’t even been a bad way to go out, all things considered.
That didn’t make Felix less annoyed that he didn’t get to be the fifth Cylon. They had gone through all the trouble of shooting his leg off just so he could have that stupid song… It irked him that he had gone through all the setup and then not gotten to follow through. And dammit, getting shot had hurt.
He wondered for a moment who had been chosen in his place. Felix had been so caught up in trying to make sense of his part in the mutiny that he hadn’t thought to ask.
Ellen chose that moment to wander down the corridor at Tory’s side. The smaller woman was trying to work out some kind of backstory for the Five, and Ellen appeared to be listening intently, even throwing in a few suggestions of her own. As they passed, she glanced at Felix and gave him a little smirk. He stood stock-still, unable to believe his eyes. Tory kept walking, and Ellen tossed her hair and turned away, humming Watchtower as she went.
There was a moment of silence as they turned the corner. Felix tried to process what he had just seen, because surely, surely his vision had deceived him. As the seconds dragged on and no one said anything, he realized that yes, that had been exactly what it looked like.
Felix turned to Gaius and Tom. “I hate you both.”
On to chapter 2