I'm using Farscape characters,

Some of the greatest I know,

Though fanfic yields some great allures,

Copyright infringement is a big no-no.

I.E. We know whose is whose

Leaning against an organic orange wall, John Crichton sighed. Time lost its meaning aboard a living spaceship; for some amount of time, he had been stranded from Earth and very likely placed at the other end of the universe. It frustrated him to no end, and the beautiful brunette Sebacean sitting next to him realised it as much as he did.

Crichton kicked the wall idly. "I love you, too, Aeryn, but why can't it be like it was?"

"With me out for your hide and still with the Peacekeepers?" Aeryn laughed softly, with just the right amount of derision.

"I know," he mused. "But - "

"Commander Crichton?" interrupted the quiet voice of the ship's Pilot. Leviathans were unable to communicate directly with their crew, so a proxy was needed; Pilot's four-armed aquatic race had a natural link to the ships. The only downfalls were that some Pilots were younger and more brash - this one was a prime example, however little it showed - and the Pilot was confined to a small deck from which to assist the Leviathan.

"Go ahead, Pilot." Aeryn shook her head, and Crichton sat back down. Pilot's addresses usually included a run to the control room.

"Moya asks you to kick again; it seems you have found a ticklish spot."

"Kickling?" mused Crichton, hitting hard enough to make Aeryn wince. "Even Bruce Lee would have envied that."

"Bruce . . ?" asked the Peacekeeper, both amused and confused at the human's reference.

"I'll explain later," said the human, as the floor began to shake below them and a soft humming noise began.

"Pilot - what the frell is that?"

"The impact of your appendage has initiated a respiratory anomaly that she seems to appreciate."

"She's purring. Moya's purring," said Crichton quickly. "I'm coming to the control deck; with her shaking like this, anything could happen." So deftly that it could not have been a second thought, Crichton offered a hand. "Coming, Aeryn?"

The Sebacean smiled and took the hand, pulling herself off and wobbling down the corridor with the human. "Of course; I feel like I've been drinking litras of fellip."

"Only litras?"

Moya's corridors began to straighten out as the crew walked through; the purr must have been receding. Still, thought John, it was nice to see . . feel . . Moya having fun for once. More often than not, she took the brunt of unpleasant encounters.

"What happened?" came a low and sensitive voice. Ka D'argo, warrior by necessity, arrived in an offshoot passageway. "I play with the hangar ship, and next thing - "

"She was purring," interrupted John.

"Purring?"

"The hum you heard," explained Aeryn. "It's like a massage."

D'argo shook his head, hair-tentacles waving behind him. "I assume you're heading to control?"

"It's the next frelling room, Heavy D."

Thoughts came to D'argo more often than most Luxans, but he was still learning.

What a Tickle Can Bring

It seemed that the rest of the crew had come to the same conclusions - with a quick glance around, John noted that everyone else had in fact arrived. Stark, with the brown metal mask hiding his uncontrollable corporeal nature. Chiana, with her grey-and-white Nebari complexure. Rygel, the little green former king sitting on his thronesled.

"Who the bull frell riled Moya up?"

How could I forget, mused John. Jool, the eerily humanesque Interon with the scream.

"Me." The human strolled in with true rocket jockey swing. "Apparently Moya wanted a tickle- "

"Not to that extent," said Pilot. This time, his face was visible through a clamshell in Moya's ceiling, a pale blue scaled one with near- always distracted eyes. "She's laughing almost too hard - " that humming had increased, John realised - "but manages to send you her thanks."

"I'm not sure if I do," muttered Rygel, getting a rib nudge from Chiana. The Nebari flicked her flirtatious - intentional or not - glance at the clamshell. "Is she ever going to stop, Pilot?" and nudged the Hynerian again. "For that matter, will you?"

Rygel mouthed a No as Pilot did otherwise: "Eventually. She's already slowing down - there's something flying near her starboard hull."

"That would be?"

"A ship. Moya has no familiarity with the design itself . . " the Pilot paused.

"But?"

"Its inhabitants are a Sheyang, a Peacekeeper . . and . . I cannot tell."

If the Pilot was visibly confused, his expression was nothing compared to the rest.

"Let me see it," said D'argo idly.

"It repels her scanners; I've tried already."

The Luxan growled quietly, the first step to hyper rage. He rarely got all the way. "Where is it?"

As Pilot rattled off coordinates, the Luxan stalked off, John and Aeryn following.

Aeryn shook his head. "Oh no. You get to stay here."

"Me? You're the better pilot."

"You assume something's going to happen to - "

Jool's sudden scream drew wide eyes and sent them both away.

"What is that?"

"It's . . " Chiana frowned, silent for a few moments, partly to irritate Jool. It was so easy to do. When she spoke again, it was a whisper. "It's a Nebari cruiser."

"Nebari?" shrilled Jool.

Chiana flicked undiluted venom at the Interon. "I know. I am one." The venom was enough to silence the girl, and the Nebari stared back at the slender ship, its long sleek design bringing her the closest to brooding she had come in a long time. "Pilot - can you get through?"

"Are you sure you want to - "

"Yes." Chiana's snap brought Stark to whimpering; already the stress was getting to him.

A white-haired female with more than a few blue scars appeared on the screen, two black-haired males maneuvering behind her. Neither the female nor the males seemed familiar.

"Hail and welcome, Chiana," said the female in a quiet low voice, the formality with an Instigator's ice. "It was impossible to mistake your Leviathan in its reckless meandering."

"Meandering here meandering there meandering every - "

"Shut up, Stark."

"You, creature feature creature."

Rygel nudged Chiana and shook his head, motioning toward the argument with a whisper. "This is my territory," and faced the Nebari crew.

"Who - what in frell was that?"

"One of the oddest people I've ever met," said Rygel, craning his head forward on an arm. "Second only to yourself, of course."

The Nebari made a throaty vexed sound, and Chiana giggled from her mediation. "You should speak, Hynerian. I have heard many stories of your kind."

"Most of them true," shrugged the Slug. "I've heard stories of yours - this mind-cleansing Epidemic you intend to spread."

The Nebari's eyebrows shot up, and rushed down as quickly. Hit a nerve there. "It has nothing to do with our arrival - we merely found you by accident, and revel at our luck. Of course, talking to Chiana is a much more pleasant thing than you, deposed Dominar."

Her turn to strike a nerve. "Tratting tralk shnarple whin," hissed the Hynerian.

"That would be?" taunted the Nebari.

Rygel looked confused for a few seconds. "Shnarple whin!" and darted a paranoid glance.

"Moya has no weapons," said Pilot gently.

"Yotz!"

D'argo was heading outside, not bothering with a filter.

He intended to get in and stay in. The Peacekeeper first. Peacekeepers always first.

"You're not going in alone, Heavy D!"

The Luxan muttered something low and gravelly as his allies arrived; two pistols and a qualta blade readied themselves, pointing forward in near- exact unison. One of Moya's orange panels quivered, as though hesitant to open up.

"Opening now," came Pilot's voice, soft with coaxing.

With the innate elegance of her species, the Leviathan's hull panel slid down.

A beautiful blond Peacekeeper commando stood across from the three, a wrist-mounted gun readied on each hand. The Sheyang stood near just off to the left, its eyes gazing through their bulbous fat and ready for a literal firefight. Nonetheless, the commando was in charge; the Sheyang was watching her arm carefully. First sign of movement, and the fire would come, targeted perfectly toward its enemies.

"Fancy our luck," said the commando coolly, with an accent reminding Crichton of a Victorian-era court. "Stumble across a Nebari and find John Cretin."

"That's Crichton," frowned the human, getting a mere shrug from the commando. " . . and how do you know me?"

"Not through anyone you'd know."

"Try me." Scorpius, Crais, Maldis . .

"You might, I suppose. Matter of fact . . " she squinted. "I think you were mentioned by her."

"Her?"

Jool's shrill began again, stopped only by a particularly vicious glare from Chiana. Rygel frowned at the retreating ship in the view screen, bringing a slimy fist down on his throne. "The tralk! She was stalling!"

Stark ventured into coherency, "Maybe she planned a trap for your my - her side," before reverting to wringing his hands.

"How does your kind think, tralk?" asked Rygel, turning to Chiana, "If they think at all aside from their mind-cleansing trat."

The Nebari frowned at the screen, half-expecting the other to reappear. "Cleansing. That's all. They'll do anything for the Contagion."

"Frell," said Jool. "The Peacekeeper and Sheyang are probably contaminated."

"Just what the yotz we need."

"No other ideas in mind?"

Rygel stared at the empty screen, replying as though it were an afterthought. "I'm thinking . . "

"Die die we're going to die - "

"Brainless Banik actually says something bright."

"Death's our idea?" Jool posed slowly, without a screech and glancing at Chiana.

"It's madness, so if it doesn't work remember that the Banik brought it up. Pilot - disguise the lifesigns . . "