CRICHTON AWOKE.

Fuck, he thought.

He felt nothing in himself, just a hollow space where pain had been, he felt where it had scraped through him, the ragged residue of it along his insides.

Assess, he told himself, what's wrong?

Eyes - only one worked, and reaching up, a thick swathe around his head, bandaged, that only aching working eye found his left arm bound as well. His throat burned, his skin was raw, the air too cold in his lungs, stank of chemical smells, alien sounds, any movement brought fresh hurts.

He was in a very large, very clean room, surrounded by white walls, white ceiling, antiseptic, featureless. Around him were darkened windows filled with serious equipment and blue-coated techs.

Hospital? He felt the bandages on his face again. Hospital.

A faint feeling of falling, vertigo and a hard stop. Thudding darkness in his ears. Hospital.

Where have I been?

"He's awake!" he heard a familiar voice chirp. "Open the frellin' door!"

The air changed then; the pressure gushing out, then in, like a wave.

There - a grey face and white smile, dark eyes happy to see him.

Why?

"It's okay," she said, bouncing up to the bed, gently laying a hand on the bare side of his face. "You're better. Don't try to talk yet."

She smiled a huge smile, leaned in, kissed him on the nose.

His eyes asked why and she misread them.

"You're on Abbanerex," she told him. "In their executive hospital. Only the frelling best. All expenses paid."

Other voices came in on that ebb and flow of air - them: D'Argo's, Rygel's, Miriya's.

D'Argo loomed behind Chiana, his eyes serious, his voice tentatively pleased.

"Welcome back."

Crichton managed to nod.

Yes. Back. From…?

Rygel laughed at him.

"He looks like dren."

"We're making a habit of this dying and coming back thing," Chiana quipped with a smile, "you gotta stop it."

Miriya stepped up behind Chiana, who stepped out of the way.

"Rygel lied. Half of you is still pretty," she jibed.

D'Argo leaned over him.

"John… can you speak?" He reached over and found a mug. "Thirsty?"

Water. Yes. Cool the fire in his throat. He reached over and D'Argo gave it to him. Crichton poured it down his throat. The burning would not stop. He gave the mug back, tapped his throat with a grimace of pain.

"Koiban." Chiana said from the foot of the bed. "He's hurting."

Again that respiration of air, a door with a seal opening, closing, a body entering. Evigan Koiban appeared, nodded down to him, checked a reading on the monitor above his head.

"He has extensive chemical burns in his throat." Koiban said clinically. "No doubt the explosion in the prison."

The Interion signaled to someone outside. There was a faint hiss and cool pain relief flooded through the man on the bed.

"That explosive had, curiously, a rather high acidic component," Koiban continued, "you were rather fortunate to avoid it."

Crichton opened his mouth, waited for the pain of the air in his throat and when it did not come, he attempted,

"Who… did this?" His voice was a ragged raspy drag across sandpaper, not his, not any longer. He could barely hear himself.

"I did." Koiban informed him. "The physicians on this station have little experience with Sebaceans – or, uh, Humans. I have had quite a bit – with Sebaceans, at any rate, so they asked me to do what I could. Your physiology is remarkably similar."

"I'm …alive."

He sounded as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Most definitely. Your prognosis is quite good. I am afraid that I must tell you that some of the damage you incurred I could not repair."

He saw them look at each other, pass a gaze of pity around.

"What?"

"You were struck in the head repeatedly by an activated Shock Rod. You died - no other way to really put it - and we only just managed to get you into chemical stasis in time. Upon arriving, you were immediately brought here, where I rebuilt the left side of your skull. I could not save your eye. That organ was completely ruined,"

"Gone." Crichton blinked his remainder.

"Fortunately, and this is in my estimation no small miracle, none of the major arteries to your brain were damaged." He nodded gestured again to the outside and there was another hiss. "Re-hydration," Koiban informed him. "Your voice should improve in time."

Crichton nodded slowly.

"Helluva …job. Thanks." Even a few words drew his breath out, felt heavy on his tongue, exhausted him.

"You've been in a coma, John," D'Argo informed him. "Induced. Almost three weekens."

Three. That would explain it.

"Everything's gone well - better than expected," Rygel added. "Although we're trapped here."

Crichton gave him a questioning look.

"There's been some trouble. It turns out we were set up, you and Crais as well. Vittiga arranged for the bounty hunters to follow you. He was found dead. Someone killed him, by, of all things, poison on his money." D'Argo crossed his arms. "There's an investigation going on. Muukarhi was not happy when she returned, to say the least. The whole station's been locked down. Even Lehnkminn is under suspicion."

"Crais?" What happened to Crais?

"Crais was targeted too. He did well for himself, I hear. He was wounded though not nearly so bad. He was treated and released long ago."

"Yeah," Chiana chimed, "Talyn's good, Moya's good!" She grinned widely. "We're still rich!"

D'Argo shook his head at Chiana.

"Talyn has had his neural reconstruction completed." He elaborated. "The techs are very optimistic. He's already showing signs of excellent reconnection, although he's still unconscious, and will be for some time yet."

"Moya?"

"Her upgrades went very well," Miriya stepped back up. "Both she and Talyn just need time now. You'll probably be here for at least another half-a-monen – probably more. You've got nothing to worry about."

Crichton put his head back down. He felt immensely weary - more than he'd ever felt. Life was heavy on him, yet it still felt sweet. He'd done what he'd meant to do. He'd fulfilled his obligations. Good. The sky's the limit now. I am… new.

"Tired."

"We've got everything under control. You rest." D'Argo told him. He waved the others out. "We're nearby. Don't worry about anything."

They filed out.

"Thanks, D."

"Just rest, my friend." He put a large hand gently on his shoulder for a moment then he too left. Someone didn't.

Miriya.

"What?" His voice was now just a grating buzz.

"You're a frelling idiot." She smiled a lop-sided smile. "I was actually worried about you."

She stepped closer.

"I don't do that." Quieter, "I don't worry."

Miriya sighed. It had taken her a long time to wash his blood off her hands, arms, clothes. Something in her was rebelling and she didn't know against what. It was damned disconcerting.

"Why did you do it?" She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. "I don't understand."

For 'beasts of burden'? For money? For the girls, glory or fame? Yeah. Why?

"Don't know." He grated. "Just pissed off."

Something she could understand, Miriya nodded.

He closed his eye, watched the colours swirl, pink, purple, red, black. He opened it after she'd been silent for a few long moments.

"What?"

"I don't like it. I don't."

"Okay." He closed his eye again. His eyelid was made out of lead, gravity was a dozen times its normal strength just then. He was tired of questions and their answers and their repercussions.

"I don't get involved," she said. "I don't. I don't… care."

"Okay."

"Don't do that, all right?" She combed her hands through her thick red hair, stalked away, stalked back, torn between anger and frustration. "Don't just agree!"

"I'm …hopeless."

He felt her hand gently touch his face, soft lips touched his, her voice softer than before.

"No, no. I don't know what I'm saying." She laughed quietly, more a breath than anything. "I don't handle the …unexpectedly new… all that well, you know?"

"Not your …type?"

She put a finger on his lips.

"You're a black-hearted bastard," she smiled crookedly, one he wasn't sure was cynical or just rueful, "and I'm beginning to be afraid that that is my type."

She shook her head as if she were trying to shake off a headache.

"I'm not offering to take anyone's place. I wouldn't want to, anyway."

You couldn't, he thought without rancour, nodded slightly, let her go on.

"I understand that everything's temporary," she went on, "I usually do my job and move on. I don't stay. I don't get involved. But now, look at me," she gestured at herself, "I'm frelling involved."

She smiled that wide smile of hers and he felt its power perk him up, just a little.

One of her weapons, he told himself without resentment - and a damn fine one at that.

"I want to stay." She touched his uninjured hand, her cool fingers intertwining with his, "This time, I want to know where this goes. I want to see what happens."

"Okay," he told her with a small smile. It would cost him nothing he cared about losing.

"One thing before I go," Miriya pulled a satchel around she'd been wearing and reached inside it. She held it up.

It was Iskijji's mask.

"There's two more in here. Plus three of these."

She held up a silver quill, an Ai'shi.

"They were in your pocket." Miriya added, putting them back. "The story behind those - and I doubt they have any actual facts - is already all over the station, as if you grabbing D'Strand'm'tah's shes from one of the toughest prisons in twenty systems wasn't enough."

He patted his chest. It took her a moment, then she laid the satchel on him. He dropped his hand on it, held it there.

"Thanks." He closed his eye.

"Right…" she said after a few moments, "I'll leave… I can come back?"

He nodded.

Seemingly satisfied she left, the air parting to let her pass. The lights dimmed.

When it was all silence again, the muted greys of soft gloom, Crichton carefully removed Iskijji's mask from the satchel, eye tracing the fine lines on it, appreciating the expertise of something that looked so delicate and wasn't, tried to see Iskijji in its reflection.

I'll remember.

Crichton let himself fall back into the darkness behind his eye, breathing carefully, wondering still if he were actually alive or perhaps just beginning to live.

When faced with death, choose death. You will defeat death and rise anew. That you know now also.

Yeah. Defeat, victory - nothing. Endure. Even if we break our own hearts. That's fair.

This time, when sleep reclaimed him, he didn't dream.

NEXT TIME ON

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