Author's Note: Dedicated/Disclaimed in the Prologue.

*********************************************************

*********************************************************

Rimmer continued looking at the floor, not really sure what to do next. His entire world had just been shaken to it's foundations. The woman he loved was now. . . a man.

Ok, yes. He loved her soul. He loved her body. He loved everything about her. But when those things changed, especially her basic physical specifications. . . he found himself gulping against the bile that was rising up in his throat. He clenched his jaw until the wave of nausea passed.

"Rimmer."

Rimmer looked up. Kochanski was giving him the evil eye. "Yes, Kristine?"

Her arms akimbo, her eyebrow raised, she said, "Rimmer, it's not really my business, but if you have any hope of saving your relationship with Hippolyta, you had better get your arse up to your quarters and apologize to her."

"I know."

They stood in silence a moment longer. The Cat and Kryten, realizing that this was a delicate moment, wisely withdrew to the cockpit. Lister and Kochanski watched them go. Lister knew what was going through Rimmer's mind, and he had to do something.

"Rimmer, she's still Hippolyta. She's still the woman you love. And she's very, very scared. She needs you, man."

Rimmer looked across to Lister, who was wearing his lover's body. He couldn't stand it, and looked down again. An entire range of conflicting emotions raged within him. Most confusingly of all was arousal. He was turned on by Lister! He swallowed sharply again. "I know."

Rimmer still did not move. Kochanski and Lister exchanged a glance. Kochanski took a step forward, and laid a hand on Rimmer's shoulder.

"Rimmer, swallow whatever it is you're thinking of, and go to her. Or she'll never speak to you again. And as we're all together on this ship for a very long time, that would be a disaster. That's an order, Rimmer. Do you understand?"

Rimmer blinked, trying to gather his thoughts into something resembling rationality. Then, he threw a slightly shaky salute at Kochanski and went up the stairs to his quarters. Kochanski and Lister watched him go, with a sense of dread building up in their stomachs. Finally, Lister turned to Kochanski, a question in his newly blue eyes.

"What do you think they'll do?"

Kochanski sighed. "Pretty much the same thing we will, Lister." She turned to him. "I'm not as freaked out by this as Rimmer is, but I also know that this is going to be a very tense three weeks."

"You're telling me? Is it always this scary being a woman?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Lister raised his hands to show them to his girlfriend. They were small. So small, in fact, that he was surprised that Hippolyta could do anything with them. And dainty. Lister had never thought of that particular adjective as applied to his own self. He reached across and brushed a strand of hair out of Kristine's face. She blushed slightly, and ducked her head away from his attention.

"You see? I can't even touch you without your blushing like a schoolgirl. And I feel all. . . gooey inside. Like I want to pick out drapes and coordinate themes for parties. Do you always feel like this?"

"No," she answered with a chuckle. "Although I do hear that some men do. One out of ten, in fact."

"Shut up, Krissy. I'm serious."

"So am I." They looked at each other for a moment, then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Lister grabbed Kochanski around the waist, and although she gasped slightly, she gave in. Hippolyta was a few inches smaller than she was, so it felt odd to be giving in to someone shorter than herself. Kochanski had never been held by another woman before, and she was surprised to find that womanly curves were ideal for it. She looked down at the woman in front of her. Who also was a man, in some odd sense. The man that she loved. An entire range of conflicting emotions swelled up in her, and she did something that, while not entirely sane, was also very, very deliberate.

She kissed Lister. She kissed Lister in Hippolyta's body.

Lister responded immediately, but did not let her control the kiss. He immediately took charge, like he always did, and began kissing her passionately. Kochanski, who had done it on an impulse, almost regretted it. Her senses become very acutely aware that this was a woman she was kissing, and, amazingly, she was turned on by it. She did not break from the kiss at that point, however, and just let herself enjoy this new sensation. She had never kissed another girl before, and had always wondered. . .

Lister, for his part, marveled again at how good a kisser Kristine was. He began to realize, however, that he was becoming very aroused, and instead of the responses he had felt for over 30 years of manhood, felt an entirely new set of physical reactions. He almost couldn't cope with them, and decided to ask Kochanski whether or not this was a normal, female response. He would definitely have to change his boxers. Panties. Shit, he was wearing women's underwear!

Before he could break away from the kiss, the Cat came back into the galley, saw the scene before him, exclaimed, "Whoa!" and fainted dead away.

******************

Rimmer stood outside the door to his quarters for a very long time, not having the courage to go inside. Once inside, he'd have to deal with her. And he didn't want to.

Well, no. That wasn't entirely true. He did want to be with her, but not while she was (irrationally and stubbornly) male. It wasn't that he was intimidated by her as a man, rather that he was terrified that he'd have to. . . touch her. His adolescent fears came rushing back to him in a flood. . .

******************

"Arnie, you're gay. You know it, I know it. So put out."

"No! I'm not gay! Just last week, I kissed Stephanie Miller out behind the bins. . ."

"And she told me you hated it!"

"Because her breath smelled like cat food!"

"Aww, c'mon, Arn. Aren't you curious? Not even just a little bit?"

******************

Rimmer put his face against the bulkhead, his forehead beaded with sweat, welcoming the metallic coolness. He hadn't thought of him for years. Why now? Why now?

******************

"No, I said. No means no."

"Your mouth says no, but your eyes tell a different story, chummer."

"Get away from me. I mean it! I'll tell my mum!"

"And she'd probably say, 'It's about smegging time you realized, boy!' Come here."

"NO!"

******************

Rimmer realized he was shaking like a leaf. He had managed to surpress this memory for over two decades. And now, of course, as soon as his girlfriend needed him to be the most understanding, he couldn't. Because of Thicky Holden. . .

******************

"Thicky, don't. Please."

"I won't hurt you, Arn. You're my mate. You're my man. I love you."

"Like smeg you do. You're horny, and the girls won't give it up. I refuse to. . ."

But before he could protest further, Thicky's tongue was down his throat. He tried to fight him off, but Thicky had his name for more than one reason. He was too big. Rimmer was too small. Thicky finally stopped kissing him, and Rimmer heard the swishy sound of a zipper being lowered.

So he did the only natural thing he could. He started to cry. "No. No no no." His protests came in one long sob, the words running together, muffled by his tears and his newly running nose. Thicky ignored Rimmer's pathetic weeping, and began to fumble with Rimmer's belt buckle. Then, his zipper. Rimmer's pants soon lay in a puddle by his ankles, and Thicky gave him a slight push, so he lay face down on his bed, ass in the air.

It was at that moment that the Head Boy entered the room. Thicky had zipped up fast, but left Rimmer without any time to straighten himself up.

"What's going on in here?"

******************

It had ended badly, of course. Rimmer had been called down to the Headmaster's office, been given a two hour lecture on, "Unnaturalness and depravity," and had to bear the shame of his family when he came home for the holidays. The Headmaster had sent them a long letter, describing in lurid detail the entire scene with Thicky. Rimmer was beaten unmercilessly by his father, who had only stopped when Rimmer had sworn, through a veil of agony, to never, ever, ever go near another man again. But it hadn't ended there. Oh no. His brothers began to talk. To everybody. Now everybody in his home town, and his school, thought he was gay. Wherever he went, he got both sneers and catcalls, and, occasionally, acceptance and offers of friendship. This last was worse. Rimmer had only ever been interested in girls, and now his entire world thought he was something that he was not.

Rimmer had had no issues with gay men before that day. Live and let live. None of my business. Not a big deal. But from then on, a horrible feeling began in him. It was called homophobia, and it was ugly. It was beaten into him by his father, taunted into him by his brothers, and scared into him by those men, who, like Thicky, tried to get in his pants.

And now, decades later, he was faced with the simple fact that the person that he loved happened to be a man. Freak accident or no. She was now a man, and he still loved her.

He stood up straight again, and tried to walk towards the door again. He found that his feet were glued to the spot. He took a deep breath and tried again.

Smeg.

Just as he was about to try for a third time, the door opened of it's own accord, and Rimmer saw Lister, no, Hippolyta, framed in the doorway.

She pursed her lips together and glared at him. "Oh. It's you. I thought I heard something. Never mind." She turned and walked back into the room, and the door shut behind her.

Rimmer was galvanized by her tone of voice. He immediately stopped his mind from running around in circles, which kept his feet immobile, and followed her into their quarters.

She was sitting at the table, with an unlit cigarette in her mouth and a lighter poised halfway to it. Her face was frozen in a mask that Rimmer had never seen either her nor Lister wear. It was indifference. Hippolyta could never quite manage to keep her emotions off her face, and Lister was an open book. But somehow, her soul in his body made it happen. It was an unattractive look. Dead and cold, not giving the slightest clue as to what was going on behind those brown eyes. She glanced at him, then went about her task of lighting the cigarette.

Rimmer shuddered involuntarily. To see her like this nearly killed him. Especially knowing that it was his behavior that was causing it. He sat down across from her and looked at her. She was intent upon the cigarette in her fingers, and not him.

They sat in silence for a long time, punctuated only by the slight intake of breath that indicated that Hippolyta was taking a puff of the smoke. They did not look at each other. Finally, she reached across the table and ground out her cigarette. Rimmer cleared his throat.

She raised her eyes to his, and they looked at each other for a moment. Rimmer tried to maintain the glance, but he couldn't. He heard Hippolyta snort in derision.

"Hippolyta. . ."

"Save it, Rimmer. Just save it."

"I'm trying to apologize, you know."

"Yeah, well I'm not in the mood. I've had a fucking bad night, Rimmer. You kick me out, Lister switches our bodies, and then you don't even have the balls to look at me."

"I didn't kick you out!" Rimmer protested. "You left on your own!"

"Whatever. I'm going to bed. We'll talk later. I'm too mad right now. I might say something you'll regret." She stood from the table and vaulted herself into the unused top bunk. It had no bed dressings on it, so she lay in her clothes. Well, Lister's clothes. Rimmer thought that this was unbearable. He leaned down to his bunk and passed her up a blanket. She refused to take it. "I'm fine, Rimmer. Just go to sleep."

Rimmer lowered the proffered blanket. "Fine." He began to strip, then stopped himself, embarrassed. She noticed.

"Oh, for God's sake, Rimmer. I've seen it. I know you better than I know my own body. Literally." Rimmer removed his shirt slowly, then his trousers. He did not, however, remove his boxer shorts, and climbed into his lower bunk. "Lights," snapped Hippolyta, and they were plunged into darkness.

******************

Lister and Kochanski sat in the cockpit with Kryten and the Cat. The Cat was holding an ice pack to his head, and he was mumbling softly about something to do with Heaven.

Krtyen was eyeballing both "women" sitting in the cockpit. Intellectually, he knew that one of them was Lister. Viscerally, however. . . He was trying very, very hard not to insult the blonde in front of him. It was just too much. He stood stiffly and said, "If anybody needs me, I'll be doing the laundry. Miss Kochanski? Do you have any little thingies that need to be washed?"

Kochanski rolled her eyes and replied, "Kryten, I put it all in the bin, just like you told me to, last night."

"Fine. I just don't want a repeat of the Oopsie Incident."

"Kryten, that was years ago. Let it go, please!"

"Fine," sniffed the mechaniod. "But if you missed anything, I'm not washing it till next Tuesday. Ok?"

"Ok! Ok!"

As Kryten left the room, Lister asked, "The Oopsie Incident?"

"Don't ask. Just. Don't. Ask."

Lister stood suddenly. "I've gotta take a leak. Be right back."

The Cat and Kochanski widened their eyes a bit. She cleared her throat and said, "Uh, Dave, is that such a wise idea?"

Lister stopped short, an eyebrow cocked. "What, I'm supposed to not piss for the next three weeks?"

Kochanski pursed her lips, while a sharp burst of air escaped from her nose. She was trying not to laugh. "I guess not. Just don't... touch anything, ok?"

Lister giggled softly to himself. "I'll try my very hardest, I promise." He stood up quickly, marveling again at how Hippolyta's body responded. She didn't get out of breath just standing up! And he could feel the leg muscles tense, like coiled springs. He wondered what she did to get it like that.

Lister made his way to the water closet located just to the left of the galley. He was trying very hard to not let his mind grasp the situation. He had to pee. He had to pee, and he wasn't going to think about the plumbing.

Well, not too much, anyway.

He closed the door and fiddled with the lock, trying to get her slender fingers to obey his direction. He was having to relearn how to use his hands. It was beyond maddening. He closed his eyes and put those same fingers to the buttons on Hippolyta's jeans. He tried not to concentrate on the skin below them. He finally managed to get the jeans undone, and slid them, along with her underwear, downwards. But when his fingers brushed a small patch of curls just above the pubic bone, his eyes snapped open in shock.

With his pants around her ankles, Lister turned and looked into the full length mirror to the left of the wash basin. Forgetting the promise he made to Kochanski just moments before, he hobbled a foot and a half and stood inches from the mirror's surface.

Reflected back at him, instead of the chubby, brown man he was used to, was Hippolyta. It felt like he was seeing her from the outside again. Only he really wasn't. He was staring at the curve of skin that slowly, coyly disappeared between her legs, topped by a tangle of fine, light brown hairs. He blinked, hoping that he could shake himself out of this. He couldn't. It was just too damn erotic.

Slowly, gently, he pulled the shirt she had been wearing up and over his head. Seeing only an expanse of smooth, white stomach, then the bottom of her flesh colored bra, then the soft curve of her shoulders, then the shirt was on the floor. He stepped out of her fuzzy purple slippers, then shook out of the pants. He stood in front of the mirror wearing only a bra. He slowly moved her hands up her thighs, skirting the forbidden area, across her stomach, and snaked them behind her back. He wasn't even thinking clearly. His hands were moving of their own volition now, and he was faintly surprised to notice that his fingers, which only seconds before had trouble with the simple door lock, were expertly unhooking the bra. His shoulders shrugged subtly, and then the bra joined the other items on the floor.

"Holy. . ."

His fingers moved forward, touching the cold mirror where her breasts were reflected.

Lister had never thought of Hippolyta as a girl, really. She was tough. She was the consummate tomboy. And she was firmly in love with Rimmer, which in his mind made her absolutely bat-shit insane. Besides which, his obsession with Kochanski made him blind to anybody else. Even this perfect woman, reflected back at him.

Hippolyta's long blonde hair was tickling his back, sweeping along his shoulder blades every time he took a breath. He stared at her chest, watching her flesh straining with every little movement. He took a step backwards, away from the mirror, trying to break the spell of her naked body. He found himself caught up in the way she jiggled, the way her skin rippled and shifted with the step.

He took a deep breath through his nose, and saw her chest heave, her breasts jutting out even more noticeably. Her nipples were standing up, pink and crinkled and inviting. He moved his hands up and pinched a nipple.

And gasped at the subsequent feeling. A strange feeling, he felt as if his insides were suddenly turned to jelly. He could feel his abdomen writhe, and even stranger, he could feel the gentle pinch in between his legs. Like it was connected to her. . . ahem. . . button.

No, Lister, the word is clitoris and you've been obsessed with them since you were 14. Now you've got one, and you call it a button?!?

Lister shook his head at his sudden prudery, and watched as her (his!) hair swept across him, momentarily curtaining his breasts. He played for a few moments longer, making his hair sway back and forth across him. He reached a second time for the nipple, and began kneeding it gently. The feeling was stronger this time, and he began to enjoy it. Now he knew why Kochanski was so indulgent of his manhandling of her tits! If it felt this good, no smegging wonder! He used both hands now, massaging each nipple, pinching them, using them to make his breasts bounce up and down to a rhythm in his head. He grinned at the image in the mirror, enjoying the show.

He ran one hand up now, running it through the waves of yellow hair, feeling the softness, catching a momentary whiff of rose shampoo and nicotine. One hand, so entangled, did nothing to stop the other hand from drifting downwards.

His forefinger grazed his clitoris, and Lister was almost driven to his knees at the intensity of the sensation. He sank down on the floor, his bottom upon her jeans, feeling the rough fabric rubbing against his skin. He began to move his finger in a circular motion, struggling to find the magic spot a second time. He found it. He could feel a small bump, and used that to guide his fingers. With each pass, he increased the pressure just a little bit more, and was rewarded with a tingling, an itch that could just barely, almost be scratched. His lips opened, and he moaned softly. It was as if he had no control at any point in these proceedings, and the ensuing pleasure was just a side effect. He wasn't conscious of his shudders, or his gasps. He was only barely conscious of his actions. Somehow, it was almost as if someone else were doing it. . . Just beyond the range of his hearing, he could hear a subtle buzz, but was so intent upon his masturbation that he ignored it. But then, having put a word to his activities. . .

What the smeg am I doing? I'm masturbating in Hippolyta's body!

He wondered if this could be considered cheating on Kochanski.

That thought sobered him, as he withdrew his hand. Kochanski would sure as hell not appreciate this. In fact, if she could see him now, she'd probably kick his ass. And then tell Hippolyta. And if Hippolyta found out about this little session, she'd have a hairy knicker attack. And Rimmer would. . . Well, that did it. The thought of Rimmer having this body (no matter who was inhabiting it) shut him down faster than any thought of angry female retribution.

And of course, just as he was coming to this conclusion, there was a knock at the door.

Oops.

"Lister, sweetie? Are you alright?" It was Kochanski. Of course.

Lister stood abruptly, and could feel a slick wetness along the insides of his thighs. He'd gotten so into it, he'd managed to turn himself on, and his new body of residence had given him the appropriate response. For the second time.

Would he feel like this every time he got even remotely aroused? God, he hoped not.

"I'm fine, Kris! Just, uh, going to the bathroom with me eyes shut is proving to be a challenge!"

He heard her soft chuckle, and her footsteps moving away from the door. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. He moved to the toilet and started to let rip, then remembered just in time that he needed to sit the smeg down in order to piss. How awkward. How potentially embarassing. He would have to keep a sharp reign on his automatic processes. He started to pee, and as he did, he tried to think of other things that women did that men did not.

And it hit him.

Three weeks. He was a woman for three weeks. That's one less than four. And what happened to women every four weeks?

Holy shit. He would, if all luck was against him, probably end up menstruating at some point in the near future.

******************

Hippolyta awoke suddenly to the sound of running water. She realized that a certain biological urge was making itself known to her. She had to go. This of course wasn't helped by the running water. Who was doing that?

Oh. Rimmer. Of course. She could see his silouhette against the door of the bathroom, bent over the sink, his hands splashing water on his face. Looking for the world like any normal man, except he was a shadow puppet. Suddenly, she felt as if the walls were pressing in on her, like the bed was spinning as if she were drunk. A lurch of her stomach told her that something was very wrong. She glanced at Rimmer's form again. That shadow lurked, flickering against the wall like some grotesque image out of a bad horror movie. His hands elongated into claws, his profile distorted into the visage of the devil himself. She was suffocating, drowning in the still air of their cabin and his black shadow against the door. She gasped, trying to draw breath, wondering where this was all coming from.

She saw a vision, then. She saw herself get up, cross to the bathroom, tackle Rimmer, sending him flying into the shower, where the blood would. . . She shuddered against the blind rage and panic that suddenly hit her, as if from nowhere. She felt as if she was going to explode against the torrent of anger that was welling up inside. Why? Why now, just all of a sudden like that?

She paused, trying to contain herself, trying to control this feeling. Seeing Rimmer, his shadow highlighted on the door, the light of the bathroom spilling into their darkened room, made her nearly insane with violent urges. Was it because he had ignored her, pushed her away, jerked himself out of her grasp? Or was it simply the fact that she was a man now? Was the internal chemistry of manhood making her feel like she wanted to jump off the top bunk and put her fist into Rimmer's ribcage?

She wondered if all men felt like this. How was it possible? How could a man even get the simplest task done if they were trying not to gut those that they hated?

Did she hate Rimmer? Inside, deep inside, where she was still a woman, still sane and not frightened by shadows, she screamed a frantic denial. She loved Rimmer even more than she had when they first met. Before her eyes he had bloomed, from a callous, smarmy asshole, to a kind, caring man. Oh, sure, he had his moments. He was still a smeghead, when he wasn't concentrating on the task at hand. But those moments were few and far between now.

So why? Why did she want to attack him? She heard a voice inside her say, Because he wronged you. He hurt you. GET him. She contorted her face, closing her eyes tightly, trying to shut out the sound of her own thoughts.

Just over the sound of the running water, she could barely make out a subtle buzz, like someone was running a hair dryer just out of the range of her hearing. Like a tap that hadn't been closed all the way, and is whining incessently, driving an otherwise sane person to shout obscenities and grab a large wrench. Subconsciously, she tried to focus her rage on it, push the anger and panic towards it, say to it, "You're NOT going to get me, you bastards!"

Bastards? Who?

The buzzing stopped suddenly, and she felt her anger subsiding, like the plug had been pulled. The opressive stillness of the room lifted, and was now simply just stuffy. There was nothing to be angry about. It was just Rimmer washing his face during a sleepless and difficult night. The shadow wasn't sickening anymore. Not even remotely upsetting.

Nothing to be upset about at all. . .

She looked down. In her agony, she had grabbed Lister's stained tee-shirt and bunched it in her fists. They were aching with the pressure of fighting off that panic attack. She slowly unclenched them, and was amazed to see tiny droplets of dark blood staining the shirt. Looking down at her hands, she saw that she had cut four crescent shaped gashes in the palms. Her fists were so tight that she had cut herself with her fingernails through the tee-shirt! She was so startled by this last that she cried out.

Rimmer, of course, heard her, and came running into the room.

"Lights!"

They both began blinking in the sudden, stark illumination. When his vision cleared, Rimmer saw Hippolyta staring at her hands, whimpering like a child. She looked up at him with Lister's brown eyes, fear shining in them.

"Rimmer? Something is. . . wrong. . ."

Rimmer immediately forgot his fears and worries, and was helping her down off the top bunk, his arms around her masculine waist. He surpressed the revulsion that was engulfing him again. Now is NOT the time to be a pussy, Arnold Rimmer. She needs you, you hulking coward. Now suck it up and be a man! He led her gently to the table and helped her sit down. Without a word, she extended her hands to Rimmer to inspect. Rimmer took them with his own shaking hands and gasped as he looked at them. The blood was hardly noticable against the chocolate of Lister's skin. But it was there, in the unmistakable pattern of fingernails biting into flesh.

"Did you have a nightmare, Hippolyta? Are you all right?"

"I. . . don't know. I woke up and heard you in the bathroom. And then I just. . . freaked out. You looked like something out of a monster movie. It all sounds so silly now."

Rimmer shook his head. "No. It doesn't. Talk to me." His hazel eyes were soft with concern.

Hippolyta shook her head in turn. "No. Really. I'm fine, Rimmer." She pulled her hands away, and folded them demurely in her lap. Rimmer recognized it as her gesture, but seeing Lister do it nearly made him scream in frustration.

"Hippolyta, please, talk to me!" He exploded, shocking both of them.

She took a deep breath in through her nose, and blinked repeatedly. "Oh, I see. I'm to be emotionally vulnerable only when it's convenient for you, then?"

"That's not what I said and you know it!"

"Well, shit, Rimmer, I only tried to talk to you in the galley last night, and you didn't want to have a thing to do with me! What the hell am I supposed to think?"

Rimmer jumped up from the table, his nervous energy propelling him into pacing. "Did it ever occur to you, Hippolyta, that this is extremely difficult for me to deal with?"

Her hands moved out of her lap, and slammed down on the table top. The sound was like a gunshot. "No, really? It honestly hadn't, Rimmer. Shit, this should be a smegging walk in the smegging park! I mean, I'm only a man! Which would make both of us GAY all of a sudden."

That did it. It must have been the way she screeched the word gay that sent Rimmer into hysterics. She saw him make a move, grabbing a hardbound book laying on the console by the computer. His arm swung back, and in one utterly thoughtless act, threw it across the room, narrowly missing her head, the delicate pages crumpling as they hit the bulkhead with a fluttering thunk. Neither moved for a long moment.

The two of them faced each other, he by the bed, she still sitting at the table. He was breathing heavily, and she could hardly breathe at all. The violence of the moment sat before them, pressing down, driving a wedge between them that no amount of talk or love would ever make go away.

She stood, slowly, her arms raised in a defensive position. Then she crossed to the damaged book and picked it up, hefting it thoughtfully, glancing at the cover.

"Ayn Rand as a weapon. Well. That's not very original, is it, Rimmer?"

He gulped. He knew it was her favorite book, and if he had hit her with it. . . Well, Atlas Shrugged came in at just over 1000 pages. And that hard cover. He could have killed her if his aim had been just a two inches to the left. . .

"Hippolyta."

"No." The word was leaden, dripping with hatred and scorn. "This is not something that we're going to talk about. Not now, not ever. So here's what we're going to do. We'll avoid each other. For three weeks. Then, when we reach that derelict, I'm going to figure out if it's space worthy. If so, I'm taking it and going. Understood?"

Rimmer felt as if his world was about to end. She stood there, just beyond his grasp, holding her treasured book, coldly holding his stare with Lister's eyes.

"No. God, Hippolyta, no. Please. . ."

She blinked repeatedly, her mouth a thin line of contempt. Rimmer could see that there were tears shining in the corners of her eyes. He could hear himself babbling.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please, Hippolyta, don't do this. That ship, you by yourself, you could be killed. . ."

"And flying books wouldn't do me in, so that's one mercy." Her voice was shaking, trembling with the fear, the finality of what she had just said to him. She gently thumbed through the bruised pages, smoothing them absentmindedly with her bloodstained hands, not caring of the marks left behind. Rimmer stared at the rust colored smears along the pages.

He whispered one last plea, his own tears threatening to escape. "Hippolyta, don't go. I love you."

"No, I don't think you do, Rimmer. If you did, you'd be here for me, and not throw books at my head." She spun on heel, with the book in hand and was out the door before Rimmer could get to her.

Gone. Just like that. Gone.

*********************************************************************************************

*********************************************************************************************

AN: Whoa. This is gonna get bumpy, kids. I hope your seatbelts are fastened and your tray tables are in the proper, up-right position. . .

TO BE CONTINUED. . .