Howdy y'all. Sorry it's been a few weeks in the coming, but I've been pretty busy chapter-planning Cosmic Castaway - the epic fic that is to follow my oneshot The Prophecy.

Now pay attention, peeps, because this chapter sets up plenty of hints as to what's to come in Cosmic Castaway, as well as leaving behind a lot of clues that will be vital when it comes to reading it. Remember: even the tiniest, simplest act - probably one that you won't even notice right now, will play a big part in the epic fic to come.

I hope you enjoy guys. Your reviews and feedback are always appreciated. Thank you.

Day 63

He was running faster than he ever had before, sucking in ragged lungfuls of humid air that he didn't even need. It was habitual.

"Keep up!" came the cry ahead of him.

If there was one thing Rimmer had been training in for many many years now, it was doing a runner. His formulative childhood years spent running away from all sorts of tortures and threats from his older brothers, plus his adult experiences escaping from all kinds of beasties and creatures on a variety of strange and wild worlds, had refined his Leg It Mode to an art.

Yet even he was struggling to keep up with Tonga as they raced along the rooftops of the city, following in his footsteps as he sprinted, leapt, clambered and slid across every level they could find. Over the last week, Tonga had been keen to teach him the dexterity, speed and balance that came so naturally to the Blerions and their feline ancestors. Parkour was a difficult, yet infinitely helpful skill for the Maitiaki to grasp; whether chasing after an intruder or escaping a mortal danger, many a guardian had thanked Lati over the centuries for such an ability.

Whilst Tonga landed on the neighbouring roof with the grace of a Russian gymnast, Rimmer's efforts were less than dignified. He knew all too well that he had to land into a roll, the only way to prevent serious injury. Indeed, he could frame Tonga's expectant face through the diamond formed before him by his ready fingers as he leapt. But his back twisted awkwardly as he landed, wrenching forth a string of profanities.

"Ow! Bloody, buggering hell - !"

"Less swearing, more running. Now let's go."

Rimmer bit back a scowl at Tonga's retreating form as he picked himself up again, the soles of his feet burning. He often found himself wondering whether some elements of his training were really essential, his brain flirting with the premise that Tonga and the computer were in it together - putting him through hell so they could have a good laugh at his struggles.

They were running above the food markets now, the tell-tale steam of the cooking vats below curling up in the air around him. Yet despite the delicious smells, a sickening thought hit him as the next rooftop loomed. The gap between the food market and vegetable stalls was vast, and this crazy Blerion before him clearly had every intention of crossing it in a single jump.

Tonga raced towards the roof's edge with an almost frightening lack of restraint and leapt, his arms wind milling as if to propel him forward. He expertly grabbed the ridge of the wall as he landed, simultaneously absorbing the impact with both feet, and pulled himself up onto the ledge with little effort.

But it was a leap too far for Rimmer. He skidded to a halt just before the edge of the rooftop, kicking up a cloud of dust before him. Down below, the vegetable stall-holders went about their business unawares, calling out their wares to the milling crowds.

Rimmer glanced up, shielding his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, to see Tonga shaking his head in disappointment.

"Stop letting your fear hold you back!" he called across the expanse. Turning, he sped off once more, clambering up the far wall before leaping out of sight.

Rimmer's nostrils flared. Forget this. He was taking the stairs.

Day 71

As Rimmer entered the training hall, he shielded a yawn behind the back of one hand whilst clasping a small clay mutki of tea with the other, his slow, meandering walk sending echoes of the creaking floorboards across the empty space.

Despite it being far too early in the morning, he secretly loved this time of the day. Tonga would be observing his morning prayers in the temple below, allowing Rimmer to enjoy the beautiful views across the city as the markets came to life, whilst simultaneously enjoying a mug of tea alone in the quiet.

As he poured himself a cup of garam chai - a spiced tea infused with cardamom and pepper - a whimsical smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as a half-lost memory resurfaced. Back on Starbug, Kryten would make them each a cup of tea every morning without fail. Lister's would be a traditional builder's fare with at least five sugars, most likely in order to nurse yet another self-induced hangover. The Cat's would be so milky, he often wondered whether it had any tea in it at all - perhaps his own secretive way of indulging in his ancestral drink of choice.

And then there was his own. Black and no sugar. He'd only indulge in a little milk when they'd managed to find a batch on an abandoned derelict and he was one hundred per cent certain it was, in fact, from a cow and not a dog (retrieved from stasis of course - after all, milk does tend to go a little funky after three million years) or sometimes the powdered variety if he fancied living a little.

Rimmer shook his head, rather tickled by the memory. Back in those days, choosing cow's milk for his tea was considered to be taking a risk. Nowadays what he termed as a 'risk' would be, well, let's say a tad more adventurous. He took a sip and sighed contentedly, the tea sweetened unashamedly with honey. Once obsessed with his health, he'd soon realised it was all for nought. As Ace, it seemed he had developed a metaphorical sweet tooth for life.

Suddenly he paused, his senses awake and alert. He realised in that moment that he wasn't alone in the room after all. He waited and listened, not moving a muscle.

Only a faint ripple of fabric and a sharp hum behind him gave it away. In one swift, fluid movement, Rimmer drew the sword from his back and whipped round just in time for his blade to block the fatal trajectory of another. He could feel the resulting buzz of energy from the resonating swords pressed together.

Upon seeing who his attacker was, however, Rimmer released an aggravated sigh. "Tonga! Smegging hell!" He held back a barely concealed snort of annoyance as he noticed some of his tea had sloshed over the rim of the mug and was now patiently scalding his left hand. "If you wanted some tea, all you had to do was ask nicely."

The pair drew back their swords. Rimmer sheathed his once more, a little too forcefully, and wiped his burning hand with his sleeve, muttering obscenities.

Tonga merely watched him wordlessly, a small, knowing smile threatening to conquer his face.

Not long now.

Day 78

The Kapenga o Ra-kaunui - the Festival of the Full Moon - was in full swing.

Unlike the usual quiet and hush that descended upon the city at night, the markets were alive with business. The stalls were lit by flickering candlelight, bringing an almost eerily magical air to proceedings.

Wrapping his long, hooded cloak tighter across him in protection against the desert night chill, Rimmer smiled to himself. He'd grown to love this festival. Music of lutes and pipes drifted up to the starry, cloudless sky, the square heaving with people dancing and laughing.

Crowded stalls dished out clay mugs of moonshine, although Rimmer had swiftly learned to steer clear of the stuff. Even after three weeks since his encounter with Sayura, he had only just managed to crawl his way out of the dog house.

It was like an aural trompe l'oeil. One minute Rimmer was listening to the pipe music, the next his hearing seemed to re-focus on the animated conversation playing out at a stall a few feet away.

"Can you not understand what I'm saying?" came the slow, patronising observation.

He half-turned, immediately having to stop himself from jumping visibly in shock. A group of holograms stood, unamused, before a trinket stall-holder, the leader gesturing dramatically as if to enunciate his point.

There was five of them altogether it seemed, their matching black uniforms with red stripe details on the collars and cuffs ensured that they all stood out like sore thumbs in a sea of organic, earthly fabrics. With their military look and unfriendly air, their presence alone was attracting snide sideways looks and hushed whispers from the crowds of Blerions that swept past, undeterred.

Rimmer shook his head in embarrassed disbelief as he continued to listen. They weren't even bothering trying to speak Blerion, merely conversing in louder and slower English in pompous, condescending tones to make themselves understood.

The head of the group - a tall, broad-shouldered man with a square jaw and receding, cropped dark hair - produced a small print-out of a photograph and pointed to it animatedly. "There's a reward on offer for any information on the location of this man," he explained in a low, gravelly voice. Despite straining to see, Rimmer was too far away to make it out. "Ring any bells?"

The space hero within him was tempted to step forward and offer his assistance. These holograms seemed to be in desperate need of help and, after all, as Ace it was the first clause of his job description. Yet something held him back in the shadows, perhaps the instinctive part of him that had flourished from integrating himself into the Blerion community. A small yet insistent voice whispered to him to stay hidden, keep out of sight.

The stall-holder peered half-heartedly at the photograph before regarding the group once more with barely concealed contempt. "Ignorant, arrogant beings, the lot of you," he muttered to himself.

The leader exchanged confused glances with the man stood beside him, the meaning clearly lost on them. Rimmer watched from the shadows of his hood as he gave an impatient growl before leading the group away with a flick of the hand.

As he watched the group disappear into the heaving crowds, Rimmer bit his lip. These were holograms just like him; an ever-expanding race in this universe, borne out of a shared human experience. Yet for a reason he was unable to comprehend, the void between them felt overwhelmingly unconquerable.

Day 86

It was perhaps this paradoxical debate that circled relentlessly in his mind that had distracted him from his training these last few days.

During his last three years as Ace, he'd begun to notice pockets of resentment against the holograms amongst some races and species in the infinite cosmos. It was a small yet persistent prejudice that he hadn't quite managed to decipher. Up until this point, he'd fervently believed it was an unjust discrimination, based purely upon the universal fear of death itself. After all, a hologram was a walking representation of everyone's mortality; a visual reminder that death would catch up with everyone in the end.

Yet now, he had a horrible suspicion that another force was in play. That there was a wholly justifiable reason why even the Blerions - a usually friendly and welcoming species - were wary and contemptuous when the holograms had showed up at the festival last week. Whatever it was, he was uncomfortable to try and eke out for fear of risking exposing himself for what he really was. Tonga may know the truth about him, and had demonstrated kind and unwavering support, but he didn't want to push his luck too far. He suspected correctly that a small part of him didn't really want to know the truth.

"Come on! Keep up!" hollered a familiar voice ahead of him.

Once again, he and Tonga were tracing the city's skyline, racing high above the people below as they ran, climbed and leapt from building to building.

Rimmer's chest burned with the exertion. He may not be human, but he certainly felt it.

Steam curled up in the air around him, billowing away from his feet as he raced past. They were running above the food stalls now, the delicious smells wafting up and swirling to mix with the distant bartering calls. The Jump - punctuated in his own mind as the one he had never dared to attempt - was approaching fast: the gap between the food stalls and the vegetable market.

Up until now, the speed of his run had been inspired by dredged up memories of past fears that had aided his well-tuned art of legging it. Yet this time, something instinctively stubborn inside of him fanned a flame of determination. He wasn't running from something, but to something. He felt himself speeding up. He'd show them that he was just as capable as his predecessors. He grit his teeth as the wind swept back his hood. He'd prove them all wrong.

And before long, he realised that he was too close to the edge of the rooftop to back out now. With a silent prayer, he pushed off from the ledge and leapt as far as he was able. His arms wind milled as if in slow-motion, propelling him towards the oncoming rooftop and Tonga's shocked expression.

He was going to make it, he realised in a moment of undiluted joy. He was actually going to do it. He was -

Uh-oh. Perhaps not.

The ledge of the rooftop drew upwards far too high in his vision to grasp as the oncoming wall rushed towards him. Absorbing the impact hard against his feet, he latched onto the ancient brick, which immediately crumbled from the wall under his fingertips. He scrabbled desperately at the loose sandstone as he scraped down its surface, the resulting dust and rubble showering over him as he fell.

"Smeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg!"

He felt his back smash through a wooden stall cover that splintered in his wake before landing bodily into a stack of soft vegetables with a sickening squelch.

Rimmer hauled himself upright with a weak groan, squashed tomatoes oozing between his fingers as the crowds surrounding him giggled hysterically. The stall-holder blinked in shock before his face darkened with a frown.

"What the hell do you think you - ?"

"It's ok, he's with me!" came a voice from above. Rimmer glanced up as Tonga slid effortlessly down the metal drainpipe to join them. He offered a solemn bow, hands pressed together. "I'm sorry, my friend. The temple will re-pay you for your lost goods."

The stall-holder straightened, visibly flustered by Tonga's appearance. He smoothed down his once-white apron, now patterned with the splattered remains of his tomatoes, and shook his head vehemently. "Brother, apologies, I didn't realise he was under your training." He waved his hand, dismissing the offer immediately. "Please, the priesthood has given plenty of support to me and my family during darker days. I require no compensation."

As the stall-holder began to gather up whatever unspoilt vegetables he could salvage and the crowds lost interest and moved on, Rimmer looked away, too embarrassed to look Tonga in the eye. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I failed."

Yet Tonga's face was split with a wide, proud grin. "Not at all," he reassured warmly. Offering a hand, he hauled Rimmer out of the cart with a schmuck. "You attempted it," he said, grasping him by the shoulders. "That's the hardest thing to conquer."

Rimmer felt a strange shiver crawl up his spine as Tonga drew him close enough to whisper into his ear.

"But you're still letting your fear hold you back."

Day 91

Tonga's braying laugh echoed across the hall.

"It's not funny."

But Tonga was less than convinced. His giggles doubled in ferocity as he clutched his side, hand still grasping his sword.

Rimmer scowled openly, the tip of his sword resting against the floorboards. Surrounding the blade was a circle of fabric that had rippled silently to the floor, sliced neatly from his arm. The sleeves of his Maitiaki outfit were no more.

"Seriously Tonga, you can't keep slicing up my smegging clothes!" he grumbled, stooping down to scoop up the severed cloth from the floor. "That bloody seamstress in the market is beginning to think that I'm doing it on purpose because I have a crush on her!"

"What's wrong with that?" Tonga teased in between splutters, highly amused. "I thought you had a thing for the ladies here?"

"She's seventy-three," Rimmer bit back through gritted teeth.

Tonga dismissed this with a wave of the hand, wiping a tear from his eye. "Whatever. Besides, it's your own fault. You're not blocking properly. What's happened to your concentration? You seem distracted - "

The door to the hall creaked open, and suddenly Tonga's thread was lost.

With a gasp that caught in his throat, he immediately sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees in reverence, head bowed to the floor. Rimmer hardly had time to make a second glance at the dark figure now framed in the doorway that Tonga seemed so afraid to look in the eye. Unsure what to do, he simply followed suit.

Lonely footsteps echoed across the hall, punctuating that strange rhythm which seemed to have been haunting his every movement since he'd arrived.

Tap tap, tap tap, tap tap.

Rimmer could feel the awkward silence thickening with each approaching step. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tonga's hands clutching at one another in his lap, the knuckles of his fingers whitening wordlessly. And as the footsteps stopped directly in front of Rimmer - wrinkled, sandaled feet creaking the floorboards before him - Tonga finally felt compelled to speak.

"Mahita, if you'll allow me to explain - "

But the Mahita wouldn't, silencing Tonga with a swift and silent hand gently raised. Instead, he stooped closer to Rimmer's head and sniffed deeply, taking in the new scents against the distant notes of incense, before letting forth an exasperated sigh. Eventually he spoke, with an old, measured voice that gave away his advanced years.

"The Maitiaki form a tradition going back generations, Tonga. Thousands of years."

"Mahita, I understand - "

"And I can turn a blind eye when you train the sons of man in our arts." He sighed, a low growl rumbling in its depths. "But I cannot stay silent when you insist on training spirits of the dead in our earthly secrets."

Rimmer flinched visibly. He moved to glance up at the ancient Blerion standing before him but checked himself swiftly and returned to staring back at the floor.

"I may be going blind, hologram, but I can see through you for what you are. You and your kind do not belong here." His tone held less malice, more patient, yet firm explanation. "When Lati calls our souls away, we must obey. Our image should not continue to walk the earth as a ghost purely from our own choosing."

Tonga inhaled deeply, clearly steeling his nerve. "Mahita, it is my honorary right as a fully-fledged brother of the Maitiaki to train who I feel to be worthy."

The Mahita fell silent for a moment as he contemplated his argument, his tail twitching in irritation under his long cloak. "Tonga, you and I both know how dangerous holograms are," he replied evenly, as if Rimmer wasn't even there. "They have no respect for Lati or the gods and goddesses of this universe. They believe they have nothing left to fear as they have conquered death itself."

The Mahita sighed sadly as he regarded the hologram knelt before him. "But what they do not realise is that death has already conquered them. It makes them warped and bitter that they have not crossed over to eternal rest."

Rimmer didn't move. He couldn't. His entire being felt numb at the words.

"Heed my warning." The Mahita's milky grey eyes flitted up to meet Tonga's. "For I believe you already know this one's fate."

There was a still silence that hung heavy against the scented air. Then the creaking of floorboards before tap tap, tap tap, tap tap, and the sound of a closing door.

Tonga suddenly sprung up to his feet. "Come on!" he announced breezily, as if not comprehending or acknowledging what had just been said. He shielded his eyes against the orange glare of the sunbeams that thrust through the ancient glass windows. "The sun will still allow us an hour of training." In the silence that followed, he turned back to Rimmer. "Ace?"

Yet Rimmer had not shifted his gaze from the floor. After a moment of contemplation, he simply stood and left the hall wordlessly.

Day 92

He'd spent the previous night simply wandering the streets aimlessly, as if he truly were a ghost walking, unnoticed, amongst the living. Beyond the city walls, the desert was cold and timeless; the endless peaks and troughs of the sand dunes providing a serene and calming influence as he passed by silently.

Rimmer shivered against the sharp desert wind as it whipped mercilessly in his wake, billowing his grey robes behind him. He'd never been a religious man; his parents' fanaticism with the Seventh Day Advent Hoppist Movement had been enough to put any developing young mind off the idea. And surely if there was anybody up there, orchestrating his demise at the untimely age of 31 before he'd secured at least one foothold on the career ladder or more than one notch on the bedpost was just plain cruel? Or perhaps he was correct in his assumption that someone on high seemed to enjoy purely tugging his puppet strings and having a laugh at his expense.

There hadn't been anything at the end. No pomp or ceremony before the Creator that he could recall. He'd often found himself straining to remember how it had felt to die. All he knew for certain was that there were no words in the English language to describe it. So intense and all-encompassing. So whisperingly brief, almost unnoticed. Painful. Peaceful.

But thinking of his death and the physical dichotomies it churned up had often given Rimmer a headache in the past, so he would force himself to think of RISK and cheese sandwiches instead.

Yet now he knew that he had to face it. The mirror. His fear. Himself.

The cool night air wafted through the open windows of the Lati Temple, sending wisps of incense stretching lazily across the room. The hall was silent now. No chanting or song. No whispers or prayer. Just him.

He regarded his reflection wordlessly as he sat cross-legged before it. Minutes and hours drifted past, unnoticed in the silence. Two sets of hazel eyes stared at one another in expectation. The distant flecks of green danced within the bronze, illuminated by the candle that flickered beside him.

"Is that why you won't show me?" Rimmer eventually asked his reflection, his voice barely a whisper. "Because I'm dead? Because you don't believe I should be here?"

His reflection offered nothing. In fact, it seemed to be keeping in with perfect synchronisation with his own words and movements.

Rimmer sighed raggedly, his eyes closing momentarily before returning to himself once more. "But it's supposed to be my destiny to do this," he explained, his tone now etched with his old whiny sense of desperation he'd hoped to keep in check. "Too many people are depending on me. Too many lives are at risk."

Nothing.

He could feel his nails digging into his palms. "And I know I'm going to have to face - " Rimmer paused, the name catching in his throat, " - him again, and I'm scared." He blinked in surprise at the revelation, yet relaxed as a strange sense of calm overwhelmed him with the admission. "I'm scared I'm not good enough."

Rimmer watched his reflection for a reaction, scarcely daring to breathe. Yet his mirror self looked just as he felt - anxious, lost, and afraid.

"Please," his reflection begged, and for a moment he felt a jolt of excitement that it had finally worked. But then he noticed from the red-rimmed, desperate eyes which stared back at him that it had been his own plea which had spilled forth, unchecked.

His mouth hung open as if to speak once more, but instead he looked away with a distant nod of the head, unsure what there was left to say. Eyes sinking to the floor, he pulled himself to his feet, clasped his hands together in a small, respectful bow and stooped to blow out the candle. He watched for a moment as the smoke from the wick curled up in the darkness before walking away.

The blue glow of the moonlight lay a path for him along the stone floor as he headed for the doorway, the air still and silent. Which made it all the more chilling when he heard it.

Knock knock knock

Rimmer stopped dead in his tracks, catching the breath in his throat as he listened.

Knock knock knock

It was the dull, tinny sound of desperate taps against glass, as if someone behind him were trying to snare his attention. He began to tremble.

Knock knock knock

Curling his fingers back into tight fists and steeling himself with a low breath, Rimmer turned back slowly, as if afraid to shatter the illusion. And sure enough, like the fleeting shape of a figure you sometimes catch in the corner of your eye, there was someone standing in the mirror.

It was himself.

For a moment, all Rimmer could do was watch, motionless with disbelief, as this mirror version of himself rapped fervently on the glass once more, his eyes pleading for help. Yet as curiosity overtook him, he stalked cautiously closer, his eyes not daring to tear away from his mirror self as he continued to knock desperately against the glass, his cries for aid strangely silent, as if trapped inside.

This version of him looked rather different; a strange combination of the Ace wig and a sleeker, newer incarnation of his old blue navigation uniform sat in uneasy alliance. Yet most unsettling of all, this mirror self seemed frantic with fear, his entire projected image flickering, twitching and corrupting.

Standing only inches away yet worlds apart, Rimmer slid back his voluminous grey hood, as if the shadows it cast over his eyes had somehow silhouetted this illusion before him. And as their shocked stares finally met, this simple gesture seemed to spark his reflection's downfall.

His mirror self grasped his temples, teeth grit in pure agony as he bent-double. His image began to bleed as he shuddered violently, an enveloping black shadow seeping through his uniform until it overwhelmed him completely. He glanced up to look almost beyond Rimmer, and shouted at the top of his lungs. The cries themselves were completely silent, lost behind the glass, but a cold shiver crept up Rimmer's spine at the shape of the name that formed on his lips.

Lister.

With a final shudder his mirror self sank to his knees, a forgotten hand streaking against the glass between them, before falling still.

Trying to steady his breath as much as possible, Rimmer sank down on his haunches to join him, dipping his head as if to snatch his attention from under the blonde wisps that shadowed his face.

"Hello?" he ventured, his voice suddenly sounding so small and insignificant. Rimmer's eyes flitted up to the lost hand against the glass. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed a hand against his as if in connection, the glass under his palm warm and pulsing. "Can you hear me?"

Without warning, his mirror self whipped up his head and stared at him intently. His eyes were now black and dead, rimmed with shadow against a deathly pale face. Rimmer drew back, shocked, yet his hand seemed stuck fast, the glass between their palms now white-hot, sealing them together. A skin-crawling grin crept across his double's face as his eyes locked with his.

Watch, commanded a voice in his head; its tone horribly resonant of his own yet lost to corrupted, electronic feedback.

It was only snatches of images and sensations that flashed before him, like short, sharp stabs of prophecy. Violent images of war, death and destruction at his very own dark hand.

Him. Them. Her.

"No! No! No!"

Screwing his eyes closed as if to release himself from his own dead stare, he wrenched his hand free of the mirror and fell back hard onto the cold stone floor, panting hard.

"Ace?"

Rimmer sat bolt upright with a choked gasp. His dark mirror self had gone, to be replaced by his own panicked reflection and a grey hooded figure who stood some distance behind him.

"Are you alright?" Tonga ventured, his question seeming to ask much more than what it seemed.

Rimmer's breaths seemed to be caught between gasps and sobs, his entire being shaking visibly.

"Ace, please, talk to me."

There was a hush that hung thick in the air between them; a horribly muggy silence that Rimmer had to swallow before he even felt capable of speech.

"He said you know my fate," he managed eventually. A pause, and then, "Is that what's going to happen to me?"

Tonga heaved a weary sigh. "What the mirror shows us isn't always literal. It might not come to pass," he offered gently.

Rimmer brushed a light hand against the mirror's surface before letting it fall into his lap once more. The glass was cold.

In the quiet that followed, Tonga dipped his head low so that his face was obscured in shadow, as if contemplating something, before regarding Rimmer in the mirror once more.

"Sometimes our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate," he explained quietly. "Sometimes our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure."

...and that last quote, ladies and gents, comes from the eternally incredible Nelson Mandela. *nods*

Please review - many thanks.