millarific

Title: Days of Wonder (The Seven Wonders Tour!Fic) Part 1 of 2
Author:

millari
Genre: Crack!fic
Rating: PG-13 (sexual situations, implied sex)
Characters: Gaeta, Starbuck, Anders, Baltar, Leoben, Tyrol, Tory, Tigh, Nicky Tyrol, mentions of D'Anna, Cavil, Simon, Doral, OC
Pairings: Tory/Leoben, Starbuck/Anders, Tigh/Caprica (all mostly off-camera)
Wordcount: 2,023
Spoilers: Season 4.0 through "Revelations"
Warnings: None
Beta: Much thanks to the patient

wyrdwritere
Summary: A crack!fic in which Baltar has formed a post-apocalyptic rock band called The Seven Wonders with the Dylan 4, Starbuck and Leoben and they tour the Northeast. With Felix Gaeta as their longsuffering manager.
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to a very funny story by

demonqueen666 (which you should totally read because it rocks - literally) called Euterpe and the Seven Wonders of the World which explains how the band got formed in the first place. In my comments, I bemoaned the fact that she ended the story just before we got to see Manager!Felix Gaeta in action. As you can see if you read the comment thread, she dared me to write what I wanted to see. In those comments, you can also see the bonus snippet she wrote to tempt me into writing this. I actually put that snippet in at the beginning of the fic and then just continued on from there. Six thousand freakin' words later (Jesus, wtf brain?), you have what hopefully is something as funny as the story that inspired it. Oh, and

demonqueen666 also gets credit for some of the Centurionspeak

Here's the link to Part 2

covert art credit: the much beloved

trovia

Days of Wonder: A Seven Wonders Tour Diary!Fic

The tour bus pulled off the highway and rumbled into the debris-littered roads of a small town 100 miles outside Boston. It was clear they all needed a break to stretch their legs, and Felix really needed a smoke.

But before he let them loose on the remains of small town post-apocalyptic America, Felix felt the need to make one things exceedingly clear.

"Okay, Gaius, for the last time....what's the rule about groupies on the tour bus?” he coached from the driver’s seat. “Here's a hint: it's don't."

"Oh, come on, it's not like they'd do any damage, or-"

"Bad for group morale. No groupies on the bus. Period. It's in the contract, remember?"

"Well, I happen to think that rule is patently unfair,” Gaius protested. “It's obviously going to apply to me only! I mean, it's not like anyone else is going to get groupies. All the other men are either married, the drummer, the backup, or...Tigh."

"HEY!"

"I wouldn't knock ol’ Tigh too much if I were you, Doc. After all, he managed to make your ex his groupie."

"WHOO!"

"Oh, BURN."

"Oh yes,” Gaius snapped, “and I just bet you think you're all so frakking funny, don't you?!?"

“...note to self,” Felix mumbled under his breath. “Stock up on aspirin before the next tour stop."

“So listen guys,” he continued. “While we’re on the subject of rules, we need to go over some of the things you all put on the band rider. I’ve been getting some grumbling from the promoters.”

“Those guys are always trying to rip you off,” Anders piped up, with an air of authority that said, I was once a celebrity. “We’re just trying to keep them on their toes, make sure they’re actually taking us seriously.”

“Yes, well,” Felix said patiently, thinking himself a better person for not mentioning that he didn’t take them very seriously.

His eyes scanned down the list of items, ticking items off aloud: “Okay, Caprican Imperials, that’ll be Gaius. They’ll have to buy them from the Fleet, but whatever. M&M’s and Pop Tarts?” He stared at Tyrol. “Real healthy diet, Chief.”

“Oh, those are for Nicky,” said Tyrol.

Well, that explains a lot, Felix thought. “Okay,” he said. “That makes uh…sense. Moving on. Let’s see what else? Ambrosia, whisky, beer..”

“Oh, those are mine,” Tigh grunted.

Felix raised a judgmental eyebrow. “They’re all yours?”

“I need it,” Tigh protested. “The stuff gives my vocals character. Caprica says it makes my voice sound sexy. In fact, she likes it when I toss a few back before we…”

“All right, let’s just stop that train of thought right there, shall we, Colonel?” Gaius’ voice interjected hastily across the bus, as he made his way to the door and stumbled out into the cold air, lighting up a cigarette.

“So say we all,” Starbuck chimed in. “Talk about TMI, Colonel,” she shuddered.

“Definitely TMI,” echoed Tory.

Felix was already beginning to wonder if ten percent was really enough for this gig.

“Right,” he said crisply. “Now that I’m going to need to bleach out my brain, I’d like to finish up this band rider if we could? There are a few more things on this list the promoters are having trouble accommodating.”

“Like what?” Anders challenged.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Felix eyed him accusingly, “like maybe the half-size Pyramid court someone insisted be set up at every venue two hours before the show?”

“Hey, it helps me relax, man!” Anders complained. “I get all wired up before shows.”

“Well, maybe if you’d lay off the twelve cups of coffee you put here in the rider,” Felix said, “you wouldn’t be so jittery.”

But Anders wasn’t usually much swayed by things like logic.

“Aw, come on, man!” he exclaimed with a goofy, love struck smile at Kara. “My girl’s name’s on every cup!”

Felix could just picture the bottle of aspirin at the bottom of his duffel. He saw his last pill rolling around in it. He forced himself to focus.

“Speaking of Starbuck,” he said. “Kara, this thing on the list – ‘one laptop equipped with Star Wars: X-Wing vs. Tie Fighter’ – that’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah?” she said, like it was a challenge.

“Since when do you play video games?”

“Since it’s been four months since I’ve gotten to fly anything. Come on, Gaeta. I’m in withdrawal.”

Felix decided to let that one go. “All right, all right, then could somebody please tell me just who the hell requested a functioning airlock backstage at every show?”

All eyes turned to Tory. She shrugged defensively.

“Come on. You gotta admit it’s a great way to deal with the negative reviews,” she said.

Felix rubbed his eyes tiredly. “We haven’t had any negative reviews.”

“We will once they hear her high notes,” Tyrol pointed out.

“Hey!” Tory whirled around. “My notes are perfect just the way they are! Besides, what are you hitting those drums with back there anyway? Sledgehammers you got on the hangar deck?”

Felix stepped between them before Tyrol could reply. “All right, can it, people. We have a show to get to in Boston less than twelve hours from now. At this rate, we’ll barely get there.”

“I think the airlock’s a great idea,” Tory pouted. Leoben got up from his seat and walked over to her, stroking her hair in loving support,

“Well, what about paparazzi?” Tory suddenly brightened. “Couldn’t we airlock the paparazzi?”

“I think the paparazzi are kind of nice, myself,” Baltar piped up, back from his smoke break. “Underrated, really.”

“Oh, you would,” she hissed at him.

Felix sighed.

“I’m making an executive decision here,” he announced. “The airlock’s off the list. I just don’t think it’s a very realistic request. First of all, we don’t have any paparazzi…”

“We will eventually,” Tory interrupted, “once this tour gives us more visibility.”

“…second,” Felix concluded, “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you, but you do realize we’re not currently in space, right?”

*****

They arrived in Boston tired and a bit cranky, but more or less safe and sound.

Felix parked the bus in the back of a medium-sized theatre that had clearly seen better days. But they could still make out from the remaining letters atop the marquee that this place had once been called The Orpheum.

“That’s kind of lame,” Starbuck grumbled, looking at their name up on the marquee.

“Hey guys,” she called out, “did you know we’re ‘The 7 Unders’ tonight?”

“Hmmph,” Felix sniffed with dissatisfaction, his managerial skills feeling affronted. “I’ll talk to them about that,” he said.

It turned out the misspelled marquee was the least of their problems.

The Orpheum promoter – a fortyish man with a graying ponytail – was nice enough. “It’s been a long time since anyone this big has played here,” he said deferentially as they toured the venue.

Felix sneaked a glance backward. Kara and Sam were predictably sucking face, oblivious to the world around them. Tigh was eyeing the opera house skeptically, taking large sips off yet another bottle of ambrosia (Where the hell did he keep finding them, Felix wondered?). Tory was checking herself out in the chrome fixtures, and Gaius was looking strangely freaked out by his surroundings. Tyrol – in theory the stable one – was staring around at everything, grinning in this way that was sort of well, disturbing. Nicky was running up and down the aisles, chattering wordlessly to himself.

“Uh, yeah,” Felix said, rolling his eyes. “So listen, where’s the dressing room?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Right this way.”

The dressing room was at least big enough for all of them to fit comfortably. But the catering left something to be desired. As soon as they got a look at the banquet table of food laid out for them, the promoter jumped in, with a smile he seemed to hope would be contagious.

“See, you gotta understand,” he said quickly, “there are only certain things you can round up after a nuclear holocaust.”

Felix nodded, eying the odd assortment of foodstuffs.

“What the frak are Spaghetti-Os?” Tory asked, examining a can.

“I don’t know,” Anders chimed in, experimenting with squeezing a package of soft yellow cake tubes. “I don’t think they can be any weirder than ‘Twinkies’, though.”

“Oh, those are good,” Tyrol piped up. “Nicky likes them.”

Felix felt the need to say something.

“Mr. Diamond,” he addressed the promoter, “no offense, but is there anything on our rider that you managed to procure?”

“Well, we did manage to get the M&Ms and Pop-Tarts,” the promoter said brightly. “There were plenty of those left around.”

Felix wondered if he should risk a fifth aspirin in less than two hours.

“Oh!” the man added. “And we did manage to get the ambrosia you asked for!”

“Ambrosia?” Tigh emerged from behind his band mates. “Now we’re talking,”

Starbuck was right behind him, and even Gaius was exhibiting interest. Heck, at this point, Felix was considering a shot.

“It wasn’t easy,” Diamond said, clearly pleased with himself. “I mean, finding the marshmallows, Jell-O, canned pineapple and mandarin oranges wasn’t too bad, but do you know how hard it is to find sour cream and coconut shavings in a post apocalyptic, non-tropical environment?”

Four faces stared down into the frightening concoction.

“Oh,” said Gaius with a disappointed frown.

Tigh grunted. “I’m going for a smoke,” he announced.

Starbuck, meanwhile, darted across the room to a laptop with her name on it.

“Hey, at least they got my stuff right!” She tapped the space bar on the keyboard and the screen lit up. “Score! I’ve been waiting all day to kick some enemy fighter ass!”

“Ah, about that,” the promoter interjected, sounding slightly sheepish. “I’m afraid that we weren’t able to find exactly the game you requested. But we did find an acceptable substitute.”

“Rage of the Wookies?” Starbuck’s incredulous complaint rang across the room. Felix grabbed a bottle of Yoo Hoo, and quickly washed down an aspirin.

“What the hell’s a Wookie?”

*********

Galen wouldn’t have guessed it if you’d told him, but Centurions turned out to make excellent roadies.

They were strong, tireless, mechanically inclined, and adapted well to the Leatherman attachment Galen had added to their multipurpose hands to make stage setup easier. And they didn’t seem to mind Galen supervising their work every night.

Galen enjoyed the work. It reminded him of when he’d had a deck gang, especially once he figured out that if he concentrated, he could hear the Centurions talking telepathically.

As it happened, Centurions were huge gossips. They didn’t seem particularly curious about Galen himself, once they recognized him as a Final Five. But they were more than happy to talk all day – they gossiped about their former skinjob masters, speculated on the lives of fictional characters on the wireless shows, or complained about Earth being a big waste of time and tylium.

After the initial thrill of being the first Colonial to communicate with Centurions, Galen started tuning most of their chatter out, just nodding sympathetically in all the right places and focusing on his work.

But then one day, something they said actually sparked his curiosity:

“…STUPID NOTE DELIVERING CRAP DUTY. WHY CAN’T HE DEAL WITH HIS OWN DAMN GROUPIES?”

“I KNOW. IT’S ALMOST AS BAD AS WORKING FOR THE ONES.”

Galen couldn’t resist. “Uh guys, what are you talking about?” he asked.

One of the Centurions cast his moving red eye towards Galen and silently opened up his hand to reveal a note. It was written on carefully torn sheet music paper:

You have been selected
to meet GAIUS BALTAR.
If you would like the opportunity to spend
quality time with the impresario ofThe Seven Wonders, please
follow this Cylon.

"Baltar has you getting groupies for him?” he chuckled.

The Centurion nodded in robotic frustration.

“THEY RUN AWAY FROM ME WHEN I TRY TO GIVE THEM THE NOTE. HUMANS ARE SO WEIRD.”

Galen nodded. “Yeah, I don’t really get them so much either.”

It seemed pretty unfair that they’d been roped into this job they didn’t like very much.

“Hmm…” he said. “You know, I think I know a way to get you guys out of groupie duty.”

Galen’s metallic brethren made a discordant, clanking sound of interest as they gathered into a circle around him.

Link to Part 2