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Author’s Note:
When I wrote this over the course of fall 2002, it was little more
than a means of venting my frustration with certain mainstream
networks and my sorrow over the show’s untimely demise, which
was looming so ominously even a year before the final episode
actually aired. Five years later, this story is little more than a
short AU fic; to my delight it is not an accurate depiction of the
current status of the series. With the release of Bender’s
Big Score so close to fruition as I write this, Futurama’s
prospects look brilliant.
May this story now, if
nothing else, serve as a reminder of the bleak times this series
faced and as a testament to the fans that refused to leave it for
dead. Thank you all for making this story obsolete.
Far behind the velvet
curtains, the lights were growing dim. Only a few small, hanging
bulbs illuminated the various figures as they scurried to find their
places on the stage. A few nerve-wrecked musicians remained
backstage, facing a gritty mirror that had been worn and cracked by
decades of dust (and, perhaps, the notes of Opera singers). A stage
manager rushed by angrily, barking that they had five minutes left
until the curtain rose.
One musician remained at the mirror,
despite the warnings. He scowled as he tried to forcefully flatten
his rowdy hair, only to have it flair up again. "Damn you..."
he growled at the uncooperative strands. They failed to give in,
though, so he finally gave up.
He felt the sudden urge to
grasp his Holophonor, and he did so without any further prompting. He
sighed as his hands twirled the instrument nervously, a movement he
had no control over.
"Your
replacements are much more special than you realize. You can do great
things with these hands."
"But why me?"
"Because you're worthy, my boy. Worthy of my assistance."
Why should I listen to you? Aren't you supposed to be the Prince of Evil or something?"
"Only among robots, Philip."
Fry gently fingered the nearly undetectable bump in his palm, having gained temporary
control of his fingers. He'd foolishly assumed it was his career
chip, until he'd discovered that both hands were occupied. He had
learned a short time ago that an old acquaintance had placed them in
there purposely, as a means of controlling his hands. The Robot Devil
seemed very apologetic, though, when he discovered that Fry knew. In
exchange for forcing this experiment on the P.E. delivery boy, the
Devil was willing to help him complete any one task of his own
desire.
"You'll really help me do this?"
"Of course. It's the least I can do."
"But...what about the hall? The audience? Where do I get all that?
"Leave it to me, Philip. Everything will be taken care of."
Fry fingered the
Holophonor again as the stage manager snapped at him. He could feel
the control over his own two hands fading as the Devil, probably
hidden deep in his New New Jersey lair, took over. It was one of the
most bizarre sensations he'd felt, but by now, he was used to
watching his numb hands perform without his aid. Tonight, he was
hoping they'd work wonders.
Tonight, Leela was watching.
Radio City Mutant Hall wasn't anything like the name
implied. The hall was an architectural masterpiece with walls of
blended gold and bronze set in a pleasant swirling pattern, and dark
velvet curtains draping around the entrances, hanging below the
lights, and, of course, concealing the stage. A large balcony hung
over the sloping theater floor, while two smaller ones were
positioned on either side of the hall.
Leela was in the rightmost balcony, dressed in a shimmering red evening gown that only
a woman with a figure like hers could have gotten away with. Her hair
was done up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, and her
golden dangling earrings brushed against her cheek as she turned her
head sharply to glare at the empty seat next to her.
Where the hell was he?
She'd long been aware of her experience in
getting dumped, but she had always figured that Fry was too nice to
pull such a trick. Evidently, she had reasoned incorrectly.
"Goddamn that little bastard!" she hissed under her breath as the lights
dimmed. She could have cried, but crying was a sign of weakness, and
she was stronger than that. So she engulfed herself with rage
instead.
Unfortunately, in that precise moment, Bender chose
to waltz into the balcony and steal Fry's seat. Leela tried to ignore
him; chewing off a robot's head during any sort of concert had never
been well-accepted, even in New New York. After a few minutes of
silence, Leela spoke.
"Fry's sitting there."
"I don't see him anywhere, do you?" Bender quipped apathetically.
Leela growled.
"Look, he gave me the seat!" he added cautiously.
"So...he's not coming then."
"I wouldn't say that. He's got something cooked up for you. I'm, um, just not at liberty to say
what."
"Why not?" the cycloptic mutant snarled, her voice dangerously low.
"I just can't!" Bender said hurriedly, noting Leela's glare. "He told me, and then he
paid me a hundred bucks to erase it!"
As Leela fell back into her chair, arms crossed in fury, Bender stretched his arm far
into the crowd below and snatched up Kif and Amy's wallets.
The lights dimmed even further, until only the tiny white lights lining
the theater's walkways and balcony railings were left illuminated. An
announcer's voice filled the room through the speakers hidden in the
walls, welcoming the audience and rattling off a list of threats as a
means of keeping people from smoking during the show, or eating a
fellow audience member. Leela ignored the warnings as she continued
to ponder.
Why had he even bothered to get tickets? They must
have been expensive (these seats were far beyond decent). The show
itself was almost impossible to get into. And yet last week, Fry had
approached her with two tickets to see Raynand Cinléz, one of
the universe's few talented Holophonor players. Leela had thought it
was an incredibly sweet gesture, even by her standards, and had
accepted the invitation. Fry had been elated.
So where was he now?
The announcer must have stopped rambling at some point,
because the entire theater was now silent. The curtain rose to reveal
nothing more than that the orchestra pit was open and in use (not a
surprising sight, since most Holophonor players rarely played solo).
The audience began to clap lightly, but the volume increased when
Cinléz strolled towards center stage, his instrument in hand.
He turned towards the assembly and bowed. They clapped all the
harder.
"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and all the
other anomalous genders that I was previously unaware of. Tonight, I
have a special treat for you all.
"Last week, someone
found his way to my hotel room and begged me to let him play in the
show. 'Just one song, that's all I need!'" Cinléz began
to pace the stage, and even from her seat, Leela could see the
bemused smile growing on his face. "Mind you, I get offers like
this on an hourly basis from all sorts of fans, but he seemed so
determined. So, I sat him down and told him to show me his stuff. And
he played." Here, Cinléz stopped for a moment. "My
God, could he play." he added thoughtfully.
"He certainly had the talent, and I'd hate to be the one to dash his
dreams, so I invited him to the show tonight, so he could show off
his ability. May I present to you, my opening act..."
Cinléz's opening act wandered onto the stage. Leela could have died right then and there.
It was Fry. With his Holophonor.
"Bender!" she hissed as the room filled with applause. "What the hell is he doing!?"
"Trying to catch your attention. Is it working?"
"Yes!" Leela snapped. She stared at
her co-worker as he waved a few times to the audience. He seemed
different; it wasn't just the fancy tux, or the freshly polished
instrument in his hand. He actually looked... well, not scared. Far
from it. He was confident, and not in that hot-headed way, either. He
seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
Cinléz shuffled to the side of the stage as Fry took his place in the
center. Before he began, he turned towards Leela and smiled proudly.
Leela wasn't sure how she was supposed to react, so she just smiled back.
And so it began.
Deep in the hellish heart of New New Jersey, the Robot Devil was well hidden from the
world. In front of him was a large monitor, projecting an image of
the very stage on which Fry was performing. Hovering inches above a
small tabletop close by was a pair of robotic hands, moving
melodically as they played a fictional instrument in midair. In the
image, Fry's own hands seemed to mimic the robotic ones. The Devil
laughed as he fingered a file on the desk in front of him: Hellish
Plan # 10570.
It had been much too easy for him. Years ago,
when Fry had lost his hands to a hungry T-Rex, the idiot had bought
himself a new pair. The purchased hands had been specially rigged
with the controlling chips by the Devil himself. His original intent
was to have Fry kill off that despicable bending unit while he was
under his control, but time had allowed a new idea to form. After
Fry's performance (and during Cinléz's concert), he would
force the boy to barricade the entire theater. Then, the Devil would
arrive to greet his new hostages, before introducing them to his
home-bred methods of torture.
"Oh, I can't take the
tension! An entire building of humans at my disposal! It's like being
locked in my own funhouse!" he howled happily. "There's
just nothing like the sound of a human scream. Robots can't even come
close to making that sort of overwhelming uproar."
Fry was more than halfway through his song; the sort of fluffy romantic
crap that he'd always wanted to play. The bolts in the Devil's jaw
creaked as he grinned evilly at the screen.
"Its all thanks to you, Philip. All thanks to you..."
Something was wrong. When the exclamation flew from his mouth, it didn't echo
throughout the cavern as his other words had. These words sounded
empty. He slowly glanced towards the ceiling. The room seemed
brighter than it had been before. There wasn't more light, but there
were less shadows. Even his circuits seemed to freeze up. The Robot
Devil whipped around to face this new threat.
He saw nothing. It was the last thing he ever laid eyes on.
Fry had kept his eyes closed throughout the entire performance. He was
afraid to look at Leela, afraid of what her reaction might be. Only
when the final note came to rest, when he felt the Devil's control
over him depart, did relief run through him. Whether or not she
accepted him after this, he had tried his best. That was all that
mattered when he finally opened his eyes.
A deafening roar
seemed to surround him, and he watched, stunned, as the entire
theater rose from their seats, praising him enthusiastically. His
eyes scanned the rows rapidly as he felt a wave of shock. This was
for him?
His gaze shot towards the balcony, for he was unable
to anticipate her reaction any longer. She stood there among the
rest, gripping the balcony tightly as she stared at him, humbled.
Their eyes met, and a small smile crept across her face. "She
liked it..." he whispered to himself, awed.
The moment was fleeting. Muttering overthrew the applause as the lights
brightened and dimmed at an alarming rate. Moments later, they went
out altogether, and the theater was thrown into complete darkness.
A few frightened screams bounced off the walls. Fry thought he heard
Cinléz tell everyone to remain calm before asking where the
hell the tech crew was. Someone brushed against his back, and Fry
whirled around. There were footsteps everywhere; too many people were
trying to escape from the dark. Seconds from now, they would wish
that the dark had remained.
A brilliant flash of white
engulfed the crowd. Fry shielded his face, but the light was too
strong. His eyes burned furiously as they tried to adjust to the
scene. More horrific screams could be heard, and he was desperate to
see why.
Finally, his vision returned. The morbid sight before
him seemed surreal: all the theater walls had disappeared, and so had
a good chunk of the audience. At first, he thought the walls had
collapsed; but if the walls had collapsed, why couldn't he see the
rubble? Or the city beyond?
A great whiteness surrounded him
and the remaining patrons. Whiteness. It was the only word that could
describe it. It didn't give off light; it had merely reduced the
darkness when it had removed the walls. As he watched the edges of
this phenomenon blur the fine line between reality and oblivion, he
realized that the room was shrinking. The Whiteness was creeping it's
way across the floor, erasing the various chairs and lights (and the
occasional person) that lay in its path as though it was oblivious to
the objects.
Oblivious. "Oh my God... Leela!" He
jerked his head towards her balcony. Leela was being crowded into the
railing by Bender and a few other patrons as the Whiteness engulfed
the surrounding walls. The pallid background that she'd been forced
into made her look as though she was floating.
Fry stumbled
off the stage and tried to sprint towards her, but the frightened
crowd kept pushing him back. The screams were everywhere now;
frightened cries filled the air. Any witness to the scene would have
agreed that, truly, all hell had broken loose. It took all of Fry's
effort to ignore the bedlam and keep his focus on Leela. The
Whiteness was pushing towards her, and with her eye full of fright,
she climbed onto the railing itself.
His angel fell. She'd
tried to jump away from it, but something had gone horribly wrong.
She plummeted into the anchored chairs below, and neglected to rise
again.
Fry screamed her name vainly as he shoved his way
through the wave of chaos. He never noticed Bender lower himself from
the balcony and flee towards the stage without a scratch. Finally, he
found enough space to scramble over the split chairs and other
debris. He sank beside her and grasped her shoulders. "Leela? Oh
God," he choked. "Jesus, Leela, wake up. Please!" He
shook her gently. She grimaced.
The tears that he'd been
furiously blinking back finally spilled forth. He wrapped his arms
around her and pulled her close. Leela gave a painful whimper. "It's
okay," he whispered. "We'll get out of here and..." He
glanced up and saw that the Whiteness was inching its way across the
few chairs that separated it from them. Without hesitation, Fry
lifted Leela into his arms and hurried towards the stage. He felt her
grasp his jacket tightly, only to loose consciousness and slip away
from him.
The thickness of the crowd had decreased
dramatically; most had already reached backstage, if they hadn't
already been liquidated. Even as he neared the stage, Fry knew it was
a hopeless cause. He could already see hints of the Whiteness behind
the backdrop. With a heavy heart, he saw that they were
surrounded.
"Leela... I don't know what to do." Fry
could hear the helplessness in his own voice, the pleading that
wanted Leela to open her eye and walk him through the steps that
would save them both. Leela never answered, though, for she was far
too lost in her comatose state to respond. He searched the stage for
any escape, even a temporary one. His eyes fell on the orchestra
pit.
It wouldn't save them, but they'd escape most of the
turmoil. He managed to hoist both himself and Leela onto the stage,
before he peered over the edge of a gaping 4' x 8' hole below. A few
frightened faces peered back up at him. He glanced back at Leela and
gave a shuttered sigh, before carefully sliding them both into the
pit.
A few people glared at him as he curled up between a
rusty drum set and a music stand, as though he'd crossed into their
sacred terrain. Fry tried his best to ignore them, focusing on Leela.
He brushed a few loose strands away and stared at her precious face.
A desperate thought awoke then, and Fry realized that this was the
last time he'd ever touch her; that in a few moments, they would both
be dead.
He started shaking, and he could feel the tears
stream down his face as he held Leela tightly against him. "I'm
sorry," he murmured in a small voice. "I'm sorry I brought
you here. I'm sorry I had to bring you here at all... that I was
never what you wanted. That I was such a slob... such a pest.... such
a jerk..."
He was bawling now, so sure that everyone else
in the room was staring at him, but he didn't care. So many regrets
had built up in him so abruptly, the guilt was overwhelming.
"I tried to give you everything you ever wanted... and I failed. You
deserved so much better than that. Your life is in my hands, and I
can't save it."
I've failed. I'm so sorry-" he broke
off and buried his sobs in her hair. She never stirred through his
little monologue. If only she had; then he might have known....
One of the few gathered in that little room howled loudly, and a few
cried out in shock, but Fry didn't look up. He knew what was
happening. All he wanted was for it to pass quickly.
As the wails multiplied, the room grew colder. It had gone unnoticed in the large
theater, but the tiny room forced this observation at the group. It
was as though the Whiteness was evicting the heat from the
atmosphere. Fry clutched Leela's still figure tightly; he could feel
her shattered shoulder dig deep into his chest. He considered his
final comment, whether he should say those three little words one
last time. But something told him that after all these years of
proclaiming them proudly, she knew well how he felt. So he gently
kissed her forehead and managed his last goodbye with a suppressed
sob.
And then the Whiteness found him.
The pain was
beyond excruciating. His hair stood up on end as the heat came
rushing back. Every nerve in his body was being ripped apart in an
inferno of agony. It was as if every part of him was dissolving, as
though a thousand scalding daggers were piercing right through him.
He was screaming at a volume his voice had never before achieved, but
his brain failed to register this. His mind was fading rapidly as
Death overpowered him, and the only thought that brought him any
relief was that Leela wasn't screaming alongside him.
The so-called Whiteness went by unnoticed by the fans of the
show. FOX had been beyond cautious in their approach of how to cancel
the show. Months prior, advertising had been tripled, and the
time-slot was less tampered with. They even went as far as to sell
the syndication rights to Cartoon Network. After all, they wanted to
keep the fans at bay...
Few watching the show understood the
sincere basis for these actions. Publication and syndication aside,
the show was still destroyed. They'd succeeded to betray thousands of
fans into believing that the show had been renewed, that new episodes
were in the making. This was the foolish thinking that FOX wanted,
because it was misleading. Why should they allow the continuation of
a show whose creator had given them so many headaches? The Simpsons
only existed as a cash cow. Futurama was expendable, and that's all
there was to it.
No one watching Futurama that night could
have been any wiser. Right after Fry's final performance, the show
ended for good. As the world came crashing down upon him, FOX hid it
by rolling the credits.
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