Cazflibs: Howdy to all. I'm writing this fic in a way that I never have before – that is, I'm submitting it as I go along. I usually complete a fic and then upload it. But I'm being daring (or some might say, defiant). Someone throw me a biscuit. The eighth series wasn't too bad in my opinion, but I love the CANARIES. So this is my very own tribute to them. salutes
Oh and please review as I want to know if things are going well/shit so I can amend. Thankies.
Lister was in a foul mood.
If there was one thing that Lister couldn't stand - apart from burnt toast, early mornings and Thursdays - it was Arnold Judas Rimmer. Unfortunately, his day so far had consisted of all four of these pet hates rolled into one as he stood, impassively, after hearing who he was going to be paired with for the latest CANARY mission. There didn't seem much point in arguing with Ackerman. Once the decision had been made then it had been bloody well set in stone, and Lister knew full well that the decision was deliberate. The guards took great pleasure in the pair's annoyance at continually being shoved together and even had a bet as to whether their simmering frustration would boil over into either full-out fisticuffs or an awkward homosexual encounter. The stakes were quite high, riding currently on two-hundred dollarpounds on the latter.
The taller man beside him, obviously similarly pissed off with the outcome, was feebly attempting to argue against the decision with all the wit and eloquence of Jessica Simpson. Lister couldn't help but allow a grin to surface to his face. If Rimmer pushed his luck, he may end up having his family jewels pulped by one of the larger Neanderthals that passed as guards in the Tanks. At least their mission together may be conducted in blissful silence.
"But, sir," Rimmer implored, in a whine whose tone, pitch and irritation level reached the equivalent of scratching fingernails down a blackboard, "how can you pair me with a man who smells like an elephant's jockstrap?"
Lister snapped out of his silence. "Hey, that's not fair!" He thrusted a turmeric-stained finger at Rimmer. "That's slander, that is."
Rimmer rolled his eyes. "Oh please, Lister," he snorted. "When was the last time you even had a shower?"
A jet of air escaped Lister's lips as his eyes scrolled upwards to the ceiling, attempting to recall a feasible date. He honestly couldn't remember.
"Lister, if you have to consult the mental diary then it's been too long."
"Oh, piss off, Rimmer."
In the row behind them, Cat and Kryten stood patiently as the bickering continued; the former attempting to sneak a look at his gorgeous reflection with his pocket mirror and deciding whether yellow really was his colour, and the latter meticulously programming his psi-scanner. Kochanski, however, was less than nonchalant.
"Look at those two!" she cried. "What are they? Twenty-eight going on twelve?" She folded her arms petulantly. "If I've been hauled out of bed at 5am and sent on a suicide mission to rescue a lost battalion without a chance to do my make-up or my hair then the least that those two can do is stop bickering so we can back in time for Neighbours."
"I don't think we should have a problem ma'am," Kryten soothed. Then, looking back to his data, added under his breath, "with a face and PMT like that, all we'd need to do is send you in and the creature would run a mile."
The battalion's hushed bickering was soon silenced with a swift and ear-buggering smash of Ackerman's truncheon against the rail of the metal staircase. The sound resonated around the hollow, metallic room before dying away into eerie silence. "If you prefer it, Rimmer," he purred, dangerously, "we could arrange for Ball-Crusher Boris here to accompany you this morning."
"Erm…" Rimmer bit his lip. Ball-crushing or spending eight hours with Lister. The former did sound surprisingly tempting.
To illustrate the issue, Ball-Crusher Boris stepped forwards out of the shadows. Boris would have seemed a nice, jolly sort of fellow if he hadn't have looked like a burly Yukon bear-trapper with the sanity margin the width of a gnat's wing. Rimmer had to admit that the conversation potential with this man did not look as if it would sweep across the cultural palate. The sound as Boris cracked his almighty knuckles jump-started both Rimmer's voice-box and his common sense.
Rimmer managed a weak smile as he clasped his hands together. "Actually, I think that pairing up with Lister might not be such a bad idea after all, sir."
Ackerman smiled. Boris looked disappointed. "Now everybody get your arses into that shuttle, triple-speed," Ackerman barked. "You'll get your full debriefing once you're in orbit of the planet."
As the CANARIES filed out, Rimmer turned to the nearest guard. "Will we be getting any decent food supplies?" he asked, winningly.
Rimmer was answered with a hard smack round the head. There's a saying in the Tank. 'Stupid question, painful answer.'