Disclaimers: MST3K and all characters therein belong to BBI. Red Dwarf belongs to Rob Grant and Doug Naylor.

Note: This is kind of a parody of "It's a Wonderful Life", "A Christmas Carol" and maybe a little bit of Quantum Leap thrown in. Read at your own risk.

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Space, the final... no, wait. Way too cliche. Let's try this again.

The cold blackness of space had no technical depth or weight, but somehow it felt very heavy. Stars glittered; small pinpoints of multicolored light, breaking up the darkness, but not doing much for the weight and desolation that it pressed with. And it was cold... cold and bitter, as Mike Nelson looked out, feeling considerably more depressed than he normally allowed himself to feel. He was sick of space, sick of artificial gravity and recycled air, and very very sick of life as it was going.

Forrester had sent up a miserable movie earlier that day, the 'bots had completely wrecked his bedroom, and everything that could go bad had gone bad. Burned his hand on a pan in the kitchen, tore his favorite sweatshirt, and just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he ended up tripping and breaking Gypsy's fine china, making her cry.

Mike was completely miserable.

He sighed, frowning at the planet below, and then turned and walked off to his room. That proved to be just as disastrous as the rest of the day as he walked into a door that refused to open, giving himself a headache on top of everything else. Grumbling, he shoved past it, wishing in the back of his mind that he had never ended up on the SOL in the first place.

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Across the cosmos, in some backwater office of the Universal Affairs and Complaints office, Arnold Rimmer sat impatiently, his right leg jiggling nervously, and watched the clock tick from one digit to the next. He had been there for two smegging hours, waiting to be called into the office for another ear-chewing session, and in his opinion, if they were going to yell at him, they should at least do it promptly.

But the people in this office rarely did things promptly, as over worked and under paid as they were. The former hologram sighed through his teeth, tapping his fingers in tandem with his jiggling leg.

The secretary got a beep a few minutes later, and looked up at him, cracking her gum annoyingly. "Mr. Rummer?"

"Rimmer," Arn corrected, sarcastically.

"Whatever. They're ready to see you now."

Rimmer stood, straightening the old Space Corp uniform, and walked straight shouldered into the office. Behind the desk sat an old man, balding, and beside him was the typical 'wormy side-kick'™. Both had large white wings, though they looked as if there was more than a small amount of dust on them, and the halos certainly weren't polished bright gold... more of a tarnished brass color.

Even as Arn stood and waited, the two men remained in conversation over something. "We can't spare anyone right now! If we answered every single unwilling victim of a mad scientist's experiment crying out for help, we would have to hire a boatload more people!" The younger of the two said, adamantly, pacing behind his boss.

"I know, but the Big Man Upstairs has a fondness for this one..." The boss dropped his voice to a grumble as he continued, "just a bloke from Wisconsin, I don't see what's so special about him."

"Well, you know what happens if we don't send someone."

"We'll be sent to Processing and Admissions for Hell."

"So what do we do?"

The boss finally looked up at Rimmer, who was standing at attention out of habit. He had forgotten that he had called in the low man on the totem pole to gripe at him for botching up his latest assignment. Slowly an idea crossed his face, along with a grin. "Well, actually we do have one man we can spare..."

"The Almighty might not like that," the 'wormy side-kick'™ answered, catching on. "'Specially if he likes this one."

Rimmer swallowed hard. He didn't feel like going out and playing angel this evening. He would much rather sit in his little flat and categorize his Campbell's soup labels in chronological and alphabetical order.

"Give him a Bailey, Rimmer," the boss ordered, resolutely, grabbing the work order and stamping it, then shoving it in Arn's direction. "And don't screw this one up."

Rimmer sighed, heavily, "Yes sir, Captain Hollister." With that, he took the paper, gave a full-Rimmer salute and walked out.

Todhunter looked to Hollister. "He's going to screw this up."

"At least we tried."

- --------- - --

Rimmer appeared in a dark room, only one very dim desk lamp to light the way. He blinked a few times, allowing his eyes to adjust from the bright white of the office to the darkness of this place... wherever it was. After a moment or two, he was able to survey his surroundings.

A bookcase on one wall, a desk with some papers on it, and against the wall, a bed. Rimmer inched over, eyeing the snoozing figure on the bed with a slightly disdainful look. Didn't look very old... maybe late twenties or early thirties. Blond hair, a babyish face, and a teddy bear of all things tucked under one arm. The technician groaned inwardly... this was going to be difficult. Shaking his head unhappily, he reached down and gave the other man a good shake.

Mike jumped out of his light sleep, startled, and edged back against the wall. With wide eyes and heart pounding, he eyed the intruder on the SOL. "Wh-who are you?"

"You're smegging guardian angel. Get up." Rimmer scowled, taking out the work order and straining his eyes to read it. "Nelson, Michael?"

Mike just nodded dumbly, trying to process through his not-quite-conscious mind who this was and what they were doing in his bedroom. Obedient in his confusion, he hopped out of bed and pulled his jumpsuit on over his shorts and t-shirt.

"'Former temp, sent by Dr. Clayton Forrester into space as a replacement for previous test subject... to watch bad movies'?!" Rimmer read, incredulous. "What on Io would anyone send someone into space to watch bad movies for, anyway?!"

"He's trying to find the movie that'll drive me insane," Mike supplied, helpfully. Once he pulled his sneakers on, he took another look at his supposed guardian angel. Tall, scrawny, kinda curly hair, and a nose that defied description. "Um, what're you doing on my satellite?"

"You wished that you never ended up here, right?" Arn asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "Well, I've been sent to," he put on a deep and commanding voice, filled with irony, "show you the errors of that wish."

"Ah." Mike nodded, giving the other man a look that screamed, "You're a fruitloop, aren't you?"

"Hey, don't look at me." Rimmer sneered slightly. "Stupid fat git can't do anything himself," the once hologram muttered, "always has to send someone else to do it for him."

"Your name?" Mike asked, eyebrow raised in turn. He at least wanted to know the name of whoever this was, for the sake of asking Forrester if this was some sort of messed up joke.

"Arnold J. Rimmer, tech-- er, angel, twenty-sixth class," Rimmer mumbled, then added more strongly, "But everyone calls me Ace."

"Twenty-sixth?" Mike blinked. "Ace?!"

"I, er... I'm just waiting to be promoted. Passed the exam last week," Arn lied, then was rewarded with a small bolt of lightning out of no where nailing him straight in the bum. "Well, not pass, exactly..."

"And that lightning...?"

Rimmer seethed a bit. "Forget the lightning." He then put on a somewhat sweet and cheerful voice, trying to play the part and failing miserably. "We're going to go on a mission now, and show you what life would have been like if you had never been sent here."

"Hey!" Mike protested. "I've seen this movie already."

"Tough. I have orders," Rimmer said, then grumbled, "And so have I. Too many times."

"That bites."

"You're telling me?" Arn grumbled some more, taking out a remote control. "Let me see..."

"What's that?" the farmboy asked, edging over to look at it and still keeping ample distance between himself and Rimmer.

"It's a... uh, thing that taps into other realities and all that smeg." Rimmer answered, finally hitting a button.

In a flash, they vanished, then reappeared in on Earth at a model shoot. Long-legged temptresses trotted down a runway in swimwear, smiling enticingly out at the audience with their glimmering white teeth and long, bronzed legs. Mike raised both eyebrows at this, a stupid grin on his face, and Rimmer's expression was very similar. After a moment of enjoying the scene, Mike tossed a glance over at the other fellow. "This is what woulda happened to be if I never would have been sent to the SOL? I'd be judging modeling contests?"

"Um, no," Rimmer said, looking at the controls again. "This is strange... I think we're in the wrong place."

"Not altogether bad," Mike commented, looking back at the parading women.

Arn looked up, then back down again. The machine said it was right, but it didn't make sense. He was supposed to be showing Mike something not good. Finally it dawned on him, and he checked which dimension he ended up in... right time, wrong dimension. Still, this would work well for starters.

As if on cue, a rather tall and heavyset blonde woman walked down. Once close enough to see who it was, Mike screamed.

- --------- - --

"Feeling better?" Rimmer asked, trying to keep the snarky amusement out of his voice as Mike walked out of the bathroom at one of the Celestial branch offices, still green in the face.

"Ugh..." was all the farmboy cared to reply. Seeing himself after a sex-change had destroyed his appetite for the next several months. Successful model or no, it was a picture that would haunt his nightmares for a few years at the very least.

"Now let's see," Arn mused, smirking to himself. "I think I've got it right this time."

Mike just groaned again, leaning on the wall. He was starting to really appreciate his bed back on the satellite, where he would normally be sleeping peacefully right now, instead of traipsing around with this neurotic loon from wherever.

They flashed in again in Deep 13, amidst some obscenely crazy Christmas decorations. Rimmer nodded to himself, thinking that he finally got it right. The dimension reader read right, as did the time indicator. He should be where he intended.

Sure enough, Dr. Clayton Forrester walked out of a supply room in his typical green labcoat, rubbing his hands together with an evil snicker. He paid the two visitors no mind, and went instead to the console, hitting the communications button to the SOL.

"Hello, sir," Joel Robinson answered, standing behind the counter in a white straight jacket with a Hannibal Lecter muzzle over his face. His hair was standing on end, and his blue eyes looked tired and gleamed with a slightly insane light.

"Why hello, my little guinea pig." Forrester eyed his lab rat with a wicked smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, fine, sir... the gophers have left me alone." Joel nodded slightly, eyes wide open.

"That's good, good," Forrester mumbled to himself, writing down notes with a barely contained glee. "I have some good news for you."

"Really?" Joel asked, hopefully. "Is it a new straight-jacket? This one is kind of tight, anymore."

"No, nothing so simple." Dr. F grinned, pacing in front of the console with a pompous aire about him. "I released the movie yesterday. On all stations, on all possible wavelengths, and using that clever little invention that you came up with."

"Oh," Joel said, sounding disappointed.

"Oh? Oh?! Is that all you have to say?!" Forrester growled, angrily. "The masses are screaming for salvation, and all you can say is 'Oh'?!"

Mike took a step forward, protesting against the way the mad scientist was treating the other human, but neither of them took any notice. Rimmer shook his head, watching. "They can't see you or hear you."

"What is this?" Mike muttered, "Deranged crossover between Quantum Leap, A Christmas Carol, and It's a Wonderful Life?"

"Basically," Rimmer answered, shrugging.

"Where are the 'bots?" Mike asked, not wanting to know the answer. If their creator was messed up, he really didn't like the potential idea of what could have become of them.

Rimmer looked at the readout on the remote. "Uh, drifted in space and ended up drifting into the sun."

"What?!" Mike gasped, clutching his chest in shock and dismay. He couldn't even think about the 'bots... Gyps and Tom and Crow and Cambot all floating out alone... well, not Cambot, because he was obviously still acting as relay for Forrester, but the rest?

"Hang on," Rimmer ordered, typing in something else. They vanished and reappeared in a graveyard.

The air was wicked cold, and snow blanketed the ground. Mike was still in shock over the whole incident thus far, breathing hard and trying to come to grips. He would have told Rimmer to take him back then, but he couldn't get any words out before the next shock nailed him.

He was standing in front of his own gravestone.

Trying to pull air into his lungs, Mike read the dates, but they were almost meaningless to him. His mind was too badly frozen to think of how this all could have happened. Finally, after a good minute, he stuttered, "I'm d-d-d-d--?"

"Dead?" Arn supplied cheerfully, patting Mike on the back a few times. "Don't worry, it's not as bad as you think."

"What?!"

"Well, I take that back. Holograms haven't been invented yet," Rimmer mused, "so it really is that bad."

"Gee, thanks," Mike gasped, shooting a glare at the other man.

Rimmer shook his head, some small part of him taking pity on his unwilling companion. He understood all too well how it felt to find out news like that; it was never a nice thing. He remembered the first time he realized he was dead... nothing more than a hologram of who he had been. He remembered the denial, the grief, the horror. Mostly he remembered not being able to touch anything, smell anything... feel anything. He remembered all of that with a wince. Another moment passed, and he offered, "Look, this is a shock... feel up to a cup of tea?"

"Coffee," Mike managed, looking everywhere but the gravestone.

Arnold nodded, and in another flash, they vanished from the desolate graveyard.

- --------- - --

"Three million years?" Mike asked, sipping on his coffee, his hands still shaking. They had ended up in another branch office, and the coffee was old, but at least they weren't in a graveyard.

Rimmer nodded, holding onto a cup of tea. "Three million years, dead, composed of light, and the only people to talk to being a slob, a cat, a senile computer, and a cleaning droid."

"And I thought my story was strange," Mike chuckled a little, setting the cup down. He tossed a glance around, wondering when he was going to get to go back to the SOL.

"Maybe it wasn't so bad," Arn sighed, letting his guard down finally. He wasn't ever going to see this person again, and it felt good to talk to someone who didn't know everything that had gone on. Who didn't know about all of the things that had happened aboard Red Dwarf, and who could never let word get back to Lister, the Cat, Kryten, and Holly how he felt.

"Yea?"

"Yea. Sure, listening to Lister play his guitar and being reminded of yaks being rubbed with a cheese grater was pure Hell," Rimmer said, offhand, and with a slight note of longing and regret in his voice, "but we all stuck together."

Mike nodded, understanding what he meant in a way. Rimmer's companions had annoyed him in the same manner the 'bots annoyed Mike, but when it came down to it, they stuck together. Maybe his life wasn't so bad, no matter how miserable the movies were, or how hard it was being the only human in orbit. He could relate. "Where are they now?"

Rimmer shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. "I'm not sure, really. Somewhere, I imagine."

"Miss 'em?" Mike asked, though already knowing the answer.

"Miss what?" Rimmer smirked, sardonically. "Being insulted on a regular basis, always having to put up with sloppiness and chaos, getting attacked every other week by simulants yelling for our heads? Miss hearing Lister snore like a badly tuned buzzsaw, or Cat constantly leaving his leg waxing papers all over, or Kryten constantly correcting me?" The technician shook his head with a slight chuckle. "Yes, I miss it. I miss them."

"Can't ever go back, can you?" Mike looked over at the other man.

"No," Rimmer said, softly, then stood up. "But you can."

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"Ah, Nellie Nellie Nelson. How are you this fine Sunday morning?" Forrester asked, smirking up at his labrat.

"Just fine, Dr. F," Mike replied, smiling his usual sunny smile. The 'bots hung on either side of him, watching.

"Well, you won't when you see what I have for you this week," Dr. F giggled, insanely. "Frank, send him the movie!"

Mike snickered, putting on a sort of snarky smug look, reminiscent of Rimmer. "Dr. Forrester?"

"Yes, Mikearoonie?"

"Smeg off."

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