I don't own Andromeda.

Set right after ITWIF. (And actually inspired by Natta's And Dream Your Perfect Fairytale...) I liked the last scene of this ep and was kind of sorry that all through S 3 we never actually got to see Tyr slowly beginning to work on his plans. Of which a first step would have been to start slowly driving the others on the crew apart. So: this is a bit my idea of it.

Fairytale gone awry

He had never had something like this: companions, comrades, friends – people he trusted and who trusted him, that he could rely on and whom he could look up to, who respected, liked and understood him, looking up to him in return. And what kind of people?! For a Nietzschean the most unlikely bunch of all: a kludge from Earth, a machine, a multi-facetted chameleon, a non-eligible pirate and a relic. But... here he was. And it had felt good, Drago's Bones! there had not been many things in his life that had ever felt that good. Alas, there always were things that felt even better. Or were supposed to do so. Whether that was true was not for him to decide. Or question, for that matter. Life presented choices; and in-between those choices fate showed up and threw everything upside down. For a true Nietzschean this meant that all he had to do was make sure that the path designed by Destiny looked at least as good, preferably though much better than the one he would have followed out of his own free will. He had made sure it did. The rest... It didn't matter, paled compared to the good fortune that had been bestowed upon him. Everything paled in comparison to it. Even they did. They had to. They would. As would his feelings for them. Decline to the point of irrelevancy. And disappear. Almost...

-

He had never had something like this: companions, comrades, friends – people he trusted and who trusted him, that he could rely on and whom he could look up to, who respected, liked and understood him, looking up to him in return. Which was, admittedly, even more astounding – considering his size... and theirs. On Earth there had of course been relatives, cousins, nephews, a few allies who depended on him, on his wits to protect them from the Nietzs. There even had been a few Übers he had every now and then managed to impress with his skills and sharpness. But strangers, real-life, grown-up people regarding him as their equal were indeed a new experience...

A gratifying one:

That he seriously had come that close to a Nietzschean... And not just any Nietz, but Tyr Anasazi, the very quintessence of a Nietzschean par excellence, and yet a Nietzschean with compassion reigning in the arrogance, survival instincts kept in check by a complicated, fragile, yet time and again still holding net of loyalty and honour, strength outweighed by friendship! It rivalled miracles. But then again: their whole encounter had been a miracle to begin with and had remained one ever since.

Just like that other one, a real, living, breathing and – most amazingly of all – trusting legend of the past, a dream come true of what the human race once had been and could become again. Determined, strong, afraid of nothing, fighting to win not for himself, but for them all. And really winning, all the time, no matter what the universe threw at him, coming step by step closer to his goal and relying heavily on Harper while doing so, telling him that he did, showing himself grateful for the support and never too proud to say it.

His friends. Through thick and thin, to hell and back (as he knew since they'd been there), forever... And next to them the most gorgeous, most amazing toy men had ever called their own, one that – despite Tyr's might and Dylan's 'older rights', if one could call it so – was more his than theirs. Along with the greatest riddle he had thought possible, beautiful, surprising, mysterious... and playful, no matter what shapes and colours it chose to appear in. All of them safely guarded by the most resilient, solid, warm and steady presence he ever had encountered – for all her fears and doubts and troubles always standing true to her word and by their side, his... in fact their all last, most securing and maybe strongest line of defence.

-

This bar on Albuquerque Drift had been his idea. It was – even by Old Commonwealth standards – a very fancy place, as he was pleased to notice. And the 'ol' man' liked it, which pleased him even more. The whole birthday party had been his idea. Unfortunately Rommie had been detained on Sinti to go over the last drafts of the new Commonwealth-charter. And Trance, in this awesome future version of hers, that seemed so frighteningly effective in so many ways, had gone along to help her. So Beka had to stay onboard, to greet and accommodate their newly assigned crew members.

"It's a good idea, Harper," she had told him approvingly, "we're all in dire need for a break, and Dylan maybe even more than the rest of us. Take him and go!"

"But, boss," he had objected, "that won't be much of a party, just him and me, with you all unavailable..."

"Take Tyr. I don't really need him. He'd probably just scare away the freshmen. Take Tyr, throw a party for Dylan, make it a boys' night out. I'm sure you'll all have fun!"

-

They had. The food was great, the drinks exquisite and Harper firmly decided to worry about the prices later. There were quite a few more than just interesting girls around, who looked interested themselves, ofering promising prospects for the night to bea really, really long one, and there were jokes and laughter and a lot of banter, maybe not always tasteful or elegant, with Harper more than once saying things that made Tyr roll his eyes and Dylan at first look slightly away, one of his insecure grins on his lips. But some drinks later on the older man loosened up – and two wine bottles further down the road even the Nietzschean began to chuckle.

"Harper, I must thank you. As birthday parties go, this is one of the best ones I remember," Dylan finally said, rising his glass towards the engineer.

"Hear, hear!" the Terran exclaimed, almost glowing with happiness at the praise. "At 343 years of age that's no small achievement, eh Tyr?"

"Well, as much as I normally enjoy my parties with female company: it most certainly is more peaceful that way and beats being on the road to Tarn Vedra by far."

Silence fell, Harper 's face freezing up, while the smile dropped from Dylan's features, both men looking instantly sobered. Tyr lifted an ironic eye-brow into the void his remark had created.

"What?" he inquired distantly.

The silence persisted for a moment, while Harper wiped his mouth with his napkin and threw it on the table, as if disgusted with a sudden foul taste in his mouth.

"Sorry, boss!"

"For what, Mr. Harper?" Dylan's polite voice sounded deeper than usual – and very quiet.

"For bringing him along. I just forgot how one can always trust a Nietzschean to effectively crash a party."

"Look," Tyr explained nonchalantly, "all I meant was that – as regrettable as I find it that the other members of the crew couldn't join us – Captain Valentine's absence has certain, undeniable advantages when it comes to a stress-free pass-time."

"She meant well, Mr. Anasazi," Dylan replied mildly, effectively chilling the atmosphere even further. "It failed – and she was wrong for trying, as I was wrong to let her – but I'll always be grateful that she attempted to get me home, and I consider it the most generous gift someone has ever offered me..."

"Ha!" the Nietzschean laughed up, an incredulous if slightly prying look on his face. "That what she told you?

Dylan's eyes narrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I hate to bring it to you, but she sold the idea to me with the weaponry probably available on Tarn Vedra. And I bet that she had another tale in store for Harper, right?" His head turned sharply towards the engineer, dreadlocks slightly flying. The young man flinched. "I thought so." Tyr's voice was becoming dryer with each word. "What was it with you?" he asked with faked curiosity. "A treasure? Another High Guard ship like the Pax? The Engine of Creation?" Seeing Harper blink, Tyr let a deep-throated, almost silent laugh escape him before mockingly raising his glass. "To Captain Valentine! And her mastery at playing us!" He downed his drink.

None of them joined him. Silence descended and stretched itself, becoming solid, permanent. Finally, Dylan downed the content of his glass, slamming it back on the table and pushing it violently away from him. It slid across the polished surface and dropped down to earth, shattering into tiny pieces. In a fluent move the tall man jumped up to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Harper," he apologised in a slightly strangled voice. "I suddenly remembered how much I actually hate birthday parties..."

As if chased from behind, Dylan Hunt sat himself in motion, long strides eating up the space separating the table from the entrance, followed by the Nietzschean's slightly satisfied, dark gaze..

" Divide and conquer, hm? Good job, Tyr," Harper complimented him bitterly as soon as the doors had closed again behind the captain's frame, "very good job on Dylan."

-

He had always had something like this: companions, comrades, friends – people he trusted and who trusted him, that he could rely on and whom he could look up to, who respected, liked and understood him, looking up to him in return. All this and more: like warmth, decency and love. And then life made a point in showing him how wrong he'd been to take it all for granted. When he lost it then, he had been convinced that it would be forever. He had been determined to go on without it. But then they had been there – and had dragged him out of his self-imposed splendid isolation. He learned anew to trust, maybe not as blindly, but to trust nonetheless: a Nietzschean to be Nietzschean, wisdom to be stronger than hunger, incomprehensible beings to mean well, madly spontaneous geniuses to be constant in their unpredictability, machines to be caring. And cold realists with an adventurous spirit, a foul mouth, a weird sense of humour and survival instincts fiercer than all Nietzschean prides combined to put enough trust in him to give up independence – and walk his dreams with him.

"I won't grow old without you. I won't become the old woman who lost her one true love and lived out the rest of her days with a broken heart."

"Then don't be that woman. Choose to be someone else."

He remembered. He remembered the words as if they had been exchanging them yesterday. As well as he remembered the message he had played countless times since their visit on Terrazed, relishing in the tranquil beauty of the woman he had once thought his soulmate and that had by then clearly been belonging at someone else's side.

"Hello, Dylan. I probably shouldn't be doing this. I argued myself out of it a dozen times, but I wanted you to know - I survived. And I did as you asked. I got on with my life. I got married. We have a good life... More than that. Dylan, it's bad out there. But knowing you'll be back someday to make things right helps. So I just wanted to say 'Thank you'. And if you're getting this message, then I've done my small part. Be well, Dylan. I wish you every happiness."

He'd done his best. The Divine knew, he'd done his best. He had fought day and night to bring together the fifty mandatory worlds to restart the Commonwealth, he'd fought whenever and wherever he got a chance to bring a ray of hope, a shred of security, a second more of peace to the troubled worlds out there. Step by step, strike after strike he fought back the darkness – out there and inside himself. He'd put behind his mistrust, burned savagely, without pity the wounds he knew his soul and mind to have sustained from Rhade's treachery, at Witchhead, on the Magog world he had created on Serendipity, from the knowledge about the Abyss; burned them so they would heal more quickly, would not slowly poison his whole being, he had hung on to his new crew, adopted them as family and – pushing aside all fear, swallowing down his pride – he had, eyes deliberately and firmly shut in trust, decided to build his own personal world on an indomitable grin and a pair of smoke-coloured eyes.

He had always known her to have her own agenda. He knew, for she had told him. It didn't really matter. They all had one. Even he did. No, it hadn't mattered when he had decided that she would be the one he would let into the most private corner of his mind on that dreadful day he had had to bury his future with Sarah:

"You have pulled some real knee-slappers before, but this has gotta be the queen mother."

"If you want to talk me out of this, take a number. The line starts behind Rommie."

"Oh, no, that's ok. We both know you're completely impervious to reason. I just wanted to tell you that killing yourself out of some misdirected need to play the love-sick schoolboy is not the kind of thing that impresses people."

"You know it's not as simple as that."

"Right. It isn't. The truth is, you feel guilty. You survived the war, and Sarah didn't. Well join the club. All of us feel guilty for something, Dylan. It's called life. It hurts. It isn't fair. That's not a reason to die."

There had been but a quick exchange of glances between the two of them. Yet it had been enough. She didn't want him gone from her side. And though committed, determined to go through with it all, he had known that he didn't want to be gone for good from there either.

"Let me be clear. I'm coming back!" he had promised. And stayed true to his word. She'd hit his weakest spot dead-on; and he admitted to it later on, right after he was back, when there had been another quick exchange of glances, one that had told her that she had been right, that he agreed with her and that he had come back as promised, although it had nearly killed him to do so.

"Welcome back."

And through the storm that was raging inside him, he had retained the memory of her trying to protect his Achilles' heel, throwing herself between him and his new reality, sheltering him from it as well as she could.

"Captain Hunt. Captain, that was incredible. A brilliant advance for science. Yes. The Sinti Council will be very pleased...very, very pleased."

"Will you please leave him alone?"

Later on he learned that she had done far more, that she had actually had the guts to go up against the Nietzschean, pulling her gun on Tyr, making the Kodiak back down - all on his behalf.

If you're thinking of cutting him off and bugging out, I wouldn't.

It had marked the moment when he had firmly closed the book on his past and embarked on the future, knowing he had someone strong enough by his side to pull him back from weakness, to know all his soft spots and not take advantage of them.

He had been such a fool!

For a brief moment it occurred to him that maybe Tyr was wrong, had lied to him about it all. But no, he'd seen it in Harper's eyes that the Kodiak had told him the truth. And he remembered clearly the ardour, the enthusiasm with which she had set out for that stupid Engine, had even made him follow her... blindly, docile, indulgent, trusting - yet again. Unfortunately he also remembered stumbling after her through the warm, moist jungle, fighting those foolish traps and contests side by side with her like some kids on an adventure trail, making even more foolish wishes, hoping they'd come true... No. He couldn't cut her out of his life, cut her out of his plans, but from now on he could push her - push everyone as far away from himself as necessary to ensure that nothing they did, they schemed, they wanted would touch him anymore, if need be. Apparently there was.

Sat on an edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging limply between his his legs, he looked with dry, burning eyes at an imaginary point in front of him and nodded slowly: that was it, the wish had not come true, she'd have to leave his head, his mind, they'd better all left, he'd let them - her too far in, too close to himself and had made a mess of it all. Although, unlike her, he had at least not planned to make a mess of it from the very start.

Staring blindly at the stars outside the window of his quarters, he clenched his jaws, grinding his teeth in a desperate attempt to prevent the outraged scream lurking at the back of his throat from erupting. And as he knew that he would lose this fight, he threw himself on the bed, burying his face into the mattress, screaming all the anguish, the fury and the grief soundlessly into it, his fists gripping tightly at the blankets, to no avail... He was still drowning. And then he just gave up, let the waves of anger and loss wash over him, tear him down, felt the wounds he had so strenuously tried to cover up with scars rip open, felt himself bleed out from them all trust and hope he had imposed upon himself with so much effort and against all better knowledge, against experience, against all of his instincts.

And then, pulling himself together and almost panting from the strain, he finally got up again – with the same old goals, the same old ideals, but without anyone to walk with him through them any longer. Whoever he would live and fight together with: from now on he would dream alone.

Well, not all fairytales had to come true in the end.

A/N: Like many others I liked IMALL quite a lot, albeit for slightly different reasons: I liked it how they showed Beka easily manipulating Dylan, Tyr and Harper - and I liked the fact that for once a main character was portrayed as ruthless enough to kick someone down exactly in the spot he was down and not likely to ever completely recover, as it was the case with Dylan's lost past. Not that I prefer a mean Beka, but I enjoyed the twist.