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Non-Pokemon Crossover: The Comeback King Saga

Does Team Rocket hire?
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The Youtube version of this story

Act 1: The Comeback King

This is a rather large crossover fic, but I will try to make this as painless as possible this time around. If you like Muppets, Labyrinth, Fraggle Rock, Dinosaurs … then this is a great story for you! Now, I WILL warn you … some topics, such as substance use and “atypical” relationships occur. So, for the sheltered, perhaps this story is not for you. There isn’t anything obscene (in fact, nothing is mentioned that hasn’t been stated/shown/implied in these various franchises), unless the mere mention of those things upset you. Just thought I’d throw that out there.
Locations: Fraggle Rock and the Gorg’s Garden
New York City, in which The Muppets Take Manhattan occurs. (Also note, that Kermit says their wedding was only a play … BUT … when the bear family goes through the obvious fake doors, the scene switches to a more realistic church :D ).

Important Plot Points: The Legend of Sir Hubris
The Muppets Take Manhattan (see link above)
Labyrinth (link gives a 5-minute version)
Return to Labyrinth
Dark Crystal (link gives an abridged version)
Important Farscape Event
Junior Sells the Farm Pt 1 (see the whole ep!)
Mokey, Then and Now Pt 1
Junior Faces the Music Pt 1 (be sure to see the whole ep, though)
The Gorg Who Would Be King Pt 1 (see the whole ep!)

Other Characters: Sir David Tushingham
Nicky Holiday (though, Great Muppet Caper isn’t canon here, this is more like an alt-alt-universe version)
Queen of Trash I don’t have this movie, and all references to her online are pretty sparse … so I guess I just have to make stuff up.
Rachel Bitterman
Samson Knight
Foster

Whew … got all that? I thought this time around I’d be more helpful since this is a major crossover of just about every franchise I can think of (and want to work with). Yes, you have read this story before (some of you, anyway). However, I thought I could do better. So, the stories have been turned into 4 acts of one story and each act will open with something similar to the above “cheat list”.

The “Underground”, as it’s called in Labyrinth, consists of the world of Labyrinth (and Moraine, which is a neighboring kingdom found in the manga sequel). In this story, however, I’m also including the Gorg’s Garden and to a certain extent Fraggle Rock, though it’s more of a connection between the Underground and “Outer Space”, aka: our world, which consists of the Muppets and Sesame Street and such. I’m also considering Grouchland and the Trash Kingdom as part of the Underground, since apparently Oscar the Grouch’s trash can leads to another dimension or something as well. Basically, if it takes magic or plot convenience to get there (LOL), then it’s a part of the Underground.

Chapter 1
(Spring, 2008AD)

The loss of the crown had been devastating, or so it seemed to his royal subjects, who grumbled and groused and bewailed their fate, for they were certain that stars would fall and fire would consume and famine would wither, leaving the entire universe destitute. The King of the Universe was destined to rule all for the benefit of everyone. And yet, seemingly on a whim, he had just thrown it away … or so it seemed to those who knew him, for they remained unaware that their constant needs had nearly broken his spirit. He had been exhausted from the harsh, nagging words of his court. The thought of having to rule such a wide expanse every single day made his stomach ache and his hands twitch and his head throb. And so, the King of the Universe had relinquished his royal duty.

Now, one does not just throw away one’s responsibilities and get away with it without a scratch. Those who abdicated were doomed to seek out that very crown which weighed so heavily upon the royal head…

The former King of the Universe wandered to and fro, forever without home or purpose. At the time, it seemed to suit him. He had never felt more liberated. And yet, as he was turned away from each and every land, he began to doubt his decision. The universe was one big disappointment after another: sometimes he barely kept warm in the glacial lands of the north, sometimes he felt as though he were fully baked under the hot and searing sun of the west, sometimes he nearly fainted from infection in the cesspools of the south, and sometimes he had to fight off endless enemies in the east. He knew only the comfort of his own mind, and that was waning by the century’s end. He had been drifting and suffering such deep loneliness for a few centuries, though he had honestly lost track of time. Eventually, time ceased to have meaning at all. So, too, did other things: good food, his last remaining royal robe (worn to tatters through the centuries), companionship (of which he had none, as he had been known as selfish and strict, which endeared him to few) …

On one particular occasion, weary from a particularly bad run-in with impish fire elementals with detachable body parts who insisted on trying to eat him, the former King of the Universe slumped down next to a young tree atop a high hill, overlooking a fertile plain. He had grown tired of walking. He stared at the plain, filled with grasses of all kinds, flowers blooming in large groups, and bordered by a sparkling, winding, majestic river that shamed even the vast oceans.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he might stick around for a few days…


A black-haired Caucasian middle-aged woman, with crow’s feet in her eyes and a wide, sensitive grin, looked up from the stack of papers on her desk, which seemed to imitate the skyline of skyscrapers behind her through the large glass window that stretched across the entire wall. Her voice was gentle and cheerful. “This is great so far.” She leaned back against her black leather chair. The woman wore a black suit with a light blue blouse underneath. Her office was located in a rather posh section of Manhattan, courtesy of years of Broadway success under her belt. It was filled with numerous brightly-colored posters advertising various shows throughout the years, including one with Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy on it, where they wore the sparkling purple tuxes they tended to favor for some unknown reason. She maintained her grin as she spoke with the thirty-eight year-old brunette, who herself had been busily climbing the entertainment ladder after a stint teaching college drama students. “It’s a good thing your stories are proven cash cows … you tend to like re-using themes a lot,” she noted, chuckling.

The other woman shrugged, returning the smile. The producer had given her her big break shortly after 2001, which she had needed due to her apartment complex being torn down during the reconstruction following the World Trade Center incident. They found themselves to have the same taste in genres and hobbies. “Hey, we’ve seen a huge resurgence in fairytale crap over the last decade or so,” she informed the woman across the sleek desk. “RPGs are getting some respect, we’ve got the nostalgic 80s flavor … this has the potential to rival Cats,” she said with a little more enthusiasm, her hands waving in circles to show how big it could become.

The older woman frowned, though she quickly tried to regain her normally cheerful composure. Broadway life could easily wear one down if one didn’t try to stay grounded and balanced. “Sarah, do you think your work is ‘crap’? I mean, if you’re starting to feel a need to move on, let’s get those feelings out in the air now, shall we?”

Sarah shrugged, looking at the floor, trying to avoid her friend and business partner’s eyes. She hesitated to answer. She really didn’t want to say the words out loud, remembering what problems that could cause. When she was in her mid-teens, she had obsessed over fairy tales and theater, to the point of collecting every souvenir and cheap merchandise she could find. One day she let loose with a wish to the Goblin King, a character from one of her play books.

That didn’t turn out too well. An owl came into her parents’ … her father’s room … and transformed into a living version of a statuette resting on the dresser in her room. He took her infant half-brother to his mystical castle in the center of an ever-changing labyrinth. Ever since, she’d had a profound respect for the power of language.

“I feel it’s personal, Jenny,” she exclaimed strongly. It wasn’t that she was afraid of losing the job … Jenny wasn’t like that … but there were, more private reasons to think her statements thoroughly before stating them, reasons that even she herself sometimes didn’t want to admit. “This isn’t just about capitalizing on the retro thing … some stories need to get told. I’ve had a great time writing for you, but there are some things … I dunno, Jen,” she continued, sighing, her voice becoming more and more subdued, “I just … regret …”

<><><><><><>

The leather-bound, gold-embossed book slammed shut with the help of large, brown furry hands, dust and miniscule bits of paper creating a small cloud, and was tossed over the right shoulder, making some strands of thick brown hair on the side of the even larger head sway.

“Whoa!” a female voice screamed out as the book raced past her as she sat on the big lug’s shoulder. The googly-eyed, yellow-orange creature with the red-orange frizzy pigtails tied with dark red ribbons and the bright red turtleneck sweater ducked out of the way just in time, hanging onto some body hair on the reader’s back, her knuckles paling and her feet desperately trying to take hold of something. She had wanted to get a better view of the story, but her adventurous side tended to put her in situations that, in hindsight, may not have been the wisest.

The brown furry giant looked over to the right and shrugged, nearly sending the female creature flying again. “Sowwy, Red,” he told her casually, reaching back to help her up. His voice was smooth and deep, though his pronunciation still left a little to be desired. Whether it was the shape of his nose or the plants in the garden or even something mysterious and unknown, no one knew why the creature had that particular accent.

Red, a Fraggle who made her home in Fraggle Rock, a large cave system that connected at least two worlds, maybe more, glared at the humongous guy – though that was like staring down a hairy mountain. However, she shook her head and sighed, trying to hide her irritation in her voice, “No, it’s okay, Junior. I think I’ll live.”

Junior smiled. “Gweat!” he exclaimed, laughing, his belly heaving up and down with each guffaw. Junior was a Gorg. Think a brown shaggy King Kong but with a light brown bulbous nose with a loose khaki jacket, no pants, and spiked brown leather boots and no pressing girl problems.

“For now,” Red griped under her breath.

“When did you start reading The Legends of Sir Hubris again, Junior?” a high-pitched male gravelly voice asked devotedly from the ground where other Fraggles had gathered to hear some Gorg tales at the edge of the radish garden near the tool shed. Each radish, as well as their leafy tops, was roughly the size of a Fraggle. In fact, to a Fraggle, the Gorg garden was a veritable paradise of unending food, since one vegetable or fruit could last them a couple of days.

Junior shrugged again as he faced Wembley, a green-yellow Fraggle with a tussle of almost blond hair and a banana-tree shirt, which was never buttoned all the way up, for that would have required too much focus and concentration.

“Watch it,” Red cried out angrily, hanging onto Junior’s shoulder with a death-grip, “you dunderheaded…”

“RED!” a teeny male voice with an occasional Canadian accent barked from below. Red had agreed to stop calling Junior a lummox, which was an insult regarding his intelligence (or lack thereof) … but Red’s mouth almost always worked faster than Red’s brain.

“It’s okay, Gobo,” Junior wistfully told the explorer Fraggle with the orange skin, purple hair, orange and yellow-striped long-sleeved shirt and a brown vest. He looked over at Red and tried to keep his voice down, since at that proximity, Gorg voices could rival avalanches, “Sowwy, Red … you want down?” Junior had only lived with his immediate family and never really had the opportunity to make friends. There had been no nearby Gorgs, and Fraggles had, for decades, been considered alternately garden pests and random “pets” for Junior. Only after a strange incident just before he was to be crowned as King of the Universe, did Junior start seeing Fraggles as friends. Though he had partnered with them before, it never occurred to him that they could be anything more than mere playful objects until he had learned to see life in an entirely new way. Now that Junior had denied his kingship, he felt free to play and laugh all day, even though it was sometimes frustrating since they were so much smaller than him.

Before she could answer, Gobo interjected. “What she really wants is to know why you started reading from those legends again!” He frowned at Red, craning his neck to see her. Fraggles were roughly two-feet tall, give or take, so having conversations with two-story Gorgs could sometimes leave them with a stiff neck.

Wembley, standing next to Gobo, shrugged and looked at the ground. “Actually, uh, I thought I was the one who wanted to know.”

Gobo glanced over at his friend. “And Red wants to hear it too … don’t you, Red?” he asked in that not-so-subtle tone he used when Red, he felt, was coming on too strong.

“Well, I …” Junior began.

“Juuuunnniiiooorrrrr,” sang a melodious female voice from within the Gorg’s castle. At the front door appeared a lavender Gorg with a sharply upturned nose and a tremendous amount of blonde hair pulled up with a few pins, which were each the size of a tall Fraggle. She wore an ivory-colored flowing gown, accented with purple and yellow layers, and white lace fingerless gloves. She beckoned for Junior. “Come inside, sweetie-kins … I need you to try on some new clothes I’m sewing for your Five-hundred party,” she said happily.

“Five-hundred party?” Red, Gobo, and Wembley asked in unison.

Junior began to rise, but remembered Red and gently put her down before standing. He glanced at the female Gorg. “But Maaaaa,” he whined to his mother, “dat’s tree ye-uhs away!”

Ma Gorg shook her finger at her son. “If you want it to look good I need to start on it now, Favorite Son and Former King of the Universe,” she lectured.

“But you just made dis shirt for me a hunnahd ye-uhs ago!” Junior pleaded. He didn’t mind helping his Ma with cooking, since he enjoyed finding uses for the vegetables he grew, but fashion preparation could take a decade or more. Junior didn’t want to die of old age waiting for his mother to finish nitpicking his wardrobe. Gorgs had been known to live to be a couple thousand years old, but nothing sped up (or slowed down) time like his mother. He picked up an edge of his shirt and sniffed it deeply. He looked back at Ma. “Besides … it’s not even duhty yet!”

Ma Gorg frowned, slapping her hand on the bottom half of the door. “You know how I get when you start sounding like your Father,” she warned, almost growling.

“And what do I sound like, dear?” yelled a gravelly aged voice from deep within the castle.

Ma Gorg’s eyes widened and she turned toward the voice of her husband, who had been resting more … well, much more ever since Junior had forsaken the crown. “Like a brisk summer wind, Oh Gorgeous Husband of Mine,” she laughed nervously. “All of nature rejoices when you open your mouth!” She turned back towards Junior, who had made little progress towards the castle. “Although sometimes they appreciate when it’s shut,” she mumbled quietly. She looked at Junior expectantly. He had better not need another … motherly suggestion, she thought to herself.

Ma Gorg could easily be frustrated with both her husband and her son. They both felt idleness and play were a right, not a privilege. Still…

Around what year humans would call 1474AD, a young Gorg princess, followed by a small entourage carrying her luggage, marched toward a castle that shimmered in the sunlight. Before she entered the castle, however, she stopped by a nearby well and started to drink. Her mother, Queen Esmerelda of the Western Gorg Kingdom, had sent her there to find a husband. She had been walking for days. She was glad to be finally in the Eastern Gorg Kingdom, though her entourage, tasked with transporting her ample luggage, was SLIGHTLY more relieved than her.

She heard a strange noise from behind a large thick tree that nearly was the same diameter as an average Gorg. Upon investigation, she found a slumbering sapphire-blue young male Gorg, wearing only some shorts made of heavy fabric. She flicked some water on him and jumped back, amused, when he shot up several feet in the air. He glanced at her in shock, his eyes widening a little and his mouth slack. He wiped the water droplets off his face.

When she giggled at the sight, the young male Gorg blushed. He approached her and she coyly kept backing up so he would have to give chase. By the time she bumped into a large rock pillar made of several gray boulders, he had taken her hand and kissed her.

“Whatever did you do that for?” she asked.

“You’re the female for me,” he said eagerly in a slightly husky voice. “I never want to go through that again. Be my wife.”

The Gorg Princess blushed and held her hand to her face to shield her reddening cheeks from him. “Your … ROMANTIC … sensibilities notwithstanding, I’m afraid I must save myself for the handsome young Gorg Prince who lives in that castle,” she told him, pointing to the castle with a smile.

The male Gorg grinned widely. “Why, have no fear, my lavender angel,” he announced proudly, “for thou dost see the one and true Gorg King.” He lowered his head. “My Pa still likes to hang around, of course, but for two-hundred and twenty-nine years, I’ve ruled the roost.” He sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “That is, if you don’t mind marrying a King, instead.”


Junior sighed, defeated. He turned to his Fraggle friends. “I guess I can’t avoid my destiny, Fwaggles,” he noted sadly. “See you whenevah I see you.”
 
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Chapter 2
(Summer, 2008AD)

The proud former King of the Universe had grown weary of wandering. His feet were blistered, his skin dry, and his robes needed washing. However, he could not admit to any desire to reclaim his supposedly rightful place. Of what use had the King been? Despite his power, only the most loyal had really listened to him. Most beings just went ahead and did whatever they wanted to do anyway. Everyone had their own lives, their own dreams, their own loves. Those were things he could never REALLY control, at least not without exhausting himself to the point of death … which was a hard thing to fathom, for such a long-lived being. Although he had had a court, he had always felt completely alone. No one had been there to share in his joys and sorrows intimately.

Unbeknownst to the former King, as he sat atop a large hill overlooking a flowering plain, a small oval rustic ship floated serenely behind the clouds. It had acquired quite a bit of debris as it traveled through the “true” universe, crossing galaxies with ease thanks to the random wormhole here and there. Inside the ship, a pale grey entity, shriveled with age, coughed and wheezed through its mouth. It didn’t appear to have a nose. It had long spindly fingers which tapped at a console above the reclined soft chair upon which the being rested. On the floor by the chair was a spiky crown reminiscent of thin branches of bleached coral, as well as a pile of silvery robes.

Millennia ago, a great crisis had nearly consumed its world. All peace and light in the universe would have been lost, but for the heroics of the supposedly last of a small species, bipedal mammals called gelflings. Hope had been restored, and all was assumed to have been made right again. However, a catastrophe on a distant planet compelled this creature to seek out survivors and, maybe, set things right again. Ever since his homeworld had been saved, he felt a pressing urge to prevent the same doom that nearly cost them all their lives from happening to others. And yet, by the time the ship arrived, it was surely too late, for no evidence of life could be found among the dominant species of the planet. All that was left were some mammalian species and some marine life. They had hidden in caves during the catastrophe. It was difficult to communicate with such primitive creatures, but apparently, some years before the freezing started, as the world began to die, a new type of creature had been born … a creature born of hope with the unrealized potential to accomplish that which this entity had longed for. The dominant species had been fighting over resources and the innocence of a child of that species revealed the existence of this new type of creature.

So the entity had left, confidently knowing that life would begin anew. However, as time passed, its mind began to tear asunder. It knew that darkness again threatened a world, and it turned out to be the very one it had hoped to save millions of years ago. Parts of that world were dying, darkness creeping in and siphoning the very essence of beings, leaving them vulnerable to complete destruction.

As two had become one on its homeworld, so too must two join forces to stop the darkness on this one. Otherwise, this planet would yet again face the threat of utter extinction. And, as usual, a primitive might have to risk his or her life to help the two powers unite…


Jenny pitched the show’s major concepts as best she could via video conference: what had started out to be a simple tale of a Tolkien-esque quest for a king had evolved into something far grander. She forwarded some of her business partners detailed sketches she had drawn up. The identity of the King of the Universe was to be shrouded in mystery. He would not be revealed until the character had returned to his rightful role. Out of the blue, Sarah had added some sci-fi elements as well (“The more geeks we draw in, the better,” she had said jokingly). The general concept would be not only to provide escapist fantasy fare, but to connect various genres together. If written well, the themes would not get all muddled up and confuse the audience (or the critics). So far, most of those partners had expressed delight in the concept, but distrust of the economic feasibility, since it seemed rather heavy on special effects, such as pyrotechnics, video projection, etc. One partner, however, a thin pale woman with short reddish-brown hair, had the most to criticize. She had been antsy throughout the entire presentation, so Jenny knew what was coming….

“Well, I, for one, will not be sinking more money than I already am into the theater racket,” the woman on the screen griped sourly. “It’s bad enough I had to adopt your old Broadway has-beens, Miss Evangelos,” she continued, jabbing her index finger angrily at the camera.

“Well, I, for one,” Jenny shot back testily, “would hope that certain accounting processes made by certain investors could be well backed-up should the spreadsheets be checked more closely.” She paused, grimacing. “And, quite frankly, losing money on a property just shows bad leadership and business acumen. Properties are like plants: if you don’t water it, it shrivels up.”

“How dare you lecture me?” the woman on the screen scoffed. “I’ve been in the investing business for quite awhile --.”

Jenny smiled. “At least I can turn a profit with even the flimsiest of scripts, Ms. Bitterman,” she replied. “And this is not a flimsy plot ... it could be epic. All you have to do is believe in it.” She paused. “Besides, I didn’t have to rely on a lucky death to get where I am today.” She pointed to herself. “My skills put me on top, not my --.”

“Okay,” a male investor on another screen blurted out nervously. “We get it. You two don’t get along.”

“More of that ‘dream’ crap,” Ms. Bitterman grumbled, looking away from the camera. “Why can’t anyone join the twenty-first century?” she continued to herself, though loud enough for the others to hear. “Why must some people refuse to let go of seventies hippie nonsense?” She finally stared straight ahead, glaring into the camera. “You’ll need to show me the money, baby girl. Let me know how that fairy-tale ending works out for ya.”

Jenny clicked off Ms. Bitterman’s feed. Sighing, Jenny leaned back in her chair. She glanced at the other investors. “Is there anyone else afraid to put their money where their mouths are?” she asked. “We didn’t get to where we are by investing in the ordinary. Mr. Crawford and I, you are well aware, took a veritable talking zoo and turned their play into a headliner for five years. A play filled with a random assortment of animals managed to get nominated for a Tony.” She inhaled deeply, clasping her hands together tightly. “I know what I’m doing. You have a choice: attach your names to success or to obscurity.”

<><><><><><>

A gray long-nosed rat-like creature screamed out in terror, jumping up nearly five feet off the trash-covered ground where he had been sleeping. He and his friend had barely had enough sleep all day, since Marjory had had them doing chores all day and the Gorgs had been arguing about the most becoming seams for hours.

“What is it?” asked his friend, a pinkish rat-like creature. His voice was higher-pitched than the gray one, but they both had the same type of street-smart accent. After a pause, the pink one asked again, “Huh? What is it, Gunge? Lay ovah anudder pin cushion again?”

Gunge trembled, shaking his head. “Uh-uh, Philo,” he replied. “It was a nightmare … I dreamt I was swallowed whole by a monster dat made da Gorgs look like fuzzy bunnies.” He whimpered. “It had great big horns, green scaly skin, and jaws bigger dan dat well ovah dere,” he continued, pointing toward the well which led to the Fraggle pond in the Great Hall, the central cave of Fraggle Rock. “It was scarier dan Wandah McMooch!”

“Boy, dat’s rough,” Philo replied sympathetically. He soon smirked, however. “Bet you gave him indigestion, though, right, buddy?” He began to snicker.

Gunge nodded. “Yeah, yeah … just you keep laughin’, Philo. You ain’t exactly a deodorant spokesrat yourself, y’know…” He was going to continue berating his teasing friend when the ground underneath them began to shift, the trash piling up and forming a pointy head with a banana peel for a head decoration and two large hands that melted seamlessly into the pile of trash. Her personality was certainly more pleasant (in general) than her smell, though that depended on what had been thrown on her each day.

It spoke with a raspy female voice. “Boys, boys … are you having bad dreams again?”

Philo pointed to Gunge. “It’s all Gunge’s fault, Marjory,” he exclaimed, trying to stifle a yawn. “He OD’d on some rotten carrot cake and now we all have to suffer,” he continued, feigning melodramatic suffering.

“Hm,” Marjory said, stroking her “chin” (what little there was) as the two rat-like creatures continued to trade insults at one another. She finally picked both up with each hand and held them apart. “Now listen, boys,” she said sympathetically, “loose ends are getting tied up all over the universe. It’s perfectly normal for you to be suffering from its effects, especially since you live so close to me.”

The two looked at each other, then at her. “So, dis is all your fault?” they asked in shocked unison.

Marjory dropped them both in a huff. She leaned back as far as she could to “distance” herself from them, crossing her arms in indignation. Music started to play, with a kind of jazz feel to it, reminiscent of I’ve Seen Troubles:

Da universe … is made of so many t’ings,
Gorgs and Fraggles, boys, share friendly company…


“Uh,” Philo interrupted, “Marjory? It’s eleven o’clock at night … can we pick dis up some udder time … please?”

“No!” she shouted, slapping her hand on Philo’s back. She shook a finger at him. “Don’t interrupt me again … or I’ll stop reading you bedtime stories!” She started singing again as Philo and Gunge gulped. The only way they’d get back to sleep is if they played along. Marjory was definitely in one of her “oracle-y” moods again.

But in other places hence, the pleasure’s nearly being spent …
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe …
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…
The Rock is light-filled, Goombah soup spilled,
But beyond the Swamp lie crowns so lon-el-ly (Philo & Gunge: lon-el-ly)…
But in times of trial and stress, we need a king for all dis mess,
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…
That means troubles, that means pain, that means woe, woe, woe…


And on the last note, Marjory slipped back quietly into an inanimate trash heap, while her two companions shrugged and nodded off themselves…
 
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