A/N: First Red Dwarf fan fiction! I have no idea how long this will end up being, but we'll see what happens. Set post-Back to Earth, therefore Rimmer is hard light.

Spoilers for 'Quarantine' and 'Legion'. Title is Latin for 'lonely mute'.

One

At first there hadn't appeared to be anything wrong. Neither crew or the hologram himself had noticed anything amiss.

When they'd initially returned from the latest scavenge through an abandoned supply vessel, no aliens, parasites, viruses or mutated curry had been detected sneaking aboard with them. The Cat hadn't voiced any olfactory discoveries, and Kryten's psi scanner - despite being as accurate as a blind dart player - hadn't detected anything malicious.

It wasn't until he started vomiting after dinner that Rimmer thought something could be off. Despite not needing to ingest food the way that Lister or the Cat did, he still liked to participate in meals as another way of pretending that he was alive. He always refused to ingest any of Lister's curry or Cat's fish, preferring instead to stick to good ol' vegetables - especially mashed potato.

It had happened that milk and butter were among the supplies recovered from the supply vessel earlier in the day - Rimmer had almost squealed with joy when he found the freezer containing said treasure. Their supply had run so low in recent weeks that Kryten had been making mashed potato with a teaspoon of cream and two grams of butter. No one knew how he did it, or even if he was lying about his measurements; all Rimmer cared was that it tasted like smeg, and he missed having mashed potato that was made with a pound of butter and pint of cream. Thanks to his discovery, he was able to re-experience that glorious potato texture the way it was intended, and dinner that night was the most satisfying meal he'd had for weeks.

The gift of Legion's hard light drive had helped him fulfil his potato cravings in a way he never thought possible; yet as he leant over the sink in his quarters a few hours later, he was silently cursing the maniac. Could've given me a better immune system, the git.

The remainder of the evening was spent spitting and vomiting into the sink. Hologram vomit was a strange thing, given that it technically didn't exist, but Rimmer was too exhausted to consider how he was physically able to be sick. Legion's hard light drive was something that none of them fully understood; despite Kryten's best efforts, it was impossible to completely study it without killing Rimmer (Lister had been disappointed at this hinderance, protesting that it would make Einstein roll in his grave if they didn't continue their research).

Despite feeling like complete smeg the following morning, Rimmer decided to keep his concerns to himself. He'd tossed and turned during the night, having experienced unusual and vivid dreams; all he could remember when he awoke were the scutters riding skateboards down B-Deck and Lister being crowned prom queen in the mess hall. Personally, he thought the Cat should've received the title, but that thought would never be shared outside of his subconscious. I wonder if those potatoes were hallucinogenic as well as poisonous?

As the day wore on he grimly realised that he wouldn't be able to hide his malady much longer. He kept wiping the sweat from his brow on his sleeve, which was slowly turning a darker shade of blue than the rest of his uniform. He was grateful when Kryten had announced it was supper time, as it meant he could invent an excuse for his lack of appetite and retreat to his quarters.

He awoke the following morning feeling like his light bee had been run through a washing machine. The slightest movement caused the room to start spinning and a wave of nausea to creep up his throat, which now felt like millions of spikes were being driven into his oesophagus.

Deciding that a diagnostic was needed, Rimmer struggled to sit himself upright. "Lights." He was mortified as his voice came out as a gravelly rasp. Swallowing painfully, he instantly raised a hand to massage his throat. Oh, smeg. Now I am sick. But how? I can't get real world viruses, can I?

In spite of his current predicament, he couldn't help but wonder if he should cough on Lister to see if he became ill as well. The gimboid would deserve it anyway.

Determined to not let the others see his pathetic state, Rimmer practically crawled along the corridor floors. By the time he reached the nearest lift, he was soaked with sweat and panting from the effort. Unable to stand up, he threw his hand up to where he hoped the lift control panel was and whacked it. Miraculously, the doors opened.

To Rimmer's dismay, the doors opened to reveal Lister standing in the lift, chugging a can of beer. Judging by the crumbs that decorated his front and the lift floor, he assumed Lister had been playing games or crying over some stupid old movie. He seemed lost in a world of his own, oblivious to the disgusting puddle of misery on the floor that was Rimmer.

Down here, smeghead! Rimmer tried to call out to Lister, but found himself thrown into another coughing fit. He felt as though his lungs were trying to expel themselves from his body, shaking and wheezing pathetically as he finally collapsed.

Lister was pulled from his alcoholic coma by Rimmer's collapse and finally noticed the gasping hologram on the floor. "What the smeg? Rimmer! What's goin' on?!"

I can't answer, you driphead! Rimmer fought to catch his breath, shakily raising his head towards Lister in the hopes he would pull him off the floor.

"Oh my God! Rimmer! Are you okay?"

Rimmer attempted to give a customary do-I-look-okay-you-complete-gimboid glare, but instead found his head making contact with the floor; the lightheadedness had finally overpowered his will to glare at someone. Now I'm in trouble.

Holographic stars danced in his vision as the world swiftly faded to black, Lister's concerned cries disappearing into oblivion.

The first thing he noticed on the long trip back to consciousness was the searing pain flaring in his throat. Those millions of spikes he assumed were lining it had now turned into billions of razor-sharp scalpels. He also realised his forehead felt far cooler than the rest of his body. Perhaps my light bee is burning up?…

"Rimmer? You okay?"

Rimmer gradually found the strength to flutter his eyes open; he instantly recoiled at the bright light, squinting as he fought to clear his vision. Eventually the ceiling of the medibay came into focus, along with Lister's concerned expression. He realised Lister was dabbing a damp handkerchief along his forehead, and immediately appreciated the act. I would commit murder to be submerged in an ice bath right now.

"Rimmer?" Lister spoke quietly. "You with us, man?"

The hologram turned his head to better view Lister, nodding slowly. "What…" His words were cut off by another bout of violent coughing; his lungs screamed for air that they technically didn't need and he fought to regain control of himself.

Lister's voice was in his ear: "Take it easy, Rimmer."

In ordinary circumstances, Rimmer would've launched into a spiel about how if he followed that advice every time it was given to him, he wouldn't have made it further in life than potty training. In the present moment, he pushed those thoughts aside and tried to focus on calming his seizing lungs.

"Mr Lister, sir? What's going on?" Kryten's voice registered in the background.

"Just another fit, Kryten. I think it's easing off," Lister's hand was rubbing his back, which was a nice gesture, though Rimmer couldn't tell him that it wasn't helping.

It was a good thirty seconds before Rimmer fell back onto the bed, his chest feeling as though it had been hit by an asteroid. The medibay was spinning violently in his vision; for a moment he was convinced the ship had been sent into a spiral dive. What a shame; I can't blame it on Lister's shitey piloting skills now.

"Mr Rimmer, sir!" Kryten came into Rimmer's line of vision, carrying an intravenous line and pump. "Try to relax, sir. You are extremely unwell, and we need to bring your fever down as soon as possible."

Rimmer groaned. You think I don't know that already?!

"Also, it's best if you try not to speak, sir," Kryten said firmly. "With all due respect, you sounded about as healthy as a thirty-year-old lawnmower trying to cut steel."

Rimmer rolled his eyes. Thank you for your opinion, Condom Head.

"Here's the paracetamol, Krytes." Lister passed a bag of liquid over Rimmer's head, which the mechanoid quickly attached to the line.

Rimmer watched as Kryten connected the intravenous line into the cannula that now occupied the back of his left hand. Must've inserted it while I was out. An uncontrollable urge to shiver filled his body as a cool liquid began flowing through the line. He gave Kryten a confused look and opened his mouth to speak, though the mechanoid beat him to it: "Sir, I told you, you mustn't try to talk!"

Oh, for God's sake. Rimmer looked over at Lister, desperate for an answer. It was taking all of his energy to keep his eyes open. What's happening to me?! I feel about as strong as a newborn giraffe!

"Just try and get some rest, mate. We'll tell ya more when you're stable." Lister patted his arm and left his position at Rimmer's side.

Rimmer groaned in frustration as his lightheadedness won a second round, and he slipped back into the darkness.