In response to the Die, Seven, Die! Challenge.  I'd planned to ignore this, but as you'll see, I didn't get a choice.
 

I wasn't going to respond.  I don't even *like*the challenge, and let's face it, I have work to do. I have assignments to complete.  I have --

-- A rather peeved looking muse sitting on my couch.

Janeway takes a sip of coffee, pulls a face and puts her cup (actually *my* cup, but I don't think she really cares that she's taking over my life) down.

"I don't see what the problem is," she says.  "We kill Seven, you post the fic, you write some happy J/C, and this whole C/7 silliness will be forgotten."

"But I don't *want* to kill Seven!  I don't want to stop writing C/7! And quite frankly, it would be a lot easier to write happy fic if you'd stop being so mopey and depressed all the time."

"But I'm not mopey and depressed.  Watch the show, for heaven's sake!"  She stands up and makes a sweeping gesture with her coffee mug.  I wince as Nescafe lands on the carpet.  Another chore.  Great.  "I'm positively manic!"

"But you're crying on the inside."

Abruptly she sits down.  "All right, so the series hasn't gone as well as I'd hoped.  But I'd be a lot happier if you killed Seven for me."

"Look, I really don't have time.  Anyway, it's mean-spirited, attacking a character's physical attributes just because her presence threatens you."

"Oh, come on.  She's just like every other blond woman in Hollywood -- manbait."

"Um, Captain...?"  I glance at the photo of my blond, well-built mother.  "Could we keep this friendly?"

"There's nothing friendly about this."  She sighs.  "Fine.  No exploding breasts.  No obesity."

"And no setting her hair alight with a compression phaser rifle."

Scowling, she promises.

"Look at it this way," I say as I toss my things into a backpack.  In go the leftover chicken curry -- mix it with leola root and it's lethal; a folder of Jeri Ryan swimsuit photos -- guaranteed to irritate me; my fanfic notebook and some chocolate.  After a second of hesitation, I throw in my Latin textbooks as well, virtuously promising to find some time to study for Monday's exam.  "These limitations force us to be creative."

"Do you use that excuse every time you run out of imagination?"

"Don't criticise me, Janeway."  I give her a smile as she prepares to ask for a beam-up.  "Anyway," I add, "there's always the naked Neelix."

As we beam out, I'm sure she mutters something about "idiot fanfic jokes.  Should have asked Christine."

***

We spend a few hours in Janeway's quarters, considering our options.  She takes care to point out that she doesn't exactly have to worry about Chakotay unexpectedly dropping by.

"You're not missing out on anything," I say.  "He's all chubby.  And he dyes his hair.  And--"

"And he's mine.  All mine."

"You had trouble learning to share as a child, didn't you?"

"And you were a stuck-up little know-it-all convinced that she was incapable of error."

Ouch.  Curiously, I flip through a photo album.  Janeway with her parents, Janeway with Admiral Paris, Janeway hugging Mark, Janeway's dog, Janeway holding Mickey Mouse's hand... "Mickey Mouse?"

"My parents wanted me to have a traditional 20th century middle-class white American childhood, just like Jeri Taylor's."

"Oh.  I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I got over it.  It's gotten easier since Braga took over.  These days, even *I* can't remember what Mosaic said about my childhood."

"I wish I had that problem."

"Of course," she continues, "Braga's also responsible for C/7 ... I can't forgive that."

An idea hits me.  "Kathryn..." she raises her eyebrows at my use of her name, but hey, she's my muse and I'll call her what I like.  "If C/7 is all Braga's fault ... why don't we kill him instead?"

She raises her eyebrows thoughtfully.  "Interesting ... but impossible.  I'm a character.  I'm not allowed to have direct contact with the Powers That Be.  It'd take the help of a Q."

"At your service."

We both turn at the new voice.  The three Qs -- Q, SuzyQ and Q2 -- are leaning against the wall.

"Kathy!"  Q rushes forward and gives Janeway a hug.  SuzyQ frowns, snaps her fingers, and suddenly Janeway is standing on the other side of the room.

Q2 glances at me and shuffles his feet.  "Sorry about my mom.  She's always like that when Dad's around Janeway.  And in the presence of a fanfic author -- well, I guess you know what happens."

I find that I'm incapable of speech.  "Um.  Yeah."

Q2 rakes a hand through his hair.  "So.  You write 'shipper fic?"

"Mostly."

"You want to write an NC-17 Mary-Sue/Q?"

My language skills return, except for the Latin, which is still on vacation in Tahiti.  "That's the worst pick-up line I've ever heard."

He shrugs.  "Worth a try.  Hey, thanks for leaving Seven alive.  She's really hot naked."

I begin to regret my mercy.  *This* is Voyager's target audience?

I turn back to the adult Qs.  "Guys?  What are we doing?"

Janeway looks up with a smile.  "Pack the naked Neelix," she says, "we're going to California!"

***

Brannon Braga's office is empty.  Curious, I go through the mess on his desk: a picture of Jeri Ryan with her arms around him, a screwed up piece of paper with FINAL EPISODE: JANEWAY/CHAKOTAY BEDROOM SCENE written on it.  The word DELETED is scrawled over the page.  I idly glance over a memo ("Re: Recasting Janeway -- Nicole Kidman?") and flip through a folder marked SECRET PLAN TO DESTROY STAR TREK.

Janeway skims through the deleted bedroom scene.  "Hmph.  In Chakotay's dreams, maybe."

There's a footstep outside.  I hear men's voices.  Silently, I pull *it* out of my backpack and leave it on the desk.  Janeway hides behind the filing cabinet.  I slip behind the curtain.

The door opens.  The voices become audible.

"...So there's this website," says a thin, dark man in his mid-thirties.

"Yeah," says his avuncular companion.  My eyes widen as I recognise Rick Berman.

"It's one of those 'shipper sites, right?  That fan fiction stuff.  Only it's Janeway and that prehensile plant."

"A *plant*?"

"Yeah, a rubber plant prop.  So I'm wandering through props, checking on the designs for the new series, and I trip over something and fall *right* *into* that very plant."  Braga sits down at his desk.  "And I swear, I freaked!  So this girl comes running up--"

He glances down and turns pale.  Berman frowns.

"Brannon?  Are you okay?"

Brannon gasps.  "Trekkie ... terrorists."

Berman leans over, picks up the paper.  He's not as young as Brannon.  He turns pale, grabs his chest, and collapses.

Janeway steps out into Brannon's line of sight.

"You," he chokes."

"Brannon," she says softly.

"But ... why?"

She sighs.  "I was prepared to accept the bad scripts.  The lack of continuity.  The condescending attitude towards the viewers.  But C/7, Brannon ... I'm sorry.  I had to do something."

He slips away.  She closes his eyes, looking thoughtful.

"You know," she said, "this hasn't made me feel better."

I'm about to answer when I hear footsteps, the tap-tap of high heels.  We return to our hiding places and watch as a tall, blond woman enters.

I hear her gasp as she sees the bodies.

"Rick? Brannon?"  She sobs.  "Oh, God, Brannon!"

There is a rustle of paper as she leans over his desk.  Another gasp, disgust this time.  Then a thump as Jeri Ryan's body hits the floor.

I move out from behind the curtain, carefully fold up the naked Neelix cartoon and return it to my backback.

Janeway steps out of her hiding place.

"Now I feel better," she says.
 

END

Okay.  I'm off to find a lunatic asylum with net access.

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Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth M. Barr

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