10/2000-
Hindsight
By S. Hempel (aka Lyme BloodTalon)
~~The Obligatory pre-reading notes that no one really bothers to read~~
Man oh man. I whipped this sucker out in the space of an hour in a blue funk. It's actually a thought that's been rattling around my brain for a few days now. Contains some big, big spoilers for "A Clockwork Nebari" as well as "Won't Get Fooled Again". Both of these episodes have been bothering me, mostly because, well, if I were John, I'd want to know how the hezmana I'd been so lucky in both those instances. Hmm.
Note, I've written fanfic before, which will be available at my website (it's located at http://www.crosswinds.net/~lyme. It'll be under the section entitled 'Farscape Dren' if it's up.).
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Farscape or any of the characters in the show, so please don't hit me for using them for a few minutes. I promise I'll give them back! However, I did write this story, and if you try to say that you wrote it, I'll hunt you down and beat you with a large stick.
TIMELINE: Very recently after "A Clockwork Nebari". Beware of spoilers!
RATING: Well, I'll say PG, mostly for language.
SUMMARY: John reflects on the events of the past cycle or so.
ARCHIVING: If you want to archive this frelling story, send me an e-mail and ask. Most likely, you'll get a yes, but ask anyway (I wanna keep track of who has it and whatnot).
FEEDBACK: Why of course. If you like the story, send e-mails to lymebt@airmail.net. If you didn't, send 'em over to BillGates@microsoft.com. *Cackle*
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HINDSIGHT: S. Hempel: 10/2000
~
John Crichton was working up a sweat. He glared at the red triangular workout post that stood in the middle of the room, panting. Sweat from his exertions shone off the surface of the material of post. John Crichton was angry.
More than that, he was tired. His reddened eyes burned angrily, and he swiped at his forehead, mopping away the perspiration that had built up there. He backed away from the post, then sat down roughly on the practice mats. He was barefoot, and circles of sweat had sprung up on his shirt around his neck and underarms.
John rested his forearms on his knees, and let his head drop as his harsh breathing began to slow. He felt like screaming, giggling, and crying all at once. He wasn't sure which emotion was going to win out.
John was worried and confused. He'd been sleeping very badly since his encounter with the Scarran who had tried to break his mind. The images… they had been so vivid and real. Aeryn. D'Argo. Zhaan. Chiana. Dad. DK.
Scorpius.
He'd broken the Scarran's grip over him somehow, before the Scarran had managed to break his mind. At first, he'd thought that he'd simply had enough willpower to overcome that ordeal. His experience with the Ancients had prepared him for it. One moment, he'd been in the nightmare, the twisted and fractured images flowing around him. He'd felt like a man caught at sea in a small boat during a raging typhoon.
The next thing he'd known was that he was laying somewhere dark and warm and that his head hurt like hell. He knew about the Scarran, about the attempt to crack his psyche like a fragile eggshell. He didn't now how he knew, but somehow, he'd managed to fire upon and kill the Scarran.
And it'd disturbed him. How had he known...? Luck? No. The whole situation played on his mind. Nearly everyone he'd encountered in the Uncharted Territories had shown up to harass or torture him courtesy of the Scarran. He'd almost broken. Almost. Something had saved him.
That wasn't the only thing weighing on his mind. He would have probably eventually forgotten about how he'd managed to break the Scarran's hold if it hadn't been for what had happened a few solar days ago.
The Nebari woman, Varla, and her subordinate, Meelak had come aboard. The ordeal had been terrifying, and Chiana had been subdued since discovering that her brother was still alive. The entire crew had been mind-cleansed except for Chiana and Pilot.
And John.
Oh, they'd done their job correctly. However many more cycles he had left to live, he knew that he would never forget the torturous temporary mind-cleansing he'd endured. Getting your eyes ripped out of your head and then put back in was something that never easily faded from memory. But that wasn't even what concerned him. He could deal with that.
Only Rygel had been able to work the drugs out of his system, thanks to his Hynerian constitution. But John…? He was human. He didn't have three stomachs. There should have been no possible way for him to have shaken the drugs, unless the process had been administered incorrectly. And he knew that wasn't the case; Varla was obviously experienced at her job.
So… what, then? Was there something unique about Humans that resisted mind-altering substances? No. No way that was true. Look at all the drugs back on Earth. Look at all the people who could be hypnotized and brainwashed so easily. It wasn't because he was Human. In fact, he probably should have been more susceptible because of his species.
It was something in him. Something that had been done to him. That was the only logical conclusion left. But when? He'd suffered through so much torture and injuries and pains since arriving on Moya nearly two cycles ago. But this strangeness… his sudden invulnerability to mind tricks… that was recent.
Scorpius. It all came back to Scorpy. Maybe it'd been something with that frelling Aurora Chair. After all, it most definitely hadn't been designed with Human physiology in mind…
John mentally kicked himself for the bad pun. That was in poor taste, his inner critic snickered.
The Aurora Chair hadn't been designed for Humans. Could it have jarred something loose in his mind? He knew he'd changed since his first encounter with Scorpy. Everyone in the crew had surely noticed the changes as well, although, most likely, they'd only seen the positive side.
He'd definitely become more and more efficient and competent in the past cycle. He'd finally gained the crew's trust and respect; and they no longer saw him as an inferior being, a primitive. Except maybe Rygel… but Rygel was Rygel. Everything was below the little Hynerian.
But there was the darker side. He'd killed. Sometimes without hesitation. He'd always told himself that he was someone who'd never be capable of taking another living being's life. And now… now it was no longer a consideration. He'd kill to protect himself or any of the crew in a microt.
He'd given up most hope of ever seeing Earth again, as well. He'd begun to record messages to his father less and less frequently. He'd begun wearing Peacekeeper clothing, too, his old flight suit abandoned somewhere in his quarters. And with each modification, Farscape 1 became a different ship than the research module it had once been.
Most of the changes he could adjust to. After all, not everything had been bad. He'd found closer friends among species he could never have imagined existing than most of the friends he'd had back on Earth. He trusted the other members of the crew unconditionally with his life. He'd even found a woman who, while being frustrating, exasperating, mule-headed, and often cold, made him feel such a deep sense of longing that he almost physically ached for her. Even Alex had never affected him so deeply.
But this darkness. Scorpius. Scorpius was always never far from his thoughts. Like a bad penny, if John let his mind wander, Scorpy would always turn up. He haunted John's dreams nearly every night. And more and more, he found himself having conversations with an imaginary Scorpius in his head.
It disturbed him deeply. He wanted so badly to take Scorpius out. To kill the bastard and be done with it. Sometimes, it was hard to restrain the urges to lash out physically. He'd almost done so with some of the other crew members on more than one occasion. And when that happened, he found himself here.
The training room. He knew he was blowing off steam, just like Aeryn would do when something bothered her. He'd never been one for keeping what he was feeling bottled in, but he couldn't even talk with Zhaan about this. Something stopped him every time he approached her.
So he snuck down to the training room in the small arns of the day, when nearly everyone else was asleep in their quarters. And he beat the dren out of the training post, punching away at it like Rocky Balboa going to town.
He looked up, his breathing nearly back to normal. As he sat, his sweat began to cool and dry, leaving him chilled. He looked dully at his fists. The knuckles were bruised and reddened from his exertions. His shoulders ached like he'd been beaten with a baseball bat.
John stood up, regarding the post again. He was still angry, but sad as well. The session had only converted some of the anger into sadness and despair. He sighed out a heated breath, as he raised his hands again, curling them into fists. He could almost hear his fingers creak in protest as they closed on each other.
And he began his workout again, his jaw set and determination in his eyes. He let his anger build and focus on the post. As he wailed away, trying to clear his mind, it came back to the same thought, over and over again.
Scorpius. Yeah.
END.