Author's Disclaimer: This work of fiction was written to be a parody, and is not to be taken seriously in any way, shape, or form. Any similarities between this story and the real characters of Andromeda, Star Trek, Hercules: The Legendary Journeys, or any other story and/or character(s) mentioned - or not mentioned - within this parody, is not only somewhat unintentional, but a dirty rotten shame.

“My name is Dylan Hunt – captain of the Andromeda Ascendant, hero of the (somewhat) restored Commonwealth, recently anointed Paradine, defender of the good and right. I am feared and envied by men, loved and adored by women, and I carry a mean forcelance. Agh…who am I kidding,” thought Dylan in disgust as he surveyed the environment around him. This was not his lovely warship Andromeda, and it was hardly the Commonwealth. Instead, Dylan found himself stuck in this dark and dingy bar on Seefra-1, the armpit of the universe. Instead of being surrounded by beautiful (and more than willing) women, instead he was encompassed about by ugly men who smelled as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks (and probably hadn’t, since water was a scarce commodity on Seefra-1), cheap and easy women (possibly an advantage, were he able to attract any of them), and one drunken Nietzschean named Telemachus Rhade.

Telemachus Rhade – leader of the isolationist movement on Terazed, Admiral of the Commonwealth, and Dylan’s Lieutenant Commander. The honorable Nietzschean who was awarded the Gold Spiral for heroism at Greenwood Nebula, assisted Dylan in tracking down fugitive Tyr Anasazi (another of Dylan’s former Nietzschean crew members), and was a direct descendant of Dylan’s former first officer Gaheris Rhade (who by the way had also betrayed him 300 years prior). Dylan pondered the similarities: he had trusted three Nietzscheans, and so far two had succeeded in betraying him. “Three strikes and you’re out, Telemachus”, thought Dylan has he looked suspiciously at Rhade, who was sitting at a table playing cards, surrounded by three women who were doting on him as if there were no other men left in the system. A twinge of jealousy burned in Dylan’s gut. “Why is he getting all the women? What does he have that I haven’t got? Sure, these women aren’t exactly beautiful, but heck, I’m the one who is supposed to get all the female admirers – not a drunken and disheveled Nietzschean!”

Indeed, this Telemachus Rhade was not the Rhade that Dylan knew onboard Andromeda. He looked nothing like the clean cut officer of days gone by. He was more unkempt…scruffy. His hair was longer; he had a mustache and beard, and even sported an earring on his left ear. Furthermore, he was dressed in tight leather pants and a leather vest. “What is it with this guy and leather, anyway?” thought Dylan. As Dylan continued to eye Rhade’s muscular build, and try as he might to deny it, he couldn’t help but feel just a slight twinge of envy when he imagined what he himself would look like in those pants. At that very instant, Dylan’s mind was flooded with several vivid images that came into his head, and this sense of Déjà vu made him more than a little bit uneasy. These strange and mysterious thoughts were occurring more and more of late, and each time it happened Dylan was becoming ever more disturbed by them. It was akin to waking up from a vivid dream, only to have it forgotten again in an instant, when the realm of conscious thought takes reign over the visions of the night. Fleeting visions of longer hair, swords, tight leather pants, and some short blonde guy that was always around. “Weird”, thought Dylan as he eyed his shot of whiskey. What was it? That outfit Rhade was wearing, those leather pants…they looked strangely familiar, as if from another time and place. “Here I go with the leather pants again”, thought Dylan. What was it about Rhade’s leather pants that Dylan found so intriguing? And why was he suddenly looking at Rhade’s muscular build with a certain sense of familiarity? He certainly wasn’t attracted to him, not in that way. Yet he could not take his eyes off the Nietzschean’s muscular biceps. Once again, another fleeting thought invaded his conscious mind…but only for a split second, and it was gone again. In this instant, Dylan remembered himself being very buff and muscular. But lately, and for reasons as of yet unknown, he had lost a lot of his weight and bulk. “Oh well, at least I still have my forcelance”, said Dylan to himself with a wry smile.

As Dylan sat eyeing his shot glass, he reflected on the past few months he had spent on Seefra-1. It seemed that every day he spent on this miserable planet, things became increasingly more eerie and disturbing. Indeed, his arrival itself was much of a mystery, so much so that the inhabitants of this dismal land regarded him at best with an air of suspicion, and avoided him as much as possible. At least he had gotten rid of that strange talking (and looking) false prophet Thomas, who had bewitched and brainwashed the already superstitious people into believing that he was their god. “God indeed”, thought Dylan. “I’m the Paradine here.” Still, the fact that he was Paradine didn’t seem to make much difference to the Seefrans, or to his former crew. The inhabitants of this awful place disliked him (he was called “Intruder” when he first arrived), and his former crew blamed him for their troubles. His crew - his comrades, his friends – they might be angry with him and resent him (who wouldn’t?) – but at least they were together…well, somewhat anyway.

When Dylan first arrived on Seefra-1, he indeed wondered if he would ever see his friends and crew again. The last thing he remembered was piloting a slipfighter through the Route of Ages; his crew was all either dead or unaccounted for, and his ship was on a collision course with the Magog Worldship. After passing through the Route of Ages, he saw a bright light, met himself (really strange), and heard a woman’s voice saying something about “Coming home from your past”. Then there was falling, endless falling, and when he awoke he was looking up at some guy named Flavin, who also claimed to be a Paradine. Now Flavin was gone, and this was his reality now – the Commonwealth was no more (or at least unknown in this system), there was no slipstream (meaning he couldn’t leave), and his crew – though now united – was different. They had landed in this system at different times – when Dylan arrived that first day, Rhade had been on Seefra nine months, Harper three years, Beka one month, Trance Gemini ten years, and the ever beautiful android Rommie – well, Rommie was now called Doyle (thanks to Harper), and she was no longer the exotic brunette he had come to love as his dearest friend. She was now a blonde who wore an outfit so pink that Dylan could only think of Pepto Bismol, a medicine his mother fed to him as a child when he suffered from indigestion. Yet Rommie’s original head was being kept by Harper too, in an attempt to rebuild her. Harper had indeed lost his mind in these three years in the Seefra system. Yes, this awful reality was now Dylan’s new life.

Or was it? Dylan couldn’t explain, but many nights as he lay in his bed, somewhere between that conscious awakened state of mind and dream-state, visions of an even more obscure and distant realism haunted his thoughts and dreams. It was as if there was another reality, one just as genuine and authentic - something even before the Commonwealth and Andromeda. “I must be losing my mind in this awful place”, Dylan surmised as he finally downed the shot of whiskey sitting in front of him. Immediately Harper was to the rescue.

“Here’s another one for ya big guy, and this one’s on the house. You look like you need it,” Harper stated as he poured another shot of whiskey into Dylan’s glass.

As Dylan watched Harper walk away to wait on another customer at the bar, he remembered a time not too long ago when Harper was more at ease tinkering with Andromeda’s systems than pouring whiskey from a bottle. Poor Harper…other than Trance Gemini, he had been in the Seefra system the longest. Still, Dylan was glad to have him here, even if he had reduced himself to tending bar for the hapless Patrons of Seefra-1.

Many questions plagued Dylan’s mind as he sat staring into his newly poured glass of whiskey. Who am I? Why am I here? What has happened to the Commonwealth (if indeed there is still a Commonwealth)? And, most importantly, why can’t I get off this stupid planet? Since his arrival on Seefra-1, Dylan had reduced himself from commandeering one of the most powerful warships in the known galaxy to becoming a barfly of sorts. Indeed, he had visited this bar every day since his arrival a few months prior. “Well, at least they’re not trying to beat me to a bloody pulp anymore,” thought Dylan as he reminisced about the first time he had walked into this place. Still, despite it’s less than inviting accommodations (and obviously not Dylan’s idea of a proper environment for someone special such as himself), the bar on Seefra-1 was nevertheless the place if to be if you wanted action and information. Besides, the Andromeda was still dead in space, slipstream was impossible in this system anyway, and if one ventured outside for too long they ran the risk of becoming ashes due to the all too common asteroid collisions with the planet’s surface. Yes, the bar was indeed the best thing Seefra-1 had going for it (other than himself, of course).

As Dylan sat at the bar feeling rather sorry for himself and his predicament, suddenly he heard loud boisterous laughter coming from the table which Rhade had been sitting playing cards. As Dylan turned around to see what all the commotion was about, he watched in disgust as Rhade, after finishing off yet another bottle of whiskey, let out a belch so loud one would almost swear he had been practicing for some special event. “I am really not in the mood for this right now,” Dylan muttered to himself under his breath.

“Rhade, that’s just disgusting. What are you supposed to say?” Dylan yelled to the Nietzschean across the room.

“Ah, bite me!” replied Rhade with a smirk, followed by more laughter. He was obviously staggering drunk again. Rhade drank a lot these days, and Dylan knew better than to antagonize the Nietzschean any further. It was a fruitless endeavor to encourage his comrade to mind his manners, especially when he was in the bar with his so-called “friends”. In this environment, it was not Dylan but Rhade who commanded the respect of the others. It was Rhade who got all the attention, it was Rhade who got all the drinks on the house, it was Rhade who got all the women, and it was Rhade whom everyone on Seefra-1 seemed to either like, respect, or fear. Dylan, not accustomed to anything other than being the center of attention, wondered if he should just go over and punch the smug Nietzschean right in the mouth. To make matters worse, Rhade knew Dylan’s jealousy of him was eating like a canker, and that made him antagonize Dylan all the more. Indeed, Rhade’s snarky attitude was becoming more and more annoying every day.

“After all I’ve done for him, and he treats me as if I were space scum”, thought Dylan bitterly. “My life so totally stinks right now. This place is butt ugly, I have no women, and Rhade looks good…even better than me…in those leather pants. I am so depressed. Rhade says he only knows moonlight. Buddy, you have no idea.”

Dylan turned back around to the bar and drank down another shot of whiskey, then asked Harper to bring over the rest of the bottle and leave it. Rhade wasn’t the only one who was going to get drunk tonight.