Roger Wilco - Aimless by BLusk Writer's Note: This fan fiction occurs between SQ4 and SQ5, during the unspecified time after Roger Wilco returns from the time rip but before he gets his act together to enter StarCon. ------------------ "I've had it!" Roger screamed. A pencil flew across the room in a forlorn arc, bounced, then rolled against the trash can that was it's intended target. The former janitor buried his face in his hands. He'd been working as a junior accountant at Barter Bandyson for three weeks, determined to make something more than 'just a janitor' out of himself. Unfortunately, all he had learned in the last three weeks was the operation of the office shredder and coffee machine. The only thing he had determined at this point is that he had no head for math... which is not a good quality for an accountant. After trying for three weeks to balance the books of Penron, he was fed up beyond all hope. What he didn't realize was that Penron's books had been cooked years ago, and nothing in them actually balanced, but he didn't know this, and therefore was convinced that he could never be an accountant. He stormed into the office of the senior accountant, tendered his resignation, and was on the street within 15 minutes, a box of office supplies under one arm, his last paycheck in his pocket. Since his resources were limited, he walked the several miles to his small, dismal apartment in a creaky high rise building. It wasn't the best neighborhood on Xenon. The dark characters who inhabited the streets would make a gangster call for backup. Fights between vagrants were common, and more than once, Roger had stepped over a dead body on his way home. Entering his apartment, Roger dropped the box on the floor and collapsed into his E-Z-Boy recliner. He flicked on the 3D TV to the "All Reruns Channel", and fell asleep to the sounds of "Lost in Space". *** The sunlight snuck through the holes in the polarization screen, wandered about the room briefly, then pried at Roger's tightly shut eyelids. He struggled briefly, then gave up, squinting at the brightness. Stretching, he stumbled to the bathroom. Cranking the shower to it's coldest setting, he slipped under the spurting spray. --- Two buildings away, a janitor was slowly mopping the last champaign spill after the previous night's office party. The janitor looked up as the windows rattled and a chilling scream split the cool morning air. Moments later, before the echoes of the first scream had died away, a second bone-chilling scream followed. After contemplating for a moment, the janitor lost interest in the odd screams, then resumed the mind-numbing work of cleaning the floor. --- Roger never realized the shower had a "cryogenic freeze" setting, nor had he realized until the moment he had whipped the knob the other direction that the shower had a "boiling hot steam" setting. He finally managed to center the knob without loosing too much additional flesh to the biting temperatures, and was able to gradually think through his situation. As he toweled himself off, he was actually whistling in anticipation of searching for a new job. "Surely," he thought, "I can get a new job in a couple of days, a week at most." He stepped out of the bathroom and quickly dressed. Then, pausing only to grab an envelope that had been slid under his door while he showered, he skipped into the kitchen and grabbed some cold cereal, milk, a spoon and a bowl. Pouring the cereal and milk into the bowl, he settled into a chair, then opened the letter. His first bite of cereal was halfway between the bowl and his mouth when the text on the paper finally sunk in. The spoon paused, then, almost in slow motion, slipped from his fingers and clattered into the bowl. In bold, black letters the top line read "EVICTION NOTICE". --- A scant 12 hours later, Roger was standing outside of his former apartment building with the box under one arm, a duffle bag over his shoulder, and a sore spot on his backside. Uncertain where to go, Roger headed off in a random direction. It was already early evening, and he would need to find someplace to stay the night, and soon. Night was falling when he finally found himself outside the spaceport. He wandered into the spaceport offices, looking for the personnel offices of the major lines. He was quickly frustrated as the three main passenger lines refused to even look at an application with statements like "We are fully staffed at this time", "Cutbacks" and "Not if you were the LAST janitor on Xenon!". He worked his way over to the smaller carriers, and even the cargo lines, getting nowhere fast. Reaching the end of the terminal, Roger stared out the windows, hoping for some inspiration to take him on. After a few moments, he noticed some faint lights in the dark, then realized it was the private vessel terminal. With no other options before him, he wandered through the darkened underground corridors, making his way to the other building, when he dumped into an alien shape in a dark corridor bend. "What the..." Roger jumped back. After a moment passed, his eyes adjusted, and he realized he was looking at a familiar face indeed. All doubt was erased when the alien's mouth opened, and in a familiar drawl came the words, "Didn't I sell you an Astro Chicken hat on Phleebutt once?" "Fester Blatz! What are you doing here on Xenon?" Roger exclaimed, puzzlement in his voice. The alien shifted his weight, then placed his hand on Roger's shoulder. "Well, I happen to be here in pursuit of some 'business opportunities' that are, shall we say, a little shady in regards to the local law. In fact, I could use someone of your... ahem... brains and talents to help me off-planet with my cargo. Would you be looking for a few extra buckazoids?" Roger looked skeptical, but realized he wasn't getting anywhere with his blind wandering. "Well, I suppose. What do you need?" "As you may or may not know, alien-owned vessels are subject to very specific search-and-seizure laws on the way out of Xenon orbit. This makes getting any products not, shall we say, pre-approved off planet a bit tough. However, ships run by Xenonian citizens aren't subject to the same bit of legal hassles that getting perfectly legitimate materials off-planet entails. Now, let me tell you how this works..." The Phleebuttinski continued with his spiel.