Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-09-18 01:05 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-09-18 01:05 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 1
Title: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 1
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: G
Words: ~1300
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: I decided to actually finish writing this before I started posting. And apparently I am desperate for feedback, because I have never written a fic so fast.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 1
Stephen was exhausted. He'd made it through the post-show wrap-up, but between acting out a drug-withdrawal-induced panic attack, filming extra bits for the special effects in the next day's Special ReporT on DNA, and the fact that his wrist itched like nobody's business, he didn't trust himself to drive home without having some kind of nap first.
He took the prescribed dosage of his painkillers, called his wife to let her know he'd be late, set his iPhone (he still couldn't believe he had actually gotten a free iPhone!) to sound its alarm in half an hour, and collapsed onto the couch in his office. No sooner had he closed his eyes than the sound of knocking had them open again.
"What is it?" he demanded sleepily.
"You're needed on-set, Stephen," said Eric's voice through the door.
Stephen blinked wearily at his watch. Almost nine already? The alarm hadn't gone off, then, or he'd set it wrong, which was entirely possible; but he had gotten more sleep than he'd planned to. Reluctantly he sat up and stretched.
Then he said "What?" again.
"You're needed," repeated Eric. "On set."
"Open the door and come in; there's no way I can hear you like that."
A moment later he was facing a very nervous-looking Eric Drysdale. "Sorry, Stephen," the writer said, "but you did tell me the other day never to open a closed door without an express invitation."
"Did I? Must've been in a bad mood, sorry. As long as you knock first, it's fine -- if I really want to be alone, I'll lock it."
He stopped, because Eric was looking at him like he'd grown a beak. "Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Stephen."
"You don't need to say my name every thirty seconds," said Stephen, maybe a little shortly.
"Of course not. Sorry, Stephen."
"And you don't need to apologize for everything, either. Eric, are you okay? Why did you want to see me?"
"I'm fine, St-- I'm fine," said Eric haltingly. "You're just needed on set, for rehearsal. And it's Bobby."
Stephen looked at his watch again. "Is this thing right? It is eight fifty-two, isn't it?"
"Yes, Stephen."
"In the evening?" It looked dark enough outside, but...
"In the evening."
"Still Monday? I didn't sleep here all night?"
"Still Monday, Stephen," confirmed Eric patiently.
"So why are you in character, and why are we rehearsing?"
"We rehearse to get ready for the show, work through any rough spots, make sure there aren't any technical--"
"I know why we rehearse in general," protested Stephen, scratching the skin at the top of his cast in the hopes that the skin underneath it would stop itching out of sympathy. "I want to know why we're rehearsing now."
"To make sure that tonight's show is ready."
"You're not making sense. We already taped tonight's show."
"Oh!" Eric's face brightened with sudden understanding. "No, we're pretaping the Richard Branson interview, but we don't do that a lot. Most of the time you have to broadcast the show live, the way we always have. Now you really do need to come, or you'll be late for rehearsal."
Stephen had the sudden sensation of being caught in an elaborate practical joke. So he did what any man with a sufficient sense of humor would do: played along.
"Right, of course," he said. "Lead the way."
---------------------
The set was a swarm of activity, the way it was before any rehearsal: camera jockeys adjusting machinery, lighting and sound people running tests, interns scurrying to and fro. It looked like the whole crew was in on whatever-it-was that was going on.
Certainly they seemed a whole lot more aware of Stephen. It wasn't overt -- they didn't all greet him, or anything -- but there was a subtle change in atmosphere wherever he passed, conversations slowing, actions becoming more careful, sidelong glances being cast in his direction. People were trying to look busy while they spared extra attention to track him.
Of course: they wouldn't want to give any of the joke away.
Out of habit, Stephen surveyed the room with his character's stern expression; then he broke into a broad grin as he saw a familiar face. "Paul!"
His friend looked up as Stephen jogged over; there was something odd in his expression, but Stephen was too happy to wonder about it before wrapping Paul in a hug. "What are you doing here? I didn't know you were in town!"
"Of course I'm in town, Stephen," said Paul, in the voice he usually reserved to play Tad and a few miscellaneous adolescent characters. "You haven't sent me off to do anything since the Eagle Festival."
He wasn't returning the hug, so Stephen pulled back, but couldn't resist gripping the other man's shoulders. "Yeah, but you've had so many projects of your own -- say, Amy isn't about to leap out from behind a door, is she? It's a little late to head off without warning, but tomorrow we should hit a bar and catch up."
He stopped, again, because now Paul was looking at him with the expression Eric had had, only more so. In effect, it said I have concluded that you are insane, and am only trying to decide whether or not you are dangerous.
"Okay, Paul, seriously," said Stephen, grin fading as he searched his friend's eyes for a clue that he was laughing underneath the role, "this is all a very elaborate setup, but can you guys just get to the punch line, because I really do need to get home."
"Um..." said Paul.
"What is it? Spit it out!"
"Well, Stephen, my name's not Paul. It's Tad. And you can't go home yet, because you have to rehearse, and then you have a show to do."
Stephen let go of him and took a few steps back. Glancing around the set, he suddenly realized that everyone was now occupied with very deliberately not looking at him.
"Okay, everyone, enough's enough," he announced to the room, throwing up his hands in surrender. "You're doing a great impression of working, very impressive, and Eric and Paul, you're doing great in-character, but can you stop now? It's starting to freak me out a little."
Nobody moved. Nobody looked at him, except Eric and Paul, and the looks they were giving him...
"Okay, you're freaking me out a lot. Seriously, guys. Cut it out."
It was Eric who broke the silence. "We're not sure what you want us to do, Stephen," he said, gently, like a man soothing an angry dog. "But we can't stop preparing for the show. These are our jobs. We're under contract, just like you are."
"But you don't... We don't need to... We already..."
Stephen looked helplessly around the room, trying to find someone suppressing laughter.
He didn't. And, all of a sudden, that frightened him.
"I'm going home," he said, and bolted for his office.
---------------------
---------------------
He tried to cover his good ear with a pillow, but it was no use; the incessant beeping cut right through it, until he had to wake up.
He traced the beeping to his iPhone (he couldn't believe it had taken Apple so long to send him a free iPhone!), which, for some reason, had the alarm set. After some random jabbing of on-screen buttons, during which he might have set the time zone to be somewhere in Australia, he finally convinced it to turn off.
That done, Stephen staggered back over to his couch and flopped down across it. Much better. He didn't know what time it was, but it didn't matter; he was tired, and if anything really important happened, Bobby or someone would wake him up.
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: G
Words: ~1300
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: I decided to actually finish writing this before I started posting. And apparently I am desperate for feedback, because I have never written a fic so fast.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 1
Stephen was exhausted. He'd made it through the post-show wrap-up, but between acting out a drug-withdrawal-induced panic attack, filming extra bits for the special effects in the next day's Special ReporT on DNA, and the fact that his wrist itched like nobody's business, he didn't trust himself to drive home without having some kind of nap first.
He took the prescribed dosage of his painkillers, called his wife to let her know he'd be late, set his iPhone (he still couldn't believe he had actually gotten a free iPhone!) to sound its alarm in half an hour, and collapsed onto the couch in his office. No sooner had he closed his eyes than the sound of knocking had them open again.
"What is it?" he demanded sleepily.
"You're needed on-set, Stephen," said Eric's voice through the door.
Stephen blinked wearily at his watch. Almost nine already? The alarm hadn't gone off, then, or he'd set it wrong, which was entirely possible; but he had gotten more sleep than he'd planned to. Reluctantly he sat up and stretched.
Then he said "What?" again.
"You're needed," repeated Eric. "On set."
"Open the door and come in; there's no way I can hear you like that."
A moment later he was facing a very nervous-looking Eric Drysdale. "Sorry, Stephen," the writer said, "but you did tell me the other day never to open a closed door without an express invitation."
"Did I? Must've been in a bad mood, sorry. As long as you knock first, it's fine -- if I really want to be alone, I'll lock it."
He stopped, because Eric was looking at him like he'd grown a beak. "Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Stephen."
"You don't need to say my name every thirty seconds," said Stephen, maybe a little shortly.
"Of course not. Sorry, Stephen."
"And you don't need to apologize for everything, either. Eric, are you okay? Why did you want to see me?"
"I'm fine, St-- I'm fine," said Eric haltingly. "You're just needed on set, for rehearsal. And it's Bobby."
Stephen looked at his watch again. "Is this thing right? It is eight fifty-two, isn't it?"
"Yes, Stephen."
"In the evening?" It looked dark enough outside, but...
"In the evening."
"Still Monday? I didn't sleep here all night?"
"Still Monday, Stephen," confirmed Eric patiently.
"So why are you in character, and why are we rehearsing?"
"We rehearse to get ready for the show, work through any rough spots, make sure there aren't any technical--"
"I know why we rehearse in general," protested Stephen, scratching the skin at the top of his cast in the hopes that the skin underneath it would stop itching out of sympathy. "I want to know why we're rehearsing now."
"To make sure that tonight's show is ready."
"You're not making sense. We already taped tonight's show."
"Oh!" Eric's face brightened with sudden understanding. "No, we're pretaping the Richard Branson interview, but we don't do that a lot. Most of the time you have to broadcast the show live, the way we always have. Now you really do need to come, or you'll be late for rehearsal."
Stephen had the sudden sensation of being caught in an elaborate practical joke. So he did what any man with a sufficient sense of humor would do: played along.
"Right, of course," he said. "Lead the way."
The set was a swarm of activity, the way it was before any rehearsal: camera jockeys adjusting machinery, lighting and sound people running tests, interns scurrying to and fro. It looked like the whole crew was in on whatever-it-was that was going on.
Certainly they seemed a whole lot more aware of Stephen. It wasn't overt -- they didn't all greet him, or anything -- but there was a subtle change in atmosphere wherever he passed, conversations slowing, actions becoming more careful, sidelong glances being cast in his direction. People were trying to look busy while they spared extra attention to track him.
Of course: they wouldn't want to give any of the joke away.
Out of habit, Stephen surveyed the room with his character's stern expression; then he broke into a broad grin as he saw a familiar face. "Paul!"
His friend looked up as Stephen jogged over; there was something odd in his expression, but Stephen was too happy to wonder about it before wrapping Paul in a hug. "What are you doing here? I didn't know you were in town!"
"Of course I'm in town, Stephen," said Paul, in the voice he usually reserved to play Tad and a few miscellaneous adolescent characters. "You haven't sent me off to do anything since the Eagle Festival."
He wasn't returning the hug, so Stephen pulled back, but couldn't resist gripping the other man's shoulders. "Yeah, but you've had so many projects of your own -- say, Amy isn't about to leap out from behind a door, is she? It's a little late to head off without warning, but tomorrow we should hit a bar and catch up."
He stopped, again, because now Paul was looking at him with the expression Eric had had, only more so. In effect, it said I have concluded that you are insane, and am only trying to decide whether or not you are dangerous.
"Okay, Paul, seriously," said Stephen, grin fading as he searched his friend's eyes for a clue that he was laughing underneath the role, "this is all a very elaborate setup, but can you guys just get to the punch line, because I really do need to get home."
"Um..." said Paul.
"What is it? Spit it out!"
"Well, Stephen, my name's not Paul. It's Tad. And you can't go home yet, because you have to rehearse, and then you have a show to do."
Stephen let go of him and took a few steps back. Glancing around the set, he suddenly realized that everyone was now occupied with very deliberately not looking at him.
"Okay, everyone, enough's enough," he announced to the room, throwing up his hands in surrender. "You're doing a great impression of working, very impressive, and Eric and Paul, you're doing great in-character, but can you stop now? It's starting to freak me out a little."
Nobody moved. Nobody looked at him, except Eric and Paul, and the looks they were giving him...
"Okay, you're freaking me out a lot. Seriously, guys. Cut it out."
It was Eric who broke the silence. "We're not sure what you want us to do, Stephen," he said, gently, like a man soothing an angry dog. "But we can't stop preparing for the show. These are our jobs. We're under contract, just like you are."
"But you don't... We don't need to... We already..."
Stephen looked helplessly around the room, trying to find someone suppressing laughter.
He didn't. And, all of a sudden, that frightened him.
"I'm going home," he said, and bolted for his office.
---------------------
He tried to cover his good ear with a pillow, but it was no use; the incessant beeping cut right through it, until he had to wake up.
He traced the beeping to his iPhone (he couldn't believe it had taken Apple so long to send him a free iPhone!), which, for some reason, had the alarm set. After some random jabbing of on-screen buttons, during which he might have set the time zone to be somewhere in Australia, he finally convinced it to turn off.
That done, Stephen staggered back over to his couch and flopped down across it. Much better. He didn't know what time it was, but it didn't matter; he was tired, and if anything really important happened, Bobby or someone would wake him up.