Welcome to my brand new fic, folks. I'm particularly proud I'm finally getting this on here as I can honestly say that it's a story that's been seven years in the making!
Rated for violent themes - if you're easily offended then please don't read.
Reviews and feedback are very much appreciated. Thanks guys!
She could scream all she liked. It wouldn't do her much good, and Rimmer knew it.
The woman before him sobbed unashamedly, her black mascara running rivers down her flushed cheeks. Her emerald green eyes pierced through her long, mussed black hair that had now been wrenched loose from her usually immaculate bun.
"Please," she begged to the simulant standing behind her, "please don't kill me."
The simulant seemed disinterested, instead pushing her roughly down to her knees. The red warning light on the wall flashed desperately, throwing the scene into stark light and shadow. She drew a ragged breath as the gun was pressed to the back of her head and raised her eyes up so that she looked directly at him.
"How could you?" she wept bitterly. "How could –"
The sound of the gunshot still richocheted through Rimmer's mind as he jerked awake with a strangled yell. Panting heavily, he did a quick stock check of his surroundings and found that sure enough, he was still in his bed in his small cabin on Starbug, tangled in the dark grey ship-issue sleeping bag.
He swallowed and released the breath that caught in his throat, mopping his face with the flat of his palm. The red neon glare of the clock showed that according to ship-time, it was most definitely the ungodly hour of three-ish in the morning. Sighing, he quietly gave the instruction to his light bee to furnish him with his usual blue navigation uniform. It was going to another one of those nights.
Rimmer wandered absently down the stairs into the midsection to see Kryten at the scanner table repairing the rip to the sleeve of Lister's biker jacket. They'd been attacked by a shape-shifting GELF earlier that day, the usual business, and in the resulting crash neither the ship nor its crew had sustained injury. That is, except for Lister's prized jacket, which now had a nasty tear down the upper sleeve. Rimmer remembered it had taken several attempts at consoling for Kryten to convince Lister that by the morning it would be as good as new.
The mechanoid pulled out the thread and noticed Rimmer hovering on the stairs out of the corner of his eye. "Sir, why are you awake?" he clucked. Kryten turned his attention back to his sewing. "Can't sleep?"
Rimmer's mouth opened and closed silently before deciding upon the simplest reply. "No."
Kryten swivelled to regard the hologram through one eye before returning to his work. The distinct lack of sarcasm in his tone was unsettling, especially considering that he was conversing with Arnold Rimmer. Without looking up from his task again, he spoke.
"Why don't you sit down, sir?" It was a polite request, not an invitation.
Again, Kryten was surprised when Rimmer wordlessly slumped down into the seat opposite him. Rather than his usual ramrod approach to sitting, he leant forward on his arms and cradled his head. Kryten watched as he rubbed his eyes with his palms, his hands eventually pulling away to reveal the dark circles underneath.
"If I may, sir," Kryten started quietly, "it looks as though it's less of a case that you can't sleep, but that something is on your mind that is stopping you." He hooked the needle through the stiff leather and pulled through another stitch. "You look tired."
If the last few years looking after Rimmer had taught him anything, it was that in order to coax him into talking, you cast out your line and wait patiently. A sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a growl rumbled deep from Rimmer's chest. Kryten remained silent, hooking in the needle once more and pulling the thread.
"I've been having nightmares," Rimmer mumbled eventually.
Kryten eyed him carefully. "Of past memories, sir?"
Rimmer shook his head. "No, that's the weird part. It's not of things I've already done, but –" he shuddered involuntarily. "Bad things. Horrible things."
Kryten stopped sewing. In a live human being it would have been perfectly natural to having disturbing dreams. Hell, the things the four of them had been through would be enough to keep a world-class psychiatrist occupied for a lifetime. However, in holograms it was incredibly rare. Holograms were in effect electronic, and the light bee technology, as fantastically intricate as it may be, was more or less incapable of replicating the complexities of the human psyche in the form of dreamstate.
Rimmer massaged his temples. "I mean, I've had dreams before, don't get me wrong, but they were childhood memories, and," he pictured his many, many, replays of his liaison with Yvonne McGruder, "erm, other things." He grimaced. "Or on the odd occassion when I fall asleep drunk, like on my first deathday, I'll dream of some really wacky stuff." He remembered his show-stopping Broadway rendition of Someone to Watch Over Me. Shame he hadn't been wearing trousers at the time. "But never anything like this."
Kryten nodded, understanding. "Do you recall what happens in these nightmares?"
"Nightmare," Rimmer corrected. "It's the just the one nightmare, the same nightmare in fact." He sighed raggedly. "I've been having it the last three nights now."
"And do you remember what happens in this nightmare?" Kryten pressed gently.
Rimmer's head sank forward in a moan and he gripped the curls of his hair. "I – I see someone die. Killed," he mumbled into his sleeves.
"Do you know them?" Kryten asked urgently. "Sir, do you - ?"
Rimmer's head snapped back up reluctantly. "No!" he growled. He massaged his temples once more. "No," he reiterated quietly, "at least I don't think so. Argh, I don't know her, but something tells me I do." He shook his head defeated. "It's difficult to explain."
Kryten visibly relaxed. Back in the 24th Century, there had been a few cases in later hologram generations where defective programming had caused their hosts to see disturbing visions of their own 'future' or the future of those around them. Some were driven so mad by these persistent nightmares that they even went as far as to 'realise' the grisly murder of their friends or family themselves. Kryten shuddered. First Generation holograms such as Rimmer, despite the more basic technology they utilised, were usually a lot more reliable in keeping killing sprees to a minimum.
"I really can't offer a prognosis at this point, sir," Kryten mused as he returned to his sewing. "I can run some tests in the morning and hopefully ascertain the cause." Fixing the final stitch, Kryten snapped off the loose thread and admired his work proudly. "Ah, perfect," he beamed to himself, before standing and leaving for the galley. "I'll fetch you a cup of tea, sir."
Rimmer gave a small grateful smile that dissipated just as quickly. His sleep-deprived eyes drooped closed but his mind's eye couldn't shake those burning emerald eyes from his memory. He snapped open his eyes once more and slapped his cheeks with both hands.
He was going to need all the caffiene he could get.
