Farscape fic
Jul. 3rd, 2003 02:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icepixieA five-months-late Valentine, or perhaps a fond farewell...
DISCLAIMER: Farscape isn't mine, although since Sci-Fi obviously doesn't want it, I'd be happy to take it off their hands... The quotations at the beginning and end are from *The Velveteen Rabbit*, by Margery Williams.
FEEDBACK/ARCHIVING: Please and thank you to both. Send archive URLs and comments to author1@comcast.net .
RATING: G to PG.
CATEGORY: Are there such things as sad parodies? Kind of a sad weirdfic.
NOTES: Thanks to Kate/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tarzanic for the beta!
SUMMARY: Pilot's meditations on what is real.
"Being Real"
by Icepixie, June 2003
* * *
"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
* * *
Pilot was lonely. Though he still had his mental bond with Moya, he had seen little of the inhabitants of the Leviathan lately, and even the DRDs were diminishing. His chamber had been silent for the past several days.
Pilot contemplated what had happened. Crichton, Aeryn, and the others sometimes went on what they termed "vacations," always around the same time of the cycle. They had done so again this cycle, but they seemed to have heavier hearts than usual, and looked very tired. Chiana had seemed almost to be holding back tears as she bid Pilot farewell for the next few monens.
A deep sigh filled the chamber and echoed off the walls. Little Blue, the only DRD in sight, chirped inquisitively from Pilot's console. Pilot looked at the little machine, heartened that at least one of them seemed to be around. It was so quiet...
"All right, this one's gonna take a while, so let's get to work." The door to Pilot's chamber slid open, and strange men and women walked in, two of them rolling a large metal cart in front of them. There were six people in all. They looked Sebacean, though there was a distinct lack of leather.
One of the women flipped a switch near the door, and Pilot suddenly felt himself go limp. His arms crashed to the surface of the console, and his head hung down to his breast. His attempts to cry out, or to make any noise at all, went unheeded by his vocal muscles. He could not even move his eyes from their fixed, downward gaze.
This was most distressing.
The man who looked the youngest picked up the immobile Little Blue. The machine, whose eyestalks had gone dark, didn't make a peep at this handling. Pilot heard the man murmur, "Cute little guy. Too bad about your show."
*Show?* Pilot wondered. Was this related to the "teevee" John had mentioned?
The one who had spoken before began giving instructions. "We have to completely clear the stage by Thursday. They wanted the puppet as intact as possible, so let's see if we can get it out of the base and onto the cart without totally screwing up the mechanics."
Puppet? Pilot puzzled over this until he felt hands at his back, digging down between his body and the console that surrounded him. Horrified, Pilot attempted to resist the intrusion, calling upon every morsel of will he had to move his limbs, to cry out, to do anything to get them to stop removing him from Moya...but there was nothing. He could not move, he could not speak.
With a sickening lurch of what might pass for a Pilot's stomach, he realized that he was being lifted out of the console. It occurred to him that he should have nerve tendrils connecting him to Moya for several levels down to keep him anchored, but he soon found himself on the cart.
"Oof! That thing's heavy! Almost makes you wish they don't save it, just so we don't have to move 'im again."
"I don't know that I'd mind." One of the women bent and took Pilot's chin in her hand, gazing straight into his eyes. "He almost looks sad, don't you think? Sad that he's getting thrown out like an old toy..."
"Gimme a break and help push the cart. I want some lunch."
Pilot felt the woman's hand leave his chin, and then they all started moving towards the door to his chamber. And old toy, she had said...getting thrown out like an old toy...
John had told him a story once, about a stuffed rabbit that a boy had loved very much, but which had been thrown out when the boy was sick. The rabbit had been sad about this turn of events, but because he had been loved by the boy, he was able to turn into the living counterpart of himself. Pilot, who had never owned a toy, could not comprehend at the time why John had cried when telling the story.
Now, though, as as the cart clattered over the floor, taking his still form with it, he began to understand. He began to understand, and he wondered if there was someone out there who loved him as much as the boy had loved his rabbit...who loved him enough to make him real.
* * *
"'I suppose *you* are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
"'The Boy's Uncle made me Real,' he said. 'That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.'"
* * *
The End
So now that you've finished reading this, I have a request. If you enjoyed this story, or even if you didn't but you just made it this far to humor me, please write a letter to Sci-Fi, Henson, or anywhere else that might be appropriate saying how much you liked Farscape. Sites like Save Farscape can give you addresses and other information. Let them know that these characters will always be real to the fans, no matter what happens.
DISCLAIMER: Farscape isn't mine, although since Sci-Fi obviously doesn't want it, I'd be happy to take it off their hands... The quotations at the beginning and end are from *The Velveteen Rabbit*, by Margery Williams.
FEEDBACK/ARCHIVING: Please and thank you to both. Send archive URLs and comments to author1@comcast.net .
RATING: G to PG.
CATEGORY: Are there such things as sad parodies? Kind of a sad weirdfic.
NOTES: Thanks to Kate/
tarzanic for the beta!SUMMARY: Pilot's meditations on what is real.
"Being Real"
by Icepixie, June 2003
* * *
"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
* * *
Pilot was lonely. Though he still had his mental bond with Moya, he had seen little of the inhabitants of the Leviathan lately, and even the DRDs were diminishing. His chamber had been silent for the past several days.
Pilot contemplated what had happened. Crichton, Aeryn, and the others sometimes went on what they termed "vacations," always around the same time of the cycle. They had done so again this cycle, but they seemed to have heavier hearts than usual, and looked very tired. Chiana had seemed almost to be holding back tears as she bid Pilot farewell for the next few monens.
A deep sigh filled the chamber and echoed off the walls. Little Blue, the only DRD in sight, chirped inquisitively from Pilot's console. Pilot looked at the little machine, heartened that at least one of them seemed to be around. It was so quiet...
"All right, this one's gonna take a while, so let's get to work." The door to Pilot's chamber slid open, and strange men and women walked in, two of them rolling a large metal cart in front of them. There were six people in all. They looked Sebacean, though there was a distinct lack of leather.
One of the women flipped a switch near the door, and Pilot suddenly felt himself go limp. His arms crashed to the surface of the console, and his head hung down to his breast. His attempts to cry out, or to make any noise at all, went unheeded by his vocal muscles. He could not even move his eyes from their fixed, downward gaze.
This was most distressing.
The man who looked the youngest picked up the immobile Little Blue. The machine, whose eyestalks had gone dark, didn't make a peep at this handling. Pilot heard the man murmur, "Cute little guy. Too bad about your show."
*Show?* Pilot wondered. Was this related to the "teevee" John had mentioned?
The one who had spoken before began giving instructions. "We have to completely clear the stage by Thursday. They wanted the puppet as intact as possible, so let's see if we can get it out of the base and onto the cart without totally screwing up the mechanics."
Puppet? Pilot puzzled over this until he felt hands at his back, digging down between his body and the console that surrounded him. Horrified, Pilot attempted to resist the intrusion, calling upon every morsel of will he had to move his limbs, to cry out, to do anything to get them to stop removing him from Moya...but there was nothing. He could not move, he could not speak.
With a sickening lurch of what might pass for a Pilot's stomach, he realized that he was being lifted out of the console. It occurred to him that he should have nerve tendrils connecting him to Moya for several levels down to keep him anchored, but he soon found himself on the cart.
"Oof! That thing's heavy! Almost makes you wish they don't save it, just so we don't have to move 'im again."
"I don't know that I'd mind." One of the women bent and took Pilot's chin in her hand, gazing straight into his eyes. "He almost looks sad, don't you think? Sad that he's getting thrown out like an old toy..."
"Gimme a break and help push the cart. I want some lunch."
Pilot felt the woman's hand leave his chin, and then they all started moving towards the door to his chamber. And old toy, she had said...getting thrown out like an old toy...
John had told him a story once, about a stuffed rabbit that a boy had loved very much, but which had been thrown out when the boy was sick. The rabbit had been sad about this turn of events, but because he had been loved by the boy, he was able to turn into the living counterpart of himself. Pilot, who had never owned a toy, could not comprehend at the time why John had cried when telling the story.
Now, though, as as the cart clattered over the floor, taking his still form with it, he began to understand. He began to understand, and he wondered if there was someone out there who loved him as much as the boy had loved his rabbit...who loved him enough to make him real.
* * *
"'I suppose *you* are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
"'The Boy's Uncle made me Real,' he said. 'That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.'"
* * *
The End
So now that you've finished reading this, I have a request. If you enjoyed this story, or even if you didn't but you just made it this far to humor me, please write a letter to Sci-Fi, Henson, or anywhere else that might be appropriate saying how much you liked Farscape. Sites like Save Farscape can give you addresses and other information. Let them know that these characters will always be real to the fans, no matter what happens.
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Date: 2003-07-03 02:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-03 08:43 pm (UTC)