Five Things That Never Happened to Harvey
by AstroGirl
ONE
His mission is perfectly simple: He is to infiltrate himself into his subject's brain, root out the information his creator desires, then take control and call for his extraction.
But it begins to go wrong almost at once. He simply isn't prepared for the gibberish that fills this creature's mind. Chaotic, random, unconnected thoughts. Memories of experiences so bizarre and alien that he cannot even begin to guess at what they signify. And above it all the ceaseless stream-of-consciousness nonsense, sometimes vocalized, sometimes silent, but always there, floating across the surface of the mind, constantly distracting him. It'd be impossible to find what he's looking for in here, even if it weren't tightly locked away.
Still, he does his best, filing away random bits of information in the hopes that Scorpius might be able to make more sense of them. Eventually he decides he's gotten all he's going to get – or perhaps he's just become desperate for the release of oblivion – and he makes the move he's been programmed for.
Nothing happens. His efforts to take control go completely unnoticed, mind and body slipping from his grasp like wriggling alien fish from his host's distant, long-lost homeworld. In desperation, he tries another tack. If direct control will not work, perhaps indirect manipulation will. No matter how confusing he finds it, he does know this person's heart. There are things he cares about, a woman he loves. Say the right things, convince him that he might present a threat to them, to her, and perhaps he will turn himself in.
So the clone finally prepares to reveal himself, to become not just an unsensed presence, but a voice. He expects shock, horror, an emotional reaction. He expects resistance.
He doesn't expect to be ignored.
He tries harder, tries raising his "voice" above the mental din, but a thousand other voices shout him down, and he is lost in cacophony. His words become shouts, become screams, become incoherent ranting gibberish, but it all merely blends into the background. It goes on and on, forever.
And the Banik never even notices.
TWO
A moment of disorientation, of displacement, a sensation unlike any he's had since he was first implanted. And then he's... elsewhere. Somewhere large and strange and definitely not where he's supposed to be. He reaches out immediately to see if Crichton is all right, but instead of a connection to John he finds... Wait, who the frell is that? It feels nothing like John, thinks nothing like John, but he can see and hear through it well enough to finally figure out what's going on.
As annoying as this interruption to his mission is, once he understands what's happened, he cannot help but laugh. A hundred DRDs simultaneously squeal.
He wonders how Moya's making out in the chip in what used to be Crichton's head.
THREE
It's an exhausting battle, but you finally triumph, sending your adversary plummeting from the imaginary roller coaster to his very real death. You open your eyes, very slowly, and blink up at the concerned face hovering above you.
"Hi, Aeryn," you say. You're a little surprised at just how happy you are to see her.
"Are you all right?" she asks. "Is he gone?"
"Oh, yeah," you say, rising. "Yeah, he's gone, all right."
She smiles, and you smile back, and you realize that, hot damn, everything really is going to be just fine now. You're here, and you're together.
And you know how to be John Crichton well enough to fake it for a long, long time.
FOUR
"Please, Crichton. I just want to talk to him."
"What the hell are you talking about, Braca?"
"I know he's in there. Inside you. I just need to know... I need to know if he blames me. For getting him killed on Arnessk." The Peacekeeper's eyes dropped for a moment, and if John hadn't know better, he'd be willing to swear there were tears in them. "He had a plan, you see. He always has a plan."
"But you screwed it up, huh? Well, boo-hoo. Or should that be 'woo-hoo'? No, definitely 'woo-hoo.' Ding, dong, the evil bastard's dead. Don't mind me if I don't go shedding any tears."
"You—" Braca took no more than a half-step toward him before being stopped by a Winona to the chest.
"Careful, Captain. You wanna join your boss in hell? I think I can arrange that."
Braca took a deep breath, visibly pulling himself together, and looked him directly in the eyes. "Scorpius," he said. "Scorpius. It's me."
"Alas." Harvey's voice came from directly over Braca's shoulder. "Poor Braca. How sad, to lose someone you care for and to feel responsible." He gave John a significant look.
"Careful, Harve. You're not gonna win any sympathy points with that one." He moved the pulse pistol over a few inches, re-sighting from Braca's body to Harvey's. An empty gesture, of course, but it communicated perfectly well.
"I know you're in there," said Braca, still staring into Crichton's eyes.
"Actually, he's right behind you."
Braca whirled, as if actually expecting to see him. Harvey smiled.
"He says he never loved you and that you should get lost."
"I never said that!" Harvey protested.
"What, you did love him?"
"He says he loved me?!" Braca's eyes were wide.
"Oh, damn, did I say that out loud? Sorry."
"Just tell me what he said!"
"He hasn't said anything!"
"That's because you haven't let me have a word in edgewise, John."
John made an aggrieved hair-tearing gesture, nearly hitting himself in the head with Winona in the process. "OK, fine! Just say whatever you want to say to the guy so he'll go away and leave us – leave me – in peace."
Silence.
"Harvey?"
"Well, what am I supposed to say to the man, John?"
"I don't know. Tell him you forgive him for killing you."
"But he didn't kill me."
"Then forgive him for killing Scorpius!"
"But we're glad he killed Scorpius!"
"I am. You are. But apparently he's not."
"What's he saying? I can tell he's saying something. Your eyes are all unfocused. Tell me!"
"He says you're forgiven. Go home."
"Did he really say that?"
"More or less."
Braca's eyes flickered from John's face, to a spot several inches to the left of where Harvey was standing, then back to John again.
"Really. Scout's honor. He isn't mad at you or anything."
The relief in the captain's face was equal parts comical and pitiful, and John felt his annoyance softening slightly despite himself. He holstered the pulse pistol and put a hand on Braca's shoulder.
"There ya go. Let it go, man. Move on with your life. Go hook up with someone a little less genocidal. It's, ah, it's what he wants."
"Thank you, Crichton." The disconcerting almost-tears were back. "I'll try to do that. Could you give him one last message from me?"
"Uh, sure, I guess. Wh—"
"Hey," yelled Harvey as Braca's lips met Crichton's. "I'm over here! Wait, maybe I can talk John into letting me borrow the body, and we could..."
But Braca turned and walked right through him as he left.
FIVE
Heat delirium is highly selective in its damage. It does very little to the organs and tissues of the body. Physically, it does very little to the brain. Once the body cools off sufficiently, brain activity can be restored. The problem is that whatever patterns that brain once held – thoughts, dreams, memories, self – can never be retrieved. What remains is the proverbial blank slate.
He doesn't need to tell Scorpius this, of course. But he makes a point of bringing it up, anyway, and he's rather relieved when Scorpius deigns to listen to him. He talks fast, trying not to use too many of the obscure Earth phrases he's picked up from Crichton. He doesn't want to die, he tells his progenitor, but he doesn't want to live here any more, either. John's grief and anger make it all but unbearable.
"Yes," he tells Scorpius, "John fully intends to kill you. He regarded any promises he made as void when you failed to save Aeryn from the Living Death. If you had not crept up on him in his sleep tonight, he would have crept up on you in yours. And there would be nothing I could do to stop him. I have very little influence over John any more. It becomes very easy... to ignore a voice in one's head. Much easier than ignoring a loved one."
He doesn't have to spell out the details of his plan. Even after all this time, they still think very much alike. A deal is made, a bargain struck. Life for loyalty, he thinks, not a bad trade. And the doing of it turns out to be ridiculously easy.
A few arns later, he brushes his new, long, black hair from his eyes. He sits. He breathes. He feels.
Then he walks over to where Crichton lies asleep and rests a gentle hand on his arm. The human stirs and blinks, looking up at him with incredulous hope. "Aeryn?"
"Hello, John," he says. And smiles.