Disclaimer: The characters are owned by TNT and everyone else involved with the show
Title - Seeing the Light
Author - KB
E-mail address - gekbruce@melbpc.org.au
Rating - G
Category - Very Alternate Universe/ Humour
Series/Sequel - Several sequels written by different authors
Spoilers - N/A
Summary - A summary would spoil it!
"Seeing the
Light"
By KB
Jarod cautiously opened the door to the enormous warehouse and
crept in, pulling the door behind him but not closing it fully to
avoid making any noise. As he took a step into the room, a small
click from behind made him turn in dismay but the door was shut
tightly and all of his shaking could do nothing.
“Who are you?” he screamed, terror mounting. “What
do you want with me?”
A chuckle coming through the dark, made the hair on the back of
his neck stand up and he felt a prickle of fear along his spine.
"Walk forward,” an unfamiliar voice whispered.
“Move into the room.”
“No.” He stood his ground but felt the hands from
behind which pushed him forward but which melted away as soon as
he touched them. His eyes, having adjusted to the dim light
allowed him only a glimpse of heavily masked figures who slipped
into the deep shadows of the room. He was on the verge of
following them when spotlights from many parts of the room were
switched on, all trained on the Pretender.
He blinked, startled, and spun in the small circle of light,
trying to find his tormentors. Slowly, painstakingly, dark
figures appeared in front of the lights, their shadows stretching
and merging at the centre of the circle. The sight held Jarod
motionless for several seconds before rushing at one part of the
group. With a thud his outstretched arm met the smoothness of a
glass wall and he was repelled backwards onto the floor. His
breath having been knocked out by his fall, he spent several
seconds gasping and glaring around. Being within the circle of
shadows, his eyes were screened from the spotlights and he could
see his captors. Running his eyes along the circle, he could see
no familiar faces but this brought him no comfort. One of the
group stepped forward and all but one of the spotlights were
turned off. Jarod glared as the figure approached but stopped
just outside of the glass booth which, through the single light,
was now clearly visible to its only occupant.
“Who are you?” Jarod’s voice sounded hollow and
trembled, despite his efforts to control it.
“Probably your worst nightmare.” The figure in black
laughed again, joined by every other person in the circle. Jarod
could hear the sounds quite clearly, despite the apparent
thickness of the walls.
“What do you want with me?”
“The same thing that we always do. Do you want to know who
we are? We’re surprised you can’t guess.”
Another voice spoke but the accent was not American.
“We come from all over the world.”
“We are all very different people.”
“Different ages.”
“Different careers.”
“Different lives.”
“But united by one thing.”
“One love.”
Jarod felt each word like a blow and, finally understanding, he
spun around, searching for an escape in a situation where none
existed. He saw figures being led toward the box from every side
and these he recognised. Turning he could see Miss Parker,
Sydney, Broots, Mr Parker, Raines, Angelo, Brigitte…all
wearing the same terrified expression that he was struggling to
suppress. Almost magically they appeared to be pushed into the
room with him and his tension was only slightly relieved when he
realised that none of them were armed. Miss Parker ran to him and
threw herself into his arms, seeking comfort and reassurance in a
situation where, for once, she had no control. Sydney, Broots,
and the others gathered around him also, forcing him to the front
of the group, making him their unwilling spokesperson.
“You can’t do this to us.”
“But we can.” Jarod turned as another figure moved out
of the ring and approached him.
“As long as we head everything with one of those annoying
disclaimers, we can do anything.”
“But why would you want to?” Another figure stepped
forward.
“I would have thought that a Pretender would have had more
intelligence,” she scoffed. As the sentence was spoken in
German, Jarod was none the wiser, but a suppressed splutter came
from Sydney. Realising that she had not been fully understood,
the woman spoke in English.
“We do what the writers won’t. We provide answers to
the questions which the real writers haven’t. And of course,
every now and then, we indulge in a little slash, just to relieve
the tension.” Another laugh went around the black-clad
group.
“But why are we here now? I mean, you’ve been writing
for three years now and you’ve never consulted us
before.”
The first figure spoke again.
“That’s true. We decided that it was about time you had
the chance of a little input. We’d like to hear what the
characters themselves want to do. It’s well understood that
you don’t have much chance during the making of the normal
episodes so we thought you’d enjoy this opportunity.”
“I doubt it.” The discouraging mutter came from the
depths of the group and, without warning, Raines rose three feet
above the others and remained suspended in the air. Despite all
of his kicking, wriggling and screaming, he continued to rise and
it was only when, exhausted and in desperate need of the oxygen
tank which had remained on the floor, he ceased the frantic
movements that he stopped rising and gradually began to sink. The
others fled to the sides of the container as he descended and,
with terrified looks over their shoulders at their captors,
frantically avoided catching Raines’ eye. After a short
time, a tense calm had resumed and Jarod continued to try and
reason with the group
outside of the tank.
“But why does it always have to be bondage? And why always
Miss Parker and me? Surely, among all of you, there’s some
better ideas that you can come up with.”
“Because that’s what people like to read. Ever heard of
the PEZ awards?
"No?,” as Jarod and the others shook their heads.
“That’s the awards given to writers whose work has been
particularly highly praised and at least eighty-five percent of
that would have to fit into the over-eighteen category. Get the
picture? Sex sells, cliché or not. It’s tough for you but
it’s the truth. Besides, it’s not always you and Miss
Parker going for it, hammer and tongs. There are quite a few
writers who have a strong resistance to that idea.”
“I haven’t found any.” Miss Parker then shrieked
as her feet left the floor and her frantic apologies eventually
brought her back down to earth.
“And besides,” another voice joined in the
conversation. “It’s not just you. Plenty of other shows
have the same things. The X-Files, Star Trek, M*A*S*H*, The
Nanny, Hercules, Xena, you name it and there’s probably a
story about it somewhere, even if it’s only a
cross-over.”
“And at least,” stated another new voice, “we make
sure that you all stay up on top of the quizzes that are all over
the net at the moment. There’s even games which play on the
internet about you, like Lois’ Summer Camp and the official
NBC game.”
“It’s not our fault that you don’t enjoy what we
write, because we love reading it.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s imaginative, it’s fun and
sometimes it’s really funny. What more do you want?”
“A bit of peace and quiet.” The answer came from eight
throats simultaneously and the writers burst into laughter. It
was several minutes before the group could control themselves
long enough to continue the interview.
“All we want are some ideas from you, that’s all.
Something that we can use in our stories, or else to continue
something that we’ve already done. Oh, come on. It
can’t be that difficult.”
The inhabitors of the glass cage groaned and tried not to listen
but there was nowhere to hide and even the dimmest of them
realised that the sooner they complied, the sooner they would be
free.
“Can I get rid of this damn tank?”
“Why? The squeaking adds so much atmosphere!”
“Do I always need to be running away from everything?”
“Don’t blame us, Broots. We only build on the
characteristics that the real writers create.”
Miss Parker glared around at the group and tried to think of some
smart remark but the lack of control she had over the situation
left her desperately needing a cigarette, despite having quit
earlier that year. Jarod had once more joined the group,
preferring anonymity among those he knew to scrutiny from those
he didn’t.
“If you can do anything, can you get rid of her?”
Brigitte glared at Miss Parker, who returned the look with
interest.
“Certainly not. If we get rid of anyone, it will be
you.” Brigitte’s eyes widened with terror and she
shrank behind Mr Parker, trying to find a place to hide. Miss
Parker smirked. There was a long pause while those in the glass
container tried to think of some way to escape from or avoid the
situation which they could see approaching faster than they
liked. Finally, with a loud clap, the person who had originally
spoken stepped towards the glass panel. Immediately the occupants
began to shuffle backwards. However, instead of hitting the glass
as they had anticipated, they suddenly found themselves being
held in tight grips by those who had been standing behind them.
All eight were lined up, their hands held behind them, and,
slowly, the circle formed into a line and the group passed in
front of the terror-stricken octet. Then, very slowly, the line
began to back away. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, they began
to vanish into the dark. One by one, as the vanished, they
whispered their names, creating unnerving echoes in the darkness
and shadows.
"Terri…"
"Danielle…"
"EmJae…"
"Nikki…"
"Trisha…"
"Niceole…" The list went on and on but, gradually,
it faded away. Slowly, too, the light began to dim. Finally the
group found themselves alone, with only one thing left to
accompany them.
“Never forget who we are.”