Speculation is that this is an early draft which was discarded when the author (unknown) realized that he or she may have been inadvertently plagiarizing another film—parts of this do seem vaguely familiar..."Hard Core Logo", maybe?

Well in any case it was just thrown away, so I'm sure whoever wrote it wouldn't mind me posting it here, in lieu of an original Labour Day story.

***

COME AS YOU ARE: THE BLAKE'S 7 MOVIE
or
THE ADVENTURES OF VIRGO, MATRIARCH OF THE QUARRY

TRACKING GALLERY.

AVON stands astride the corpse of Blake, holding his gun and grinning—come on, you know the scene. Shots ring out. He falls.

CUT TO:

INT. AN IMPROMPTU HOLDING CELL. Incongruously it has one of those big swirly bottomless pits like in "Star One" in the middle of it.

AVON: Let's see, Orac, Soolin, Dayna, Vila...Tarrant—where's Blake?

There is a brief uncomfortable silence.

VILA: Oh come on, people, do you really think Avon subscribes to that old taboo against killing your nearest and dearest?

TARRANT (clearing throat nervously): So, does anyone have any bright ideas as to how we get out of this one?

SERVALAN (entering): I think I just might. Not alive, mind you.

AVON (not sounding as though he particularly believes it): But we're so much more fun alive than dead.

TARRANT: You, me, Avon, hot-tub full of marshmallow creme, come on, Supreme Commander, what do you say?

SERVALAN (softening, but trying to conceal the fact): That's Commissioner Sleer to you. I'm still operating undercover, you know.

TARRANT waggles his eyebrows. AVON appears to be choking on something.

SERVALAN: Very well. Show us what you've got.

AVON moves to rise to his feet, but she pushes him back down and walks over to TARRANT. AVON looks aggrieved. TARRANT starts carrying on shamelessly with SERVALAN, simultaneously navigating her backwards closer and closer to the SWIRLY PIT. Eventually he manouevres his fingers into the depths of SERVALAN's bosom while the rest of the crew avert their eyes in disgust.

SERVALAN: Uh-huh. Oh yeah. Who's your daddy?

TARRANT (fishing something out from between Servalan's breasts, and snapping the chain around her neck from which said thing hung): Yoink!

TARRANT shoves SERVALAN back, and she falls, cursing like a sailor, into the SWIRLY PIT.

AVON: They really ought to make those guard-rails stronger. [He looks at Tarrant, who is twirling his prize triumphantly.] What is that?

TARRANT (grinning): The key to her pursuit ship. Shall we?

CUT TO:

INT. THE DARKENED INTERIOR OF SERVALAN's PURSUIT SHIP.

TARRANT (entering first, activating the lights, followed closely by AVON, VILA, DAYNA and SOOLIN): Dear lord.

They gaze around them, at a large room, mirrored on all four sides as well as the ceiling, and simply chock-a-block with Servalanish gear—rhinestones, sequins, satin, feathers, patent leather, lengths of barbed-wire made of platinum and silver, you know, tasteful, understated: Servalan.

SOOLIN squints. DAYNA rubs her eyes.

TARRANT: Come on, girls, is this a woman's idea of heaven or what? I mean, assuming she's got a walk-in closet full of chocolates as well—

SOOLIN snorts.

DAYNA: Thanks but no thanks. Soolin and I have had it up to here with your puerile posturing and patronizingly patriarchic plots. [AVON discreetly wipes his face] We're staying here to found a crypto-wiccan lesbian commune.

SOOLIN nods. DAYNA and SOOLIN spin on their heels, link arms, and depart with their noses in the air.

TARRANT: Was it something I said?

AVON: How long a list would you like?

VILA: Good riddance, I say. Without that constant feminine presence passively forcing us to constantly maintain our suffocating masks of machismo, we're finally free to be ourselves.

TARRANT (holding up a dangerous-looking black sequined number): Screw that—I want to be Servalan! [TARRANT flounces off to one of the changing-rooms, slamming the door behind him]

VILA (staring after him): I should have known, really, no-one comes on that relentlessly butch unless they've got something to— [Suddenly VILA glances sidelong at AVON who is sidling nonchalantly toward that exquisite red number last seen in "Gambit"] —Hey! No fair! That's my favourite too! [AVON snatches the gown and runs] Bastard! [AVON slams and locks door of another changing-room] Red's not your colour, haven't you learned that yet? Mind you, I always have had a soft spot for virgins in—

TARRANT (emerging from his changing-room): Ta-dah!

VILA: —black sequins—no, wait, I mean— [TARRANT flicks VILA with his big black feather boa as he exits] —what was I—never mind, in any case we'd best be on our way, Servalan's entourage is bound to become suspicious pretty soon, Avon, Avon, do you hear me?

AVON (from inside the changing-room): I wonder if this thing's supposed to come with a manual.

VILA: I'll just go wait in the cockpit then, shall I?

TARRANT (sticking his head back in through the door): There's a message coming in.

VILA (panicky): Quickly, Avon! When she doesn't respond they'll be all over us like—

TARRANT: —greasy industrial-strength foundation on Servalan's pillowcase in the morning?

VILA: How can you joke at a time like this?

TARRANT: Oh, don't worry, the message isn't for Servalan—it's directed to you, Vila. Orac picked it up.

VILA: Me? Who'd want to talk to me?

TARRANT: Suicide hotline. They say go right ahead, it's painless. [VILA flips him the bird] Oh where's your sense of humour, Vila? No, seriously, I don't know who.

VILA: What's it say?

TARRANT: Just four words: "Come as you are."

VILA pales visibly.

AVON (bursting from his changing-room): Ta-dah!

VILA turns a whiter shade of pale.

TARRANT: Well, whoever sent it, I hope they know what they're letting themselves in for.

CUT TO:

INT. TINY CRAMPED COCKPIT OF SERVALAN'S PURSUIT SHIP. TARRANT (still in sequins) is at the controls. AVON (no longer in the red number) and VILA are watching him nervously.

VILA: You sure you know what you're doing?

TARRANT: I could fly this baby with my eyes closed. My piloting skills were legendary back at the—

AVON (making scare-quotes in the air with his fingers): Federation Space Academy, yes, so I've heard. Get on with it, then.

TARRANT (pulling a lever): What's her name, I wonder. [He peers at the control panel in front of him] "Pursuit Five"? Pathetic. I refuse to fly a foot until she's rechristened. [He pulls a flask of green liquid and holds it by the neck over the control panel] Any suggestions?

VILA (distraught): Not the soma, Tarrant, please, can't we christen it with spit?

AVON: How about The Good Ship Tarrant-Stalling-Desperately-For-Time-Because-He-Really-Hasn't-Got-A-Fucking-Clue—

VILA (staring at the soma bottle, almost physically pained): Or "Scorpio Two"?

TARRANT: I don't know, Scorpio, I never did care for that name. [He wrinkles his nose and delicately adjusts one of his sequined shoulder-straps] So phallic.

AVON: Last chance to go join the crypto-wiccan lesbian commune.

TARRANT: Please! Have you seen the way those girls dress?

AVON: Well then—

TARRANT: Well, I'm happy enough to maintain the zodiacal theme. How about— [He glances sidelong at VILA] —"Virgo"?

AVON throws up his hands, exasperated. VILA stares into the distance and smiles, momentarily distracted from bemoaning the imminent fate of the soma bottle.

TARRANT: All right, then. I christen thee "Virgo, Matriarch of the Quarry". [He smashes the soma bottle down. VILA recoils as though shot.]

AVON: Bless this ship and all who sail—Vila, stop licking the dashboard, you don't know where it's been.

CUT TO:

INT. A FILTHY MESS-HALL, as previously seen in "Weapon", but even filthier now.

Close-up on a rat. It looks up, squeaks, and flees, barely eluding the butt-end of a futuristic projectile-weapon (IMIPAK) being wielded as a club by a woman's arm. Pull back to reveal RASHEL (as previously seen in "Weapon"). Her hair is long and dirty and matted, and her high-collared black gown is looking pretty dang nasty.

The BLAKE CLONE enters. In stark contrast to Rashel, he looks quite well-groomed, trim and fit. His clothes (the same as seen in "Weapon") are patched and threadbare, but relatively clean.

CLONE: Rashel, please, come sit down. Your dinner's getting cold.

RASHEL (whacking at another rat): God damn it, I need meat!

There is a rumbling sound. RASHEL and the CLONE look up, as the volume steadily increases. RASHEL runs toward the exit, followed closely by the CLONE.

CUT TO:

INT. VIRGO COCKPIT. Spinning out of control. Crew being hurled violently (well, hurling themselves violently) to and fro.

TARRANT: Don't worry, this model is one of the easiest to crash land. I used to practice this very manouevre twice weekly at the—

VILA: I wouldn't say it, if I were you.

AVON (apoplectic fury): And yet, in all those years at the top of your class at the Federation Space Academy [VILA lets go of the bulkhead long enough to provide the scare-quotes] they never bothered to mention that pursuit ships require fuel?

TARRANT: The mutoids always took care of that sort of thing. Anyhow, I think she took out the spare tank to make more room for her wardrobe. And I mean really, can you blame her?

AVON (thoughtfully stroking the front of the floor-length silver lame evening gown he's wearing): No, I suppose not.

VILA (eyeing Tarrant): Certainly not.

TARRANT: Hold on tight, here it comes—

CUT TO:

EXT. ABANDONED BUILDING. RASHEL and the CLONE watch with interest as the pursuit ship streaks across the sky and lands with a bang somewhere just over the horizon.

CLONE: Whoever they are, I hope they're all right.

RASHEL: Whoever they are, I hope they brought food.

CLONE (shaking his head): I'd better go see.

RASHEL (distracted): A change of clothes would be nice, too, but that's probably too much to hope for.

CUT TO:

INT. VIRGO WARDROBE

AVON: Didn't that woman bring along a single pair of sensible walking shoes?

VILA: Why don't you just wear your boots, Avon?

AVON: With this dress? I don't think so.

TARRANT strides in from the direction of the cockpit, stripped down to his tighty-whities and brandishing a great big paintbrush.

TARRANT: Ship's a bit banged up after that landing, I'm going to give her a quick paint job, since we're stuck here anyhow. Just checking to see whether Servalan happened to bring along any coveralls...hmm, no...ah well, all that hard work'll keep me warm enough, I'm sure. [He grins broadly and exits through the outside hatch]

AVON: Why, that has to be the flimsiest excuse for partial nudity I've seen since that...disgusting display on...Horizon...Vila?

VILA: Mm?

AVON: You'd better start breathing again fairly soon, if you don't want to die.

VILA: Yes dear, I'll do it right after this program's over.

EXT. VIRGO, RESTING ASKEW IN (naturally) A QUARRY.

TARRANT is hanging upside down by his heels from one of her fins, painting one last hard-to-reach bit of her hull a particularly vile intestinal shade of pink. The BLAKE CLONE walks into frame and stands watching in stunned amazement for a moment.

CLONE: Very—very shiny.

TARRANT (not turning to look at the speaker): It's Servalan's nailpolish. There's at least three more drums of it in the hold.

AVON (calling from inside): Are you talking to someone, Tarrant, or just cooing at your reflection in the viewscreen glass again? [He sticks his head out the open hatch, and sees the CLONE] B...b...[He swoons]

CLONE: Your companion appears to have fainted.

TARRANT (still not looking): Nailpolish fumes. Slap his face, he'll come round. Mind you, make sure he's not armed before you do, he's got a bit of a reputation— [TARRANT finally deigns to turn and look at his conversational partner, grinning widely, and immediately twitches so hard that he plummets from his perch]

VILA (sticking his head out the hatch): What's all the—oh, I—

TARRANT: Don't worry, it's just nailpolish fumes.

CUT TO:

INT. FILTHY MESS HALL.

RASHEL is sitting with her feet up on one of the tables, gnawing on something unappealing. The CLONE enters, flanked by TARRANT (once more properly attired in something at least as shiny as Servalan's nailpolish) and VILA (demurely clad in his Gauda Prime gear), and followed after by a rather disoriented AVON (wearing the most modest and understated garment Commissioner Sleer's wardrobe had to offer—make of that what you will).

CLONE (to RASHEL): Our visitors survived their arrival, you'll be happy to hear. Here they are, as a matter of fact, all hale and hardy. I said I'd try and scrounge up some spare fuel cells in the morning, but that in the meantime they'd be welcome here.

RASHEL: [to CLONE, sarcastically] Of course, dear. I'll have the maid put some champagne on ice. [to TARRANT, proffering a platter] Care for a rat?

TARRANT (looking queasy): No thanks, I don't.

CLONE (slapping TARRANT heartily on the back, which causes TARRANT to totter forward on his high heels): Good man! Humanity's vestigial carnivorousness is just one more chain binding us to the antiquated agrarian mores of our ancestors, thereby propagating patriarchical—

RASHEL (sucking the meat from a rat-leg): Bite me, propaganda-boy.

VILA (studiously avoiding looking at RASHEL): So, Bla—ah— So. What do you eat?

CLONE: Parsnips.

AVON (wearing a dreamy expression): I love parsnips.

CLONE: Well that's good. They're the only produce that'll grow in this blasted soil, but fortunately they grow very well. Would you like to see my parsnip patch, Avon?

AVON: Oh, yes.

CLONE: I'm sure you'll allow you've never seen such enormous—

AVON licks his lips as he follows the CLONE out of the mess-hall.

TARRANT (to RASHEL): On second thought, pass the rat.

VILA pulls a flask of bright green liquid out of a pocket.

RASHEL (hungrily): Is that soma?

CUT TO:

INT. MESS HALL, obviously some time later. TARRANT's and RASHEL's plates are both heaped high with rat-bones, and the two of them are leaning back with their feet on the table sipping tumblers of Soma. VILA is slumped face-down on the table with the empty flask clenched tight in his hand.

AVON enters, looking even more irritated than usual.

TARRANT (drunkenly): Did you have fun?

AVON (sneering): Oh yes. [He drops a large pallid root vegetable onto Vila's plate] He showed me his parsnip patch all right.

The CLONE enters.

CLONE: [to AVON] I'm still not sure what I did wrong, but rest assured, I'd be more than happy to make it up in whatever— [to TARRANT] Tell me you didn't give her soma.

TARRANT (hurt): Of course I didn't.

CLONE looks greatly relieved. RASHEL giggles.

TARRANT (waving airily at VILA): He did.

RASHEL falls over in her chair, executes a clumsy backward somersault and staggers to her feet. Her hair is now, if possible, in even greater disarray.

CLONE: Oh dear.

RASHEL (maniacally): RATS!

VILA (raising his head): Where?

RASHEL (eyes rolling wildly): Everywhere! There! [She points to a cluster of rats in the corner] They think they're so clever, oh yes, but they're not as clever as me—I didn't spend seven years as a bond-slave without picking up a trick or two of my own.

CLONE: Oh. Dear.

TARRANT, VILA, AVON and the CLONE stare in horror at some spectacle taking place off-screen.

TARRANT: Good lord, what is she planning to do with those space-pong balls?

VILA (wincing): Ask a rhetorical question...

The RATS in the corner scatter, squealing, under a hail of space-pong balls.

TARRANT (to the CLONE): Doesn't that violate the Rule of Life?

AVON: It certainly violates the rules of space-pong.

CUT TO:

EXT. VIRGO, GLEAMING PEARLESCENT PINK IN THE AFOREMENTIONED QUARRY.

CLONE (stepping out through the hatch, cleaning his hands on a rag): Well, that should do for now, but I strongly advise you to get that spare tank reinstalled when you get to— [He pauses expectantly. AVON shrugs almost apologetically.]

TARRANT (sulkily): Vila won't say.

AVON, TARRANT and VILA climb in, leaving CLONE and RASHEL on the ground.

AVON: Goodbye...thank you for your help and hospitality—I hope someday we can return the—

CLONE (beseechingly): Take me with you.

AVON extends his hand.

RASHEL (screechingly): What about me?

TARRANT (to RASHEL): Our ex-crewmates have started a crypto-wiccan lesbian commune. Perhaps we could drop you off there?

VILA: Oh yes, I'm sure you'd get along famously.

CUT TO:

EXT. CRYPTO-WICCAN LESBIAN COMMUNE. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, fat bunnies frolic in long lush green grass. SOOLIN and RASHEL [still in disgusting dress and matted hair] sit sipping iced-tea at a table while in the background a rawhide-bikini-clad DAYNA ululates as she tackles and repeatedly bayonets a straw dummy dressed in Avon's studded leather suit.

SOOLIN: So, Rashel, do you feel you have any particular special talents to contribute to our community?

RASHEL (smiling sweetly): Well, I'm quite a good little cook, if I do say so myself.

CUT TO:

INT. VIRGO WARDROBE

AVON and the CLONE are perusing the clothing selection. TARRANT is admiring himself in various mirrors.

CLONE (holding up a particularly gaudy item): Didn't go in much for earth-tones, did she? What I wouldn't give for a nice clean baggy brown tunic.

TARRANT pantomimes self-induced regurgitation.

AVON (nonchalant, holding up a dress): Here's a little green number that I thought might be to your liking...

CLONE: Thank you Avon, I must say I'm touched by the interest you're taking in my fashionability.

AVON smiles slightly and lowers his eyes.

TARRANT (elbowing AVON repeatedly): Go on, Avon, you know you want to, go on, go on, go on go on go on go on go—

VILA: Shut up!

TARRANT: Ooh, that time of the month again already? Anyhow, Avon, as I was saying—

AVON: Yes, Tarrant, thank you for your input. [to CLONE] Say, hey, Bl—b—big boy, how would you like to come back to my cabin and attempt to undermine three thousand years of gender inequality?

CLONE: Well all right, but only if we get to have sex afterwards.

CUT TO:

EXT. ANOTHER QUARRY

In the distance is a large refineryish building with a big sign on it that says "PURSUIT SHIP FUEL CELL STORAGE—KEEP OUT", surrounded by a chain-link fence. A handful of JACKBOOTED FEDERATION THUGS are wandering around conspicuously not guarding the padlocked entrance.

TARRANT and VILA appear, peering over a ridge at the THUGS. TARRANT is splendiferously arrayed, in feathers, fake eyelashes, and falsies.

VILA: All right, so here's the plan, you're to distract them while I pick the—are you sure you wouldn't like to go back and change?

TARRANT (coquettishly): Why, aren't I distracting enough as it is?

VILA swallows.

TARRANT: Ooh, I recognize some of those lads from back at the Academy. This is going to be rich! I wonder how long they'll be able to keep a straight face. [He stands up]

VILA: Now Tarrant, discretion is the better part of longevity—

But TARRANT is already sashaying toward the THUGS. VILA darts toward the building.

THUG: Hey, baby, haven't I seen you someplace before?

TARRANT (playing along): Maybe. I get around.

The THUG grabs at TARRANT's breast, and it comes away in his hand. He looks TARRANT up and down suspiciously.

THUG: Hey, you're not a girl.

TARRANT: Of course not! It's me! Del! Class of '13! [uncertainly] Come on boys, a joke's a joke, but let's get—

The THUG slugs TARRANT, laying him flat out on the gravel, and advances upon him in a suggestive manner.

THUG: Let's get down to business.

Suddenly a shot rings out. The THUGS turn to see AVON skittering down the side of the quarry, gun drawn.

AVON: I'm here to kick ass and chew bubblegum.

THUG: And—let me guess—you're all out of bubblegum?

AVON: Au contraire, I've got plenty, but I can do both things at once, thus putting me several standard deviations ahead of Gerald Ford on the kinaesthetic aptitude curve.

TARRANT: Oh, Avon, I love it when you talk dirty.

THUG: Come on then.

AVON proceeds to KICK ASS and CHEW BUBBLEGUM.

CUT TO:

INT. VIRGO WARDROBE

TARRANT is SUFFERING BEAUTIFULLY on a makeshift bed of fur coats and boas while VILA dabs blood from his face with a black silk scarf. AVON and the CLONE look on disapprovingly.

VILA: All I can say is I'm glad we're almost there—

TARRANT: Mphre?

VILA: There. All you have to do is drop me off, I'll go my way and you can go yours and those two can go theirs—you three can divide the wardrobe up amongst yourselves, I'm getting sick of the sight of sequins.

TARRANT looks shocked.

CUT TO:

HOMEWORLD (as seen in "The City At The Edge Of The World").

VILA, TARRANT, AVON and the CLONE enter, all of them except VILA looking extremely nonplussed. KERRIL is still chucking valuable crystals into the pond, but when she sees VILA she rises and approaches. She kisses VILA chastely on the cheek.

KERRIL: You got my message.

VILA: "Come as you are". As you told me in the vault when I said we'd have to call it off on account of a lack of prophylactics.

AVON (fanning himself): Intimations of Nasty Het! Much more of this and I shall swoon!

KERRIL (pulling a SMALL CHILD out from somewhere about her person and thrusting it in VILA's direction): She's yours. Ain't she sweet?

AVON, as promised, SWOONS into the waiting arms of the CLONE. Meanwhile VILA wears the expression of a soldier pinned beneath debris watching a live hand-grenade arc through the air toward him, as KERRIL hands the SMALL CHILD to him.

VILA: She's got my eyes.

TARRANT: And Avon's wallet.

VILA (flushed with pride): Come to Papa!

TARRANT kisses VILA chastely on the cheek. AVON, having just recovered consciousness, swoons again.

CUT TO:

INT. THE ROOM WITH THE SWIRLY PIT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT, now deserted. The sound of a badly-tuned lute and Dayna's badly-tuned voice belting out Ani DiFranco tunes can be heard faintly in the background throughout the course of the scene. Servalan's echoing curses can still be heard as she falls, and then suddenly:

ECHOEY VOICE OF SERVALAN: Oof!

ECHOEY VOICE OF TRAVIS: Ugh!

VOICE OF SERVALAN: What the hell have I landed on? Feels like some sort of overstuffed—

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Watch it, Supreme Commander.

VOICE OF SERVALAN: Travis? What are you doing on Gauda Prime?

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Don't you mean in Gauda Prime?

VOICE OF SERVALAN (angrily): Don't question—I—all right, Travis, what are you doing in Gauda Prime?

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Lying at the bottom of a very deep well. And yourself?

VOICE OF SERVALAN: Plotting elaborate and painful revenge.

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Oh, me too, of course, goes without saying.

VOICE OF SERVALAN: You've been plotting revenge, all this time? Against whom? [sweetly] No-one in this well, I hope—

VOICE OF TRAVIS (agitated): No! Blake!

VOICE OF SERVALAN: I'm not sure quite how to tell you this, but—

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Oh, he's not dead. He set all that up just to get Avon off his back. As a matter of fact, he's one of the founding members of that crypto-wiccan lesbian commune up there.

VOICE OF SERVALAN: Lesbian? But—

VOICE OF TRAVIS (pained): Don't ask.

FAINT VOICE OF SOOLIN: For Christ's sake Dayna will you give it a rest?

VOICE OF TRAVIS: Care for a rat, Supreme Commander?

FAINT VOICE OF DAYNA: Make me!

VOICE OF SERVALAN: Thank you, Travis, don't mind if I do.

FADE TO BLACK.

***