Rating: This chapter is PG-13 ? for a wee bit o' violence, and some ol' "familiar" English curses.
Spoilers: The Premiere... yeah, that?s where that ends.
Classification: AU, most certainly.
Summary: John Crichton, astronaut, friend, and Universal punching bag, on a mission to save and defend. Provided he can learn to open doors, and fire pulse-pistols.
Author?s Notes: Okay, so this is truly only a preview. I thought I?d try my hand at Farscape, and see what I can accomplish here. If you like this story, I will definitely pursue further chapters, but otherwise, consider it a test of my abilities, and nothing more. Side-note (really of no consequence, unless you?re absolutely offended by this material, then I call this an explanation), I?ve actually never seen the premiere... yeah... true story. But from what I have seen, this is where some of this came from. I intend to finish this as soon as I buy the first season of Farscape on DVD (it?s already set aside for me, just waiting on the funds), so a few days, at the very most 2 weeks for further chapters, if you want to see more.
Disclaimer Haiku:
Farscape is a show
Money would make them all mine
I don?t own either
Anyway, on to the blasphemy.
Prologue:
I?ve looked at this from every possible angle. I?ve calculated, and I?ve negotiated. I?ve deciphered, deliberated, discussed, and pretty much everything else that begins with the letter ?d?, but there are few other options. That is my conclusion.
Concluded, finished, filed away, and locked. This is the only option now.
?I?m ready,? I state very matter-of-factly.
?Uh, that?s great John? The slightly confused figure behind me chuckles. ?Now get into the module.?
?Yeah, yeah, DK.? Bring it on.
The Universe wasn?t exactly ready for my kill-shot.
Chapter 1: Take the Pulse-Pistol, Leave the Prowler
Okay, so maybe I wasn?t exactly ready for the Universe?s miraculous recovery, and lightning fast sucker-punch to my spleen, because here I am, on a less than civilized space ship (for lack of a better term), in their ?brig? or ?prison? or ?fucking torture chamber?. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be dead.
Maybe I am dead.
?HEY! HEY!? I shout in panic to anyone listening, ?SAVE ME! HELP ME!? Dignity is for the lame-asses from movies like Star Wars, and James Bond who refuse to beg for mercy but rather get pulverized trying to save their stubborn lame-ass... Get it, lame ? humor was never my strongest feat. ?SAVE ME!?
I must be dead. A fucking frog is flying towards me.
?Why should we help you? We trust you about as much as that tralk in the corner.?
Truck? I think I?ve lost my mind. I would have noticed a ? And the helmet is off, and this Achilles has discovered his heel: A beautiful woman astronaut. An angry, beautiful woman astronaut... in black... with anger-spikes coming from her eyes. If I ?eep?, consider it the circumstances and not a testament to my less-than-manly assets.
She sees me, and she looks confused. But rather than comfort her on the sweet-hereafter, I am quickly introduced to the concrete cement of the floor.
?Rank and regiment! Now!?
?Commander Crichton of the IASA space station in Florida. See?? I say, indicating with my chin my crest stitched into my flight suit. Knees and strong calves otherwise preoccupy my arms. So this is, what? First-contact? She doesn?t look alien, but what the fuck do I know? I thought Big Bird was real, and spent the better part of my life at the age of four sitting in my backyard with a loaf of wonder-bread, thinking it might be enough to feed a ?Big Bird?.
?Look lady ??
Man, John, you have got to start thinking before you speak. She tightens her thighs, probably could snap my neck with her knees if she angled herself just right. Dad, Suze, Olivia, this is my death-demon... We?re in love.
Come on darkness, come a little faster than that.