Disclaimer: Babylon 5 belongs to the Great Maker, JMS (and Warner Brothers). Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo (his estate), and the lyrics were written by Herbert Kretzmer. We are but poor, wandering Spoo Farmers. Please do not sue us.
And thanks to my kid brother, TheWraith1, for beta-reading.

Michael Garibaldi sighed and ran his hand through what was left of his hair. It had been a long day - and he never wanted to hear the words "cat" and "Pak'ma'ra" in the same sentence again. There was just one more patrol of Down Below, then he was off.

The lift doors opened, and Garibaldi walked out. Same old place. Same stench, same dirt, same sense of hopelessness. Garibaldi clenched his jaw - he could never escape the feeling that he was so close to ending up here. Just one more slip...

As he made his way along the dark, dank corridors, he heard the general hum of the Lurker's as the passed by. If he had stopped to listen, he would have been able to make out the words.

Look down, look down, don't look 'em in the eye. Look down, look down. You're here until you die.

Bob Smith sighed and looked at his watch for what seemed like the fiftieth time in the past 15 minutes. He still had two hours left for his shift. He was stuck checking the identicards at the main gate.
It's because my name is Bob, isn't it? If I had a better name, I would get the more exciting rotations. Let's see... Mychael? No. Galen? No... What about Varcus...

Bob-er Varcus was so deep in thought he almost didn't notice the last two women from the Earth Transport Florin.

Almost.

It was the sunglasses that made him notice them.

"And why are we wearing the sunglasses again, Constellation?" The tallish, curvy one of undead complexion asked of her companion.

"I told you, Mera. After...it, it's best to keep a low profile. And it's Connie, remember? Now let's find Marcus and drop off the data crystal."

Mera sighed and adjusted her sunglasses.

"But I like my title"
Mera, the Intergalactic Latte Girl was not one for traveling incognito.

Both women seemed to sense that someone was staring at them. Constellat... oops. Connie, the rather short woman with fluffy brown hair, peered at Varcus Smith, and curled her lips. She sniffed once or twice, as though to say 'what does one have to do to get good service around here', and then looked to Mera.
Mera took her cue and stepped forwards, thrusting two identicards into Varcus's face.
"Here. From Earth, short stay, reasons - personal and political."

This didn't sound at all unusual to Bob - Varcus. He took the identicards and checked them. Clean. Clean as a whistle. Clean as C&C after one of Commander Ivanova's cleaning frenzies... clean as... He ran out of similes and sighed.
"All right, ladies. Go on through."

Even though she was wearing sunglasses, Connie seemed to be giving him a very menacing glare. "Thank you. Come on, Mera."

As they stalked by, their stilettos clacking menacingly across the floor, Varcus got the strangest feeling that they didn't like him very much. He decided it must be his nametag - still bearing the now redundant 'Bob Smith'. He would have to get that changed.

Mera pursed her lips and stared at the station map. She was not entirely sure how one pursed their lips, but anything involving purses had to be good. After a few more moments of intense staring, she gives up. But not before giving the map a Meaningful Look.
"Are you sure this is where Marcus said he would meet us? It's been ages."

It had really only been about ten minutes. But Mera was a bit jumpy. Even though Marcus had actually enjoyed the...Incident, she wasn't so sure if the others would be as forgiving. Even if they did get to take turns running Morden and Bester through with sharp, pointy objects.

"If you're so worried about running into Commander Ivanova" Connie replied calmly, "Then why don't you go browse the Zocolo for something shiny?"

That did the trick. Mera had weakness for all things shiny, even aluminium foil. It was rather sad.
Mera made way through the throng of people in the Zocolo. There were many pretty shiny things: old tin cans, wire coat hangers, even jewelry made out of recycled StarFury debris. (EarthGov was never one to lose an opportunity to make a buck off of training accidents)

Mera was about to purchase a necklace when she noticed the commotion a few stalls over. Someone was closing up - rather early, by the sounds of it. As she made her way over to investigate, she heard someone sing:

"At the end of the day, it's another day over"

Mera stopped and blinked. Her mind must have still been adjusting from the jump out of Hyperspace. People on a twenty third century space station did not sing late twentieth century musicals. She had almost convinced herself of this when the person next to her chimed in with:

"And that's all you can say for the life of the poor,"

Mera blinked. Twice.

"It's a struggle, it's a war," sang a group of Drazi (whether they were Green or Purple, she could not make out.)

"And there's nothing that anyone's giving," came from a Minbari.

"One more day standing about, what is it for?" could be clearly heard from the chorus of Narns in the corner.

There was only one thing for it, Mera decided. She joined in. And hoped they wouldn't suddenly have a run on absinthe.

One less day to be living.

Meanwhile, Connie was trying very hard not to tap her foot. Constellation (Connie for those who have come in late) was not used to people making her wait. It was part of being a director. People didn't keep you waiting. They followed in a meek train after you offering you alcohol beverages and waiting until you had time to speak to them.
Charming, Mr Cole might be. One of the main factors for the strangely overpowering success of their project - definitely. Exempt from being required to meet her on time? Certainly not.

Connie didn't think she was being unreasonable. But the natives were beginning to stare. And if she had to tell that Pak'ma'ra one more time that she was not interested in him or his last meal...

"At the End of the day, you're another day colder..."

Connie froze. She had been about to give the Centauri gentleman leering at her a Significant Glare over the tops of her glasses. No... she didn't just hear...

"And the shirt on your back doesn't keep out the chill."

A passing security guard - who had a rather nice baritone - flung a bewildered and frightened look over his shoulder. The fact that everyone else seemed to be singing didn't appear to be any comfort to the poor man.
Connie lowered her glasses slowly and peered around. As she watched, a small group of Minbari - of the religious class by the look of it... stepped forwards in what appeared to be a perfectly synchronised blocking.

"And the righteous hurry past..."

No. Oh dear, no. This was far from being a good thing.
A sinfully calm looking Marcus sauntered up and struck a pose. Connie ignored him. She was counting time in her head.

"They don't see the little ones crying!" A nice young couple of an unidentifiable race proclaimed solemnly, tugging their five children towards one of the many passageways. They seemed to be in a hurry. Connie didn't blame them.

"Hello..." Marcus said.

"Shh."

One. Two. Three.
As though choreographed by some cosmic force with a very grim sense of humour, every living being in the room (and even some of the non-living beings, but luckily for Connie's peace of mind, she didn't know that) turned to face them.

"And the winter is coming on fast, ready to kill."

Marcus stared. Connie sighed. "Long live the revolution," she muttered, and took a breath to join in. It was, after all, inevitable.

One day nearer to dying!