Disclaimer: Farscape ain't mine
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This is the moment of truth—has John Crichton's despair grown deep enough that he hasn't considered the implications of the neural clone's continued presence inside his mind? Crichton is, after all, a creature controlled by inferior emotion. He might not have noticed that the clone is practically begging for brain death, a thing which he'd once controlled. Now that the chip has been removed, though, the clone's fate lies entirely in Crichton's hands.
It isn't a comforting thought.
Especially not when John slings an arm across the clone's shoulder and tells him exactly how things are going to be now that the chip's out. Then transports them both a warehouse for a—of all things—puerile boxing match.
Is John even aware of how much he's changed since the chip was installed? He looks like a Peacekeeper in that black leather. Fights like one too, the clone muses as his jaw connects painfully with the concrete floor. Maybe a bit wild, and the laws of physics have no real play here in Crichton's mind, but Officer Sun's continued influence is there all the same.
The dumpster smells foul when the clone tumbles into it at inhuman speed, like something crawled into its confines and died. And, really, does John have to gloat like that?