onehoopyprefect: (Default)
"Ford?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"I've come to a realization."

"And what would that be?"

"We're getting too old for this."

Ford peered up at the main ventilation shaft. The duct went straight up through the heart of the building, connecting every floor. A narrow ladder was affixed to one side. Their destination was the Accounts department, on the 22nd floor.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he agreed after a moment.

"I mean, really too old," Arthur continued. "I don't think you and I could make it up to the second floor like this, let alone the twenty-second."

"We'll figure something out." Ford stepped onto one of the rungs and grabbed hold with both hands. The instant his second hand gripped, the ladder lurched upwards. He let go with one hand, and the ladder stopped. "See?" he said quickly, covering up his surprise. "You worry too much."

Arthur, on the ground, could see the new rungs coming up from the base of the ladder, fed in a loop from the other side of the wall. On one of the rungs was a small inscription declaring this to be an "Eleladder" along with a familiar and oft-dreaded company logo. "I never thought I'd say this, Ford, but thank goodness for Sirius Cybernetics."

A tinny, metallic voice rang from, well, from the rung. "You're welcome."

"Oh, shut up," the Earthman snapped, climbing onto the ladder.

They found that the ladder would only move when both hands of each passenger were holding on, which was unusually safety-conscious of Sirius, but at least they could control their ascent. The two rode the eleladder all the way to the 22nd floor, where they climbed into an adjoining duct.

"What do you intend to do when we get to Accounts?" Arthur asked in a hushed whisper as they crawled.

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Ford replied.

"What?!"

"Well, frankly, I'm surprised we've made it this far."

"Terrific. You better come up with something soon; we're almost there!"

"I know, I know! Don't rush me."

There was silence for a moment, and then Arthur spoke up again. "Ford? I don't mean to rush you, but I just thought you'd like to know there's a gentleman pressing the muzzle of a gun against my back."

Ford huffed. "Tell him to wait his tu-- oh." He looked over his shoulder and saw the very same guard he'd asked directions from earlier. Obviously, he'd worked out who they were and had circled back after them. "In that case, you'd better grab hold of my legs," Ford added with a sigh.

Thirty years ago, perhaps even fifteen, Arthur would have asked why. He knew better than that now, and simply grabbed hold. As soon as Ford felt the pressure, he hit the wall of the duct with his fist in a quick staccato pattern. Almost immediately, an enormous gust of air filled the entire space, blowing back toward the main shaft. Ford covered his satchel with his body, but otherwise didn't move. Had Arthur not been holding on to Ford, he would have been blown backwards in an instant. The security guard, on the other hand, was only holding on to his gun, which wasn't nearly as rooted down as Ford. He disappeared down the shaft in less than a second, after which, the air died down.

"What the hell was that?!" Arthur panted.

Ford shrugged nonchalantly. "I signaled the ventilation system that there was a blockage in this vent, so it sent a blast of air to clear it."

"But why didn't it blow you back as well?"

"Grit. Determination. And a zarking big magnet in my satchel."

"Why do you have a -- never mind. I don't want to know. Did you kill that guard?"

Ford looked over his shoulder at Arthur. "Of course not!"

"Oh, good. There's something in the shaft, then, that detected him falling and caught him?"

"No, I just mean that it was the impact that killed him, not me."

Arthur grimaced. "You've gotten brutal in your old age."

"It's been a brutal life. Everything we've been through... Vogons, Krikkitmen, Antarian insurgents, Forsaken... you saying it hasn't made you harder?"

"Not hard enough to kill."

"Then you're a better being than me. But, I've always believed that." Before Arthur had a chance to respond to that, Ford pushed open a vent and swung down out of the duct.

Arthur dropped down next to him in the darkened room. "Where are we?" he whispered.

"Supply closet," Ford replied. "Inside the Accounts department."

"Ah. So, did you come up with a brilliant plan to accomplish your goal?"

Ford thought for a moment. "Actually, yes. Pass me that stapler."

A moment later, the door to the supply closet burst open. Arthur appeared, followed closely by Ford. He was gripping Arthur by the arm and pressing the butt of the stapler (pushed mostly into his sleeve to conceal it) underneath the Earthman's chin. "All right!" he barked. "Let's just everybody be cool, and I won't have to plug this poor sniveling bastard."

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Arthur hissed at him through gritted teeth.

Fortunately, the commotion in the office covered up the sound, as everyone scrambled for the exits, for refuge under their desks, or, in at least three cases, for weapons hidden in file cabinets. Only one person in the department seemed to be unconcerned by this development, and as it just so happened, it was exactly the person Ford was looking for.

"I'm the head of this department," the canoid said, hands raised calmly and ears flattened. "How about we just clear this room now, and you and I can discuss things rationally?"

Ford laughed. "I'm a bit past rational at this point! Get everybody out of here, nice and slow. Single file, if you please."

The workers and service drones filtered out as ordered. Once the door closed and locked, the department head nodded and slowly dropped his hands. "All right, Mr. Prefect, now we can talk."

"There's only one thing I need," Ford snarled, pressing the stapler harder against Arthur's chin, "and it doesn't involve talking!"

"Mr. Prefect! If you'll simply calm down and listen. We are prepared to acquiesce to your request. If you'll just release Mr. Dent there and put the stapler down, we can start the paperwork on your pension."

Ford's eyes narrowed, but he did put the stapler down and let Arthur go. His hand was getting tired anyway.

The canoid smiled. "Excellent. Now, if you'll just have a seat here."

Ford shook his head. "So that the snipers can get a clean shot? I don't think so. Let's sit over here where there's no direct line from the windows."

"As you wish." He lifted his water dish and took a couple of laps before setting it down and crossing the room to join Ford at the less exposed desk. "Now, half salary, was it?"

"It was half when I walked in. Now it's seventy-five percent. Or I tear this building down."

"Don't be absurd, Mr. Prefect," the Accounts head said with an amused grin. "I'm prepared to offer fifty-five."

"I'm a founding hitcher. Sixty-five," Ford insisted.

Arthur slid over in a chair from a neighboring desk. "Ford, what are you doing? Just take the offer; it's what you wanted!"

"They don't want me to have it, which makes me want it that much more," he replied, then looked back to the canoid. "Sixty-five. Come on, I don't have all day."

"I simply can't go higher than sixty percent," the canoid answered sadly. "It's really quite beyond me."

At Arthur's insistent glare, Ford sighed. "Oh, fine, then. Sixty. Let's get on with it."

***

Three floors up, Zarniwoop sat behind his desk watching the "hostage situation" through the closed-circuit cameras, chuckling to himself.

"You're simply going to give in to him, sir?" asked a security guard behind him.

Zarniwoop smiled. "Of course, Sargeant Il-Drango. I always intended to."

"Then why all the pretense? He assaulted you, sir, jumped out a window, tried to kill me... You're saying you let him do all that?"

"Naturally. This is Ford Prefect we're talking about. He wouldn't have trusted it if he didn't have to work for it."

-- End --
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
It had been roughly thirty-five years since Ford Prefect was last falling out the executive window of the offices of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Most people, in all that time, might have learned enough to be able to avoid a repeat performance. Ford is not most people. All time and experience had given him was the ability to recognize the circumstances under which he would most likely have to throw himself out the aforementioned window.

Gravity on Quiltan was about 80% of Earth (and Antarian) normal, which meant that Ford was not falling quite as fast as he would expect, although still plenty fast enough to make a serious impression on the ground some 24 -- wait, 23 now -- stories below. The last time he'd been here, he'd been saved by the Guide 2.0 and its reverse temporal engineering ability. The time before that had been due to ingenuity, quick thinking, and half a pair of shoes. This time, there was no Guide 2.0, and he was totally unwilling to sacrifice the only pair of comfortable shoes he now owned. Which was a sure sign he was getting old, he realized. He gave the 22nd floor the finger as he passed to make up for it.

His life started flashing before his eyes around the 21st floor. It was rather earlier than last time, but then, Ford had a lot more life to get through this time. There was the standard stuff, childhood on Betelgeuse Five, palling around with young Zaphod, starting at the Guide. That last bit flashed by too quickly for Ford's liking; it was just so very long ago now.

He was down to the 18th floor when he got to the bits about being stuck on Earth, meeting Arthur, and saving him from the Vogons. By the 17th, he was stranded on Earth again, the prehistoric version this time. Floor 16, Krikkit robots and the Wikkit Gate. Around the 15th floor, Ford got a terrible sense of vertigo as his memories replayed the last time he was falling out of a Hitchhiker's office building.

But then, the good stuff started. Coming to Milliways, the bar. Reuniting with everyone. Fighting to help liberate Antar. Falling in love with Trillian.

Ford's face fell. Of course, technically, the rest of him was falling right along with it, but in this case, his expression fell faster. He knew what was coming next, and he didn't need to go through it again. Of all the moments in his life to be replayed, those few seconds were the only ones he had dreaded. Which naturally meant that time would slow to a crawl so that he would be subjected to every single frame of it.

... the crackle of energy makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up ...

His relative calmness collapsed, and Ford began scrabbling at the side of the building, unable to find any purchase on the smooth exterior.

... he sees the open portal, watches Trillian pulled (jump) through it ...

He beat his fists against the passing windows, but he was falling too quickly to have any effect.

... he leaps after her, but he's an instant too late ...

Ford howled in frustration and remembered pain, kicking away from the building. Trillian had come back from that other place with a permanent limp, and no matter how many people told him that he wouldn't have been able to do anything had he been there, Ford was never able to shake the feeling that if he'd just been a little bit faster, things might not have turned out the same way.

Seemingly all at once, though, the regrets of the past were replaced by the (rather literal, if slightly reduced) gravity of the present situation. Still eleven stories off the ground and plummeting fast, Ford realized that he really did need to come up with some kind of plan for getting out of this. Or else make a decision as to what shape he would ultimately like to make when he met the ground. Already people down below were running to clear a space for the impending event.

Except for one little figure who didn't even seem to notice. He -- or she, it was still too far up to tell -- was flailing about in a most disagreeable manner. Either its limbs had suddenly and violently begun to revolt against the indignity of being attached to that particular torso, or the figure was trying to dance while possessing a complete absence of talent in that area. In fact, Ford thought as he passed the seventh floor, the movement was so utterly uncoordinated that far from being merely an absence of talent, this individual most likely possessed a complete black hole of anti-talent, such that anyone near them would have their own talent drawn out and absorbed by the void.

The anti-dancer moved from one unidentifiable step into another with a complete lack of transition or grace. By the time they shifted jerkily into the worst approximation of the Moonwalk in the galaxy, Ford was so transfixed that he utterly failed to notice he was no longer descending. The person below, though, did notice. Glancing upwards, the figure started to spin around, tripped, and promptly fell. Up.

The sight of the rising figure startled Ford enough to make him wonder why he no longer seemed to be falling, which, naturally, caused him to start again. He passed the rising person (now distinguishable enough to be male) around the fourth floor, whereupon the man caught him by the collar and pulled.

"Took you long enough," said a voice from above him. "I've been trying to get your attention since you passed twelve."

Ford looked up and blinked. "Arthur?!"

And it was. "Hold on, I'll bring us back down," he replied before lazily swooping them lower and lower until Ford could get a foot on the ground. Arthur drifted down beside him like a rather large, plaid leaf. "I couldn't judge the timing well enough with you at full speed, so I had to slow you down enough that I could get to you," he explained.

Ford grinned. "I should have figured. You always were the worst dancer I've ever seen. How did you get here?"

"Same as you," Arthur replied with a shrug. "I hitched a lift. I haven't forgotten everything you taught me."

"But why did you come in the first place?"

"I noticed the Guide entry on retirement said 'See Death', so I thought you might need my help. Besides, how could I miss the last adventure of the great Ford Prefect before he fades into retirement?"

Ford clapped his old friend on the shoulder. "So, the direct approach would appear to be a wash. If you were me, what would you suggest as the next step?"

"If I were you?" Arthur repeated, an eyebrow raised. "If I were you, I should think I'd suggest something rash and ill-advised."

Ford nodded. "Good plan. Let's go."

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say on the subject of proper planning: "Don't bother. Since there are, at any given time, an infinite number of possible outcomes of any action, and they are all equally likely to occur regardless of expectation or prior experience, it follows that any given consequence has only an infinitesimal chance of actually occurring, so what's the point in planning for it? You would be much better off spending the time relaxing with a refreshing beverage and developing a casual and easygoing approach to life." It is probably worth noting that this is one of the earliest entries made to the Guide, and has never been revised. However, peering around the corner of the H-shaped monolith at the phalanx of security personnel combing the grounds for him, Ford might have considered suggesting the following addendum: "While statistically improbable, though, certain consequences to certain actions do tend to occur with alarming frequency, such as being hunted down by security personnel after having punched your boss in the face and jumped out his window."

Arthur observed the guards from over Ford's shoulder and leaned in to whisper, "So, what do you reckon, Ford? Leap out, fists flying, you take the five on the left, I take the five on the right? Oh! And then we can change into their uniforms and go about the building pretending to look for ourselves!"

"Actually, I was thinking of just strolling right past them."

"Are you mad?" Arthur hissed, then shook his head. "No, scratch that. Are you madder than usual?"

Ford half-turned so that he could keep one eye on the guards and still turn one to Arthur. "Listen, these guys are trained to watch for that sort of behavior. They'd catch on to any hostile or suspicious action immediately. But if we act like everything is perfectly normal and we have every right to be here, it hits them in their blind spot. They're so busy looking for the guilty that they completely ignore anyone who appears innocent."

"That's either brilliant, or it's going to get us killed."

"Story of my life. Come on." Ford stood up straight and calmly walked around the corner, nearly colliding with the head of the security team. Seeming to notice the uniform and gun for the first time, he put on a bright smile and asked cheerily, "Do you work here?"

"Who wants to know?" the guard responded warily.

"Excellent, excellent," Ford continued without acknowledging the question. "My friend and I here were looking for the front door, but I can't seem to locate it. Would you be so good as to point us in the right direction?"

The guard looked Ford and Arthur up and down, and then sighed in annoyance. "Just follow the signs that say 'Main Entrance', sir. There's one directly behind you."

Ford turned toward the sign and smacked himself in the forehead. "Oh, is that what that meant? Well, that makes so much sense. Excellent work. I shall make a mention of this to your supervisor and recommend you for promotion."

"Just doing my job, sir," the guard replied, obviously flustered by the compliment.

"So few do, these days. Carry on, Sergeant Il-Drango," Ford continued, reading the guard's nametag.

The man considered the pair a moment longer, then nodded and snapped his hand forward. "Let's go," he called to his men, and started past Ford, the rest of the security team following closely behind.

"I can't believe that worked," Arthur said once the team had turned the corner.

"It's a universal tenet," Ford replied, "that people on the whole want to do as little work as possible. It was far easier for him to point to a sign than to work out that I was the one he was looking for, so he chose the simpler path."

"So, now what? Just through the front door?"

Ford shook his head. "The receptionist would nail us in a Squoncellan second. She's just not busy enough to be distracted. No, it'll have to be the ventilation shaft."

"Won't that set off the alarms?" Arthur asked.

"Not any of the ones that aren't already going off." Ford reached down and ripped off the cover to the nearest outer vent. "After you."
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
In the Hitchhiker's Guide offices, the word 'retirement' is most often followed by hysterical laughter. This is because it is rare for all but the most hardened Guide researchers to remain in the Guide's employ (read: survive) long enough to collect. Ford Prefect, as it has been noted numerous times (mostly by himself), is an exceptional researcher. After half a century of hitchhiking the length and breadth of the galaxy, he has been responsible for authoring or revising well over a hundredth of a percent of the entire Guide. Considering the Guide contains several million entries, this contribution is not as insignificant as it may at first appear. If anyone were entitled to a retirement pension, Ford reasoned, it would be him.

Granted, it wasn't as though he especially needed the money. His half-wife was Regent to the king of Antar, and his half-husband was a former Galactic President. He himself was a xenocultural advisor to King Zan and Queen Fainothi (Max and Faith, half a lifetime ago), which would have afforded him rooms in the palace had he not already been sharing with Trillian and Zaphod. He owned a significant interest in the wildly successful chain of sandwich shops that Arthur and Fenchurch opened about fifteen years back. He also had (much to her chagrin) a one-eighteenth stake in the estate of musical virtuoso Random Lyrae Annabel Frequent Flyer Dent. Any one of those sources could have supported him in a world of excess he no longer had the strength to indulge in, let alone the combined assets of all of them. But it was the principle of the thing. He'd given a lifetime's worth of service to the Guide, and now it was time they gave back.

General L'Dio (ret.), himself offered to arrange passage for Ford to the Guide offices aboard an Antarian cruiser, but Ford insisted he would rather get there the old fashioned way -- by hitchhiking. It seemed only fitting. There was a period of strained telepathic negotiation (read: yelling in his head) between himself, Rath, Trillian, and Zan, but in the end, a compromise was reached. The king dispatched a science vessel to study the Quiltanic Nebula (within which lay the planet currently home to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy offices); Ford stowed away in the hold and ducked down to the planet in an EVA pod while everyone else pretended not to notice.

There were no hushed whispers of admiration as Ford walked confidently through the lobby of the Hitchhiker offices. Ford was mildly annoyed by this; considering the career he'd had, he should be a legend around that place. He even had to show the receptionist his Guide ID badge and tell her his name -- twice! -- before she would agree to call up to the executive offices. Needless to say, it was not the most heartening of starts to this particular adventure.

Maxilon Zarniwoop III was the spitting image of his grandfather, whom Ford and Zaphod had helped to discover and chat with the eternally befuddled Ruler of the Universe. The Zarniwoops had retaken control of the Guide during the chaos that had ensued in the aftermath of the Guide 2.0 debacle and held it for the last thirty-odd years, an inspired achievement in a corporate world where 'hostile takeover' tends to involve thermonuclear devices. Any hope that Ford had that this would help his case went out the window (the very same one, in fact, that he himself had gone out years before) when Zarniwoop looked up at him from his desk and said, "Ah, yes. Mister... what was your name again?"

"Prefect?" Ford replied hopefully. "Ford Prefect. Oh, come on, surely your grandfather's at least mentioned me. I helped him complete his lifelong mission!"

Zarniwoop's eyes narrowed. "Of course, Mr. Prefect. I was confused because I failed to sense the aroma of Ol' Janx Spirit wafting in three paces ahead of you."

"I gave up drinking a number of years ago," the researcher said, the ice in his voice thick enough to chip off for drinks Ford wouldn't touch.

"Pity. My grandfather always said it made you more interesting."

"That was a long time ago. Now I'm interesting enough on my own."

Zarniwoop chuckled and held up a hand. "Yes, you're Prefect, all right. No one can fake that ego. What can I do for you?"

"A check for half salary every month until I die while I simply sit back and grow old would do quite nicely."

"And apart from the pay cut, this would be different from your current situation how?"

"Ha, ha. I'm not fooling, Zarniwoop. The Guide owes me. You owe me. If it weren't for me, Vann Harl and the Vogons would still be running this place."

"The popular version of that tale holds that the Guide 2.0 engineered its own destruction and merely used you as a means to that end."

Ford crossed his arms and glared. "And since when has the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy cared about the popular version of anything?"

"Times are different." Zarniwoop stood up, walked to the small bar in the corner of the room, and began to fix himself a drink. Ford wrinkled his nose when the bitter tang of alcohol drifted into the air. "When my grandfather owned this company, it was little more than a disreputable group of petty criminals seeking to legitimize their exploits and make a profit off them."

"Good times," Ford interjected.

Zarniwoop scoffed. "No doubt. But that is no longer the case. The Guide is a respected institution now. In some sectors of the galaxy, it has already--"

"--supplanted the Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom. Yes, I know. I wrote the Guide entry on the Guide. Not bad for a disreputable group of petty criminals, wouldn't you say?"

"All the more reason why it is necessary now to do away with the image of the past and move forward into a stronger and brighter future. Since I took the helm, Guide sales have increased by 3 percent!"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Guide sales increase by 3 percent every year. It's concurrent with the rate of galactic population growth."

"Yes, but I only took control of the company four months ago. I'm afraid you don't understand the bigger picture here, Mr. Prefect. I don't just intend for this company to supplant Galactica in parts of the galaxy. I intend for the Guide to buy them out and replace them completely."

"I'm going to have to jump out the window again, aren't I?"

"You may find that difficult," Zarniwoop pointed out with a predatory grin. "I've had them Etern-O-Sealed."

"I think you underestimate my determination."

"And you underestimate my apathy." Taking a sip of his drink, Zarniwoop strode to the window and looked out at the crackling sky made by the surrounding nebula. He swirled the drink, clinking the ice against the side of the glass and somehow managing to make even that simple sound drip with disdain. "Mr. Prefect, as I understand from your request that you no longer intend to write for the Guide, I have no choice but to t--"

Ford moved with surprising speed for a man his age. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the back of Zarniwoop's elegantly tailored suit, slamming the head honcho's face forward into the Etern-O-Sealed window. He leaned in close and hissed in Zarniwoop's ear, "The next words out of your mouth had better be 'take you down to payroll and authorize your pension'. You see, Zarniwoop, times may be different, but so am I. What you do with the Guide? I couldn't possibly care less. Buy the Galactica, write it backwards in a mirror image, make it in the shape of a dog, a fish, a Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal... whatever. It doesn't matter a zarking bit, because I'm out. I've devoted my life to this company. I helped build it up from four scruffy hitchhikers who had a crazy idea in between benders. But you wouldn't understand that, would you, Zarniwoop? The only time you ever stick out your thumb is to turn it down at something you don't like. The Guide owes me, and by Zarquon, I am going to collect."

He pushed Zarniwoop harder against the glass before releasing his grip and stepping back. "Now. You were saying?"

The Guide executive set his glass down on a coaster on the corner of his desk and straightened his suit. "I was saying," he began, then lunged at Ford, fists swinging.

Ford ducked the first, blocked the second, and then slammed his palm into Zarniwoop's face, sending the man crashing to the ground. "Don't you know that alcohol dulls your reflexes?" he asked sardonically. Zarniwoop just looked up at him, surprise written across his eyes as he daubed at the trickle of blood from his nose with the hankerchief out of his pocket. At the look, Ford explained, "Antarian martial arts are really quite something. When you're expecting your enemy to be telepathic, it means you have to learn how to move without thinking."

"I was just going to fire you, Prefect," Zarniwoop snarled, making no move to get up. "But now I think I'll demote you. Send you down to Records for the rest of your life; how's that sound?"

The Records department of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is, of course, a gentle colloquialism for the office's internal prison. According to the Galactic Penal Code, any sufficiently large multi-planetary corporation is responsible for the policing of its own employees. This revision was enacted following the Spixus murder trial. While an employee of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation, Jagren Spixus got into a brawl with a Thalenid in open space onboard a Salaxan cruise ship that he had boarded on Kital and the Thalenid had boarded on Rigel Prime. The Thalenid was thrown into an ice sculpture where, due to the quirks of Thalen physiology, he burst into flames at the contact and died. Spixus was arrested for the death, but as the trial date approached, no one was quite sure which world had jurisdiction. The Thalen homeworld had been decimated by a drastic climate change, their race scattered throughout the galaxy with no central government, so they were ill-equipped to take responsibility. Ostiena Theta, Spixus' birth planet, had recently been destroyed due to an accident with a particle accelerator and a pot noodle. The governments of Kital and Rigel Prime argued that neither could accept the jurisdiction for the crime simply because they were the last planets the killer and victim had walked on. And though the cruise ship was Salaxan in origin, it had been leased to a Vegan corporation at the time.

Lawyers for the various governments, along with the counsel provided for Spixus by his employer, argued for years, and Spixus eventually died in prison without ever seeing the inside of a courtroom. To avoid such future complications, the Galactic government issued the penal code revision by presidental decree (which was, incidentally, signed, 'Love and kisses, Zaphod') stating that the responsibility of policing, trying, and imprisoning corporate employees lay with the corporation itself. It is interesting to note that two years later, the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation became the largest single employer of both lawyers and security personnel, their combined numbers exceeding that of the rest of the employees.

All of this was on the forefront of Ford's mind at hearing Zarniwoop's threat. He flexed his hands stared down at his boss huddled on the floor. "And how are you planning to get me there?" he asked defiantly.

"That coaster is sitting on top of a button to summon security. All it needed was the pressure of my glass to activate it," Zarniwoop replied calmly. "So, the question is, how are you planning to escape?"

"Belgium!" Ford swore. He walked over to Zarniwoop and reached down. The executive flinched, then sighed in relief when Ford merely snatched the hankerchief. Wrapping the fabric around his hand, Ford hesitated in front of the half-finished drink. For the tiniest moment, he considered draining the rest of it, but regained his resolve quickly. He moved to the window, took a deep breath, and punched the Etern-O-Sealed glass with all his strength.

It shattered.

"Never trust advertising," he said over his shoulder to the shocked Zarniwoop, and then jumped out the window.
onehoopyprefect: (Don't Panic)
When the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy offices were located on Ursa Minor Beta, the entrance lobby to that building was voted the second hippest place in all of Ursa Minor. Relocation to Trintranix Five has not dulled that hipness (hipitude?), but it does mean that because of the Trintranix Academy of Bartending and Hackeysack on Trintranix Four, the lobby must resign itself to the number three position in this system.

The reception desk is a gleaming white circular raised dais manned by a receptionist with three eyes and three arms, busily typing two-handedly at the computer terminal while her third arm mans the switchboard.

She(?) looks up at Truman's approach. "Yes, may I help you?"
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
Ford opens the hatch to the EVA pod -- Apple, as Trillian insists her name is -- and lets Arthur and Truman go in first. He follows them in and seals the door.

"So, whaddya think, Truman? First actual spaceship. How is it?"
onehoopyprefect: (Guide)
Ford leads the way into the pod, dropping into the pilot's seat with a groan. He disabled the kangaroo circuit -- he knows exactly where he's going this time. Coordinates set, both pilot and passenger secured, he fires the ship up and they're off.
onehoopyprefect: (My Heart)
It was time.

It had probably been time for a number of weeks now, but Ford didn't want to admit it.

He was a traveller. That was his nature. Going somewhere twice... usually isn't part of it.

Home isn't something he'd ever considered. Not even being stranded on Earth for 15 years was enough to make him accept it as home.

But the humans have a saying that 'home is where the heart is'. And if that's true, then there's only one place in the universe that could possibly count.

The end of it.

Where she is.

And it was time.
onehoopyprefect: (Escape Reality)
Ford dives through the open hatch of the EVA pod, already composing the footnote to the entry he'll be sending off. "Readers are advised that the management of the spaceport's major pub, the words 'Can you run me a tab?' are apparently translated as 'Please start swinging a spiked bat at my head'. Further, the words 'Please stop swinging that at my head, you crazy sod' seem to be translated as 'Now get a bunch of your friends to chase me with billiard cues and broken bottles'."

At the moment, though, Ford is too occupied with sealing the pod against the aforementioned friends to worry too much about writing. He just manages to avoid having a kidney ventilated before the door closes. He gives one last look around as the pod powers up, and then he fires up the Kangaroo drive and just lets it go...

.
.
.

... and drops out of the space-time wash a few moments later.

Ford pops the door and steps out into what appears to be a small warehouse or storage space. At least, that's what he thinks it is until the world suddenly banks about 10 degrees. It's about that time that he notices the cargo bay doors.

"Oh, Zarquon, not another ship."

Landing inside other ships has been historically bad for Ford Prefect.

[ooc: I'm not even going to try and organize this because of the differences in everyone's schedule, so just have at it, and we'll figure it out as we go along. This'll be millitimed to whenever you guys tell me it can be. I'm the guest, and all of you are doing me such a HUGE and wonderful favor for playing along, so I don't want to step on any other plots you're involved in.]

OOC

Dec. 11th, 2005 09:32 pm
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
Serenity OOM Idea:

Okay, so I've spoken to a few of the Firefly muns about this idea, and rather than trying to catch everyone on AIM, I figured I'd just make the general post here.

Here's the gist. Ford is currently hopping around through space-time in an EVA pod with a Kangaroo Relocation Drive. Which, if you're unfamiliar with Hitchhiker canon, is basically an emergency escape mechanism. You don't get to plot a destination; it just throws you through space and time without a care, and there's no way to figure where you'll end up.

So, using this idea along with my personal desire to thread with the Firefly group, I had the idea of Ford running into them at some point. This can happen in a couple of ways, depending on what people are interested in. The two main ideas I've come up with are:

1. Ford pops into Serenity's cargo hold. For simplicity's sake, the ship should be maybe a few hours away from planetfall. That would allow Ford some brief interaction with the crew, and then he'd offload himself and pod planetside and go off to do his own thing.

2. The crew are on one of the outer planets in the middle of some job or other (the more disreputable, the better), and Ford's pod just appears in the middle of it for great chaos.

So, what I'd like to know is, which of you would be interested in participating, when you would be available for such threadage, and which scenario sounds more fun/interesting/workable. (Or if there's something else that seems more sensible.)

Thanks!
onehoopyprefect: (Bummed)
To repeat... OOC

Okay, I gotta say this.

Between gods, Endless, psychics, omipotent beings, reckless time travellers, and CSI, there is no reason why Meg's death would have remained unsolved for more than a day -- if not reversed entirely.

This plot has taken over the entire bar, leaving those of us who did not have pups that knew Meg completely stranded, useless, and unplayable.

It is highly irritating.

That is all.
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
So it's come to this, has it?

And it had. It truly had. Ford had been monitoring the Sub-Etha band for days now. He'd been checking the Thumb for any glimmer of activity. But the fact was that this particular wherewhen was simply too far away. There was nothing. No way for him to hitch out of here.

"Out of here" being the place that he now knew he needed to be. Away from this place. Before he made things any worse.

So. Only one other option left. He grabs some paper and scribbles down some notes.

To Arthur Dent )

--

To Trillian Astra )

--

To Random Dent )

--

That complete, he heads out of his room and down the stairs.
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
((ooc: Millitimed to late morning on the 24th, before the rescue mission to Roswell))

It was tough to leave. It always is when you make a connection with someone, on any level, even the purely physical.

Nevertheless, Ford managed to take his leave from Faith's room and return to his own. It seems so much smaller now after having seen the size of the Slayer's suite. But then again, it was still bigger than some places he's stayed.

A lot of the hurt in his chest was drained out, along with much of the worry and tension and everything else. He hadn't really even thought about Trillian since Faith took his hand and let him away from Max. It was a break from his own mind, from his own life, and he very much needed one.

So why do I feel like I betrayed her?

He knows he shouldn't. He knows she was married, with all that entailed. He knows they shared no level of committment beyond friendship. He knows that the friendship he has with Faith will never stray beyond that; that the sex is no more than recreation or an expression of kindly affection. He knows all of this.

But I still feel it.

Come home soon, Trillian. We miss you.
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
He lied.

He didn't go to sleep after leaving everyone on the bridge.

In fact, he didn't even go back to his room.

He just wandered the corridors of the ship, aimlessly, for hours, avoiding everyone.

Only now is he finally returning to his quarters, mentally and physically exhausted.

"Door?" he whispers to the door to his room.

"Yes?" comes the mechanical reply.

"I have had a zarking bad night, so when I step forward for you to open, I want you to say absolutely nothing. If you do, I swear, I will have you shut down, removed, junked, ground into little bits, and recycled as chaff. Do you understand?"

And somewhere, in the deepest depths of the computer's programming, it did. The door slid open without a peep.
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
Well. Lucky break for me, then, isn't it, froods?


Ford Prefect

DON'T PANIC

Congratulations, you hoopy frood! The world is your pan galactic gargle
blaster. Even when you think the Man is getting you down, you can rest
assured that it is only the prelude to another favorable adventure.












My test tracked 1 variable How you compared to other people your age and gender:
free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 32% on dentity




Link: The Hitchhiker's Guide Personality Test written by donquixotic on Ok Cupid
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
Stepping through the door of the bar, Ford and Trillian exit into Trill's ship. Ford recognizes the distinctive style of the Heart of Gold. Definitely one of the EVA pods, then. No improb drive, but a hyperspace core and a temporal jump drive. Only things they'll be needing on this trip.

Ford gives her the coordinates for Gwillanti Prime, and motions toward the pilot's chair. "After you, Captain."
onehoopyprefect: (Default)
Ford is sitting in his bed, the Guide in his lap, open to "Compose" mode. Where it has been the entire night.

This isn't easy for me to write

Delete.

You know how I'm always looking for a good time? Well, now I'm looking for something else.

Delete.

Dump that two-headed egomaniac. He never loved you as much as he loves himself anyway.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

So much for pulling off an improbable event.
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