Rating: PG-13
Setting: Post S4 Timeline
Spoilers: Hardly recognizable
Notes: With this, the third in
the series of sandbox challenges, the cosmic forces realign and all is right
with the universe. The sugar and spice girl and the girl that...wasn't are back
in tune with the natural order of things, and offer the following as proof of
all things right in the cosmic order. The usual suspects provided the
drive-bys. You know who you are and that you are very much appreciated. As
always, mistakes remain mine.
Warnings: Eh?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belong to Henson, et.al. No copyright infringement
intended. No money being made.
***************
The spaceport is deserted, and with a last look from the pod to the border
fires in the distance, he decides to take the little walk from the edge of town.
He crosses the tracks, avoiding the ground transport that rumbles by and goes
under the viaduct, which shifts and settles in anticipation of the storm that’s
coming. Tries to stem the rising tide of anticipation he feels inside.
He’s come this far and now he’s close, he knows it. So he hurries on to his
destination. Past the mills, past the bridge, past the stacks, into the canyons
created by twisting towers that block the meager remains of sun and cast
shadows of gray twilight.
Narrow streets and darker, narrower alleys. It’s a dying city. A city of the
dead. Those that know it and those that don’t. Towers and stacks built on the
mass grave of what had come before, smoke and mirrors spiraling up to the sky,
a civilization rising phoenix like from the ashes, giving birth to a new
incarnation of itself.
The air is harsh and heavy with the stink of disease, decay, and slow death,
and it’s laced with a virulent strain of decadence and depravity that clings to
the skeletal beings that move frantically, cleaves to the gaunt, withered
bodies twisted and damaged that don’t move at all.
Everyone of them garishly painted and made up as if to ward off the darkness.
It’s more crowded here, now, and he threads his way through the ebb and flow of
the masses, the hordes of desperate and inebriated bodies begging, cheating,
lying, selling, stealing, bumping and grinding in the oppressive grey twilight,
searching for pleasures venal and carnal among the weak and the dying.
The displaced and dispossessed hunt and forage here, looking to delay the
inevitable.
It’s Mardi Gras on acid, obscene and profane, a last celebration of survivors.
He bobs and weaves through the crushing throng, feels the approaching storm in
his bones.
He doesn’t want to think about what life might be like for her here…now. His
sense of failure sets as heavy on him as this place’s sense of doom. He finds
the tower he’s looking for and stops, staring, rooted to the spot, his body
suddenly too heavy to move. It takes him a microt before he can formulate even
the simple words he wants to say.
“Yo, Pilot,” he breathes, shivering slightly in anticipation, “is this the
place?”
Magnetic storms come and go here and have made tracking and finding her
difficult. Deep in his bones he can feel another one gathering and he tries to
calm himself with visions of wrapping her in his arms, whispering her name,
rekindling all of their hopes and dreams. Cycles of arrogance and ignorance on,
he still remembers happiness.
He thinks he’s a fool.
He does not even try to pretend that his universe and everything in it does not
converge right here, right now in this single point in the space time continuum
because he knows better. It’s always, only, ever been her. And he can feel that
in his bones too as he finds the strength to begin moving again, off the street
and into the alley, stepping over the waste debris and prone bodies littering
the way.
He knows he really is a fool.
“Yes, Commander,” Pilot’s voice comes wary in his ear, speaks volumes about his
and Moya’s fear that they will not be right. That they will be wrong. That she
will not be here. He doesn’t want to think about that possibility. “Ten levels
up. Turn right down the corridor to the third room down.”
“Thanks, Pilot,” is all that he says.
***************
The hallway is darker than the entryway below, but he figures that’s a good
trade as the stench is less overwhelming up here. Coming off the level riser,
he hesitates a microt before slowly making his way down the graffiti covered
corridor. He finds himself standing outside the room, staring at the doorway,
utterly unable to walk those final few steps and knock on the door.
Showtime.
Ignoring the raised voices coming from a room down the hall, he steps forward,
curls his hand into a fist, and forces himself to rap sharply on the door. The
answering silence from inside the room echoes loudly in his ears. He raises his
hand to knock again when the barrel of a pulse pistol slides comfortably up
against his temple and his ear registers with the snick of a trigger being
cocked.
“John Crichton, I presume,” a low, husky voice breathes harshly in his ear,
sending a shiver down his spine with the sense memory of something as hands on
either side of him grab his arms, shove his forehead and splay his palms
against the door.
He bites off a smart ass response, grunts instead as the barrel of the pulse
pistol glides down his jawline and back along his neck to rest comfortably at
the base of his skull. He wants to be here, needs to be, so he forces himself
to still as another hand makes it way around his waist and down his hip to pull
Winona from her holster.
A hand he can swear is small and delicate slides through his hair and then
yanks, smashing his forehead against the door. As the stars explode behind his
eyes, rough hands spin him in place. A quick jerk relieves him of his comms.
He’s never been doused with pepper spray before, but whatever they’re using is
a pretty good approximation he figures, hissing as his eyes immediately close
and burn while his throat constricts and his breathing becomes harsh and
ragged.
He lets his entire body sag in response to the hands holding him tighter and
hears a grunt of effort from his left as rapid, pounding footsteps echo in the
dark, half-carrying, half-dragging him down the corridor. He hears the whoosh
of a door closing and gags on the hot, fetid lungful of air he sucks in, rank
in the close confines of the stairwell.
His stomach heaves at the stink of decomposing garbage and the underlying
acidic smell of urine as he bounces down the risers.
The heat of the fires greets him as they hit the open air and the breeze
carries the acrid smell of smoke into his nostrils. His stomach heaves again,
and then suddenly he is being bent and folded, pushed into what he thinks is a
ground transport. Binders are slapped into place on his wrists as a hood slides
over his head.
Doors close and he feels the smooth acceleration push him back against the
seat.
***************
The ride’s been silent and smooth, his hosts unobtrusive, and he’s been the
perfect guest. He hasn’t even tried keeping track of the twists and turns in
their route. There doesn’t seem much reason too. The sounds of the city slip
away and deep in his bones he knows.
Endgame.
His eyes have stopped burning and tearing, so he imagines they’ve been on the
road for at least an arn. He can breathe reasonably well again, so he settles
as comfortably as his restraints allow, lets his mind wander. He’s made time.
Got nothing but it.
Suddenly the ride is over and he feels the transport glide to a stop. Cooler,
fresh air floods the interior as doors open, and hands are once again dragging
him where they want him to be. He finds his feet and manages to stand up
straight before being pushed roughly ahead.
Hands guide him as he stumbles over a threshold, shepherd him forward in his
blindness until he’s stopped, straightened, and pushed down into a seat. His
knees bend and his legs fold as he drops unceremoniously. The binders stay on
but the hood comes off, and for a moment he’s blinded by the low level light
coming from an unseen source.
He blinks hard and fast, furiously trying to focus on the who and what and
where of his new surroundings. A small room. He’s seated at a table. The chair
opposite him is empty, but two men are standing on either side of it, leaning
back against the wall, standing easy, their eyes hard on him.
He doesn’t need to see their weapons to know they have them.
“I did what you wanted,” he rasps through a tight, dry throat, licking at lips
that are parched. “The currency was dropped where you asked.”
“The currency is irrelevant,” the taller of the two men says with a shrug.
“That’s not why you’re here,” the shorter one agrees.
“Then why am I here?”
“You’re here to die,” the low, husky voice from the corridor floats over to him
from behind.
Soft, subtle footsteps and a scent he remembers walk past him, turn to settle
gracefully in the chair opposite him and suddenly he forgets to breathe.
All he can do is stare.
At her.
Because he’s looking into his past. Fifteen cycles on and she’s her mother’s
daughter, a girl so beautiful it takes his breath away. Ebony hair pulled high
in a pony tail that spills in a river down her back and wisps of glossy silk
that frame her face. His fingers can feel it. Skin the color of pale cream,
flawless over high cheekbones. Full lips set in a small smile as narrowed eyes
lock onto him.
Your eyes. Everything else screams her mother. But those are your eyes.
“Nice place you got here,” he struggles to keep his voice even, refuses to give
in to his urge to cry.
“It’s not the Scarran cell where I was born,” she shrugs an elegant shoulder,
“and it does lack that certain scent of sweat and blood.” She leans forward and
rests her elbows on the table, her chin on top of her folded hands. “But for
now it’s home.”
Her words hit him like a punch in the gut; make his stomach roll and clench.
There is no home. There’s only you.
“What’s your name?” The words are calm and quiet, belie the beating of his heart.
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“But this is not about you,” she says reasonably, smiling softly.
“You know why I’m here. I’m here to see her. Find her. I’ve been looking for
her…”
“Since you drove her from Moya?”
Anger and spite, hurt and fear, lies and lakka, and words that couldn’t be
reclaimed when you’d finally gone to her quarters only to find them empty and
her prowler gone.
“You know who I am. You know I’m your…”
“Father?” The word splits the eerie sense of calm between them, shatters any
pretense.
“She told you about me.” It’s not a question. Not quite.
“You may have sired me,” she allows with a curl of her lip, “but you are not my
father. I have a father. And a mother.”
“And I’ve been looking for her, trying to find her. You know that. That’s why
I’m here.”
“You’re here because I let you be here.”
“Where’s your mother? Does she know I’m here?”
“No.”
For the first time he notices the gun sitting on the table at her elbow. “Are
you going to tell her before you kill me?”
“I’ll let you see her. Say what you have to say to her. That’s more than you
gave her.”
“I know what I did. But I can’t believe that this is what your mother…”
“Wanted for me? She didn’t.”
“No,” he agreed. “She wouldn’t want you to be an…”
“Assassin?” She laughs, glass edged and brittle. It cuts through him like a
finely flaked obsidian blade. “I’m not. She raised me with them, but she’s
never let me be part of a team. Or go on a mission.”
She sits back, shifts slightly to fold her arms across her chest and looks at
him with hooded eyes. “But you wouldn’t know that,” she drawls. “If anything,
she sheltered me. I’ve trained with the group, but I’ve been well-schooled,
well-loved and cared for.”
It suddenly hits him like a ton of bricks. “You speak English.”
“My mother taught me. When she told me stories.”
“Stories?”
“About Moya. Pilot. Earth. Wormholes. You.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I love my mother. I love my father. I like my life. They gave me a
very good one.”
“Did she tell you I loved her? Do you know that I still love her?”
“She told me she loved John Crichton. And that he stopped loving her.”
“I never stopped loving her. I never stopped looking for her.”
“That’s not important. Not anymore.”
“It is to me.”
“Well,” she mocked, “that is what matters.”
“No, it’s not,” desperation colors his voice, makes it louder than he wants.
But he’s losing this battle, feels it slipping through his fingers like grains
of sand and there’s nothing he can do to staunch his fear of failing. Not
when he’s so close.
“I’m not here to make everything all right,” he plunges into the icy cold of
brutal honesty. “I can’t. But I would like to make things better. I have things
I’d like to say to her. Make her understand.”
“You want what you can’t have,” she says calmly, eyes bright with unnatural
clarity as if she could see right through him. “What you wouldn’t give her.”
“I just want…I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“One thing I’ve learned is that you very seldom get what you want. And that
what you do get, what you are lucky enough to have, you should be very careful
with.”
“Can I see her?”
He’ll beg; he’ll crawl for this. He’ll cut himself open, lay himself bare for
this one chance. This one thing.
He marvels again at how wrong he’s gotten it, how wrong it’s gone, the things
he’d thought important, and wonders why he was so blind, so stubborn, so
unwilling to see that when he’d been looking for redemption, grace had shown up
only to be lost to equations that stained his skin and his soul, to the stench
of oil that flooded his nightmares, to the call of the swirling blue maw of a
wormhole.
“I never said good-bye.”
Given up to a blind terror that could only be slaked in a lakka induced haze.
“You should always say good-bye. Sometimes it’s the only thing that’s left.”
He’s mortgaged his soul, thrown the dice, and now here he stands. The universe
is still here, his legend written large against the remaining stars and
systems, but it is as out of patience and uncaring as ever with the weak, the
pathetic, and the vile.
And he feels all three as he sits in front of her. He’s disconnected, done the
self-destruct, and he refuses to do that to her again. He’s brought her the
best of himself. Whatever’s left, it’s all hers, if she’ll have it.
He knows he comes up short, but he is still here and looking at one of only two
people that still matter. He sees no signs of love or forgiveness in her eyes,
but after all is said and done, he’s still John Crichton and he still has
hope.
“Please.”
“Yes,” she cocks her head to look at him through lowered lashes. “But not
because you want to or because you love her.”
“Then why?” He bites down on his tongue but can’t keep the words from coming.
“Because she loved you.”
The taller two of the two statues detaches from the wall and silently moves to
stand at her side as the shorter one steps forward. He raises his bound hands
and the man clicks off the binders and steps away.
Rubbing his wrists distractedly, he ignores the tingling in his fingertips as
feeling returns. He watches her rise, holster her weapon on her thigh, and let
the other man slide himself between her and him.
Stumbling to his feet, he feels a shiver of expectation and apprehension slide
down his spine and into his gut as he watches her and her shadow lead him out
of the room. He feels the shorter one at his back.
The tingling is gone from his fingertips and hasn’t appeared between his
shoulder blades as he follows silently in the dimly lit, narrow corridor, but
his gut is convulsing and a tidal wave of hope and fear is threatening to drag
him under.
She stops suddenly and turns, her eyes hidden in the dark, waiting for him to
reach her. He stumbles the final two steps as something primal and cold tries
to claw its way out of his gut, up through his chest, trying to escape from his
throat. He swallows hard, jaw clenching as his hands curl and uncurl
reflexively.
She pushes the door open, gestures for him to precede her into the deeper
darkness. He steps through the doorway carefully and stops, waits for his eyes
adjust to the lack of light, unable to make out anything other than a
rectangular shape on the far wall. The silence hangs heavy in the black ink of
the room, and he feels it settle like a lead weight on his chest.
He steps slowly forward, toward the far wall, listening to the sound of his
heart beating, his pulse pounding, his blood racing, his breathing strangely
non-existent. His world narrows to the shape on the wall, and as he nears he
can see the faint outline that barely disturbs the flat, horizontal surface.
He takes the final steps there and drops to his knees. Reaches out to touch the
warm silk of her hair, trace the translucent planes of her face, warm and
smooth to his fingertips. He gathers her into his arms and the scream finally
escapes as a howl, his body shaking with sobs.
***************
He’s not aware of how much time has passed or when he crawled into bed to curl
himself around her. But he knows they are alone in the room. Holding her tight
he feels her warm body next to his, hears her heart. He presses a kiss to her
temple before sliding out of bed and makes his way haltingly to the door. He
pushes it open and steps out into the corridor, retraces his steps.
He finds the door he’s looking for, steps into the room. It’s empty too and he
walks slowly over to the table. Lying there he sees Winona and his comms, along
with a simple edged folded piece of parchment. He opens it and takes a microt
to decipher the words, even though he knows they are written in English.
I’ve already said good-bye.