Setting: Between Nerve and A Hidden Memory
Characters: 1st ficlet: Scorpius, John; 2nd ficlet: Stark and John
Disclaimer: Not mine. If it was, we'd have a Farscape channel.
“To torture a man you have to know his pleasures.”
- Stanislaw Jerzy Lec
The air inside the room is stifling under the weight of fear and sweat; soft hum of the chair fading as it slows to a stop.
The half-breed takes a step closer, finding the right balance. “Something to remember me by.”
The smooth surface slides effortlessly through the human’s flesh. His screams reverberate off the ancient stone walls, fading and falling silent before the applicator is fully removed.
Crichton’s eyes are fixed; staring sightlessly ahead while his body seizes in shock as the seeds of Scorpius’ neural chip burrow and seat themselves firmly within the spongy tissue that is their final destination. Micro-filaments reacting to the electrical energy within the alien’s body will grow and multiply, making contact with the earlier mapped along synapses.
The technology in its creation is ancient and not dissimilar to that of the ship that brought him to Scorpius.
Scorpius waits, allowing Niem several microts to scan the human’s brain, fine tuning and adjusting the connections between the chip and Crichton’s neural pathways. The subtle muscle contractions, running up and down the man’s body, come to a stop.
“Are there any signs of his body rejecting the implant?”
“None that are of immediate concern. The chip is beginning to stabilize his heart rate. We still need to synchronize nerve responses to ensure the chip is recording them accurately.”
The half-breed leans in, watching as a bead of sweat trails down from beneath the cushioned head piece.
“I know,” Scorpius murmurs soothingly as he runs a hand along the inside of the man’s thigh. “Can you hear me, Crichton?”
As the faint timber of his voice fades, his tongue snakes out, lapping gently against the human’s earlobe. He waits a microt for his assistant’s nod before continuing.
“I would lose my way again, be led hopelessly astray again, just so I can pray again.
...For the mercy in you.”
- Depeche Mode
He dozes off and on, sleep being the only true respite from the darkness that seeps into his bones as assuredly as the cold from the stones beneath his mat.
His head nods and jerks; he opens his eye and looks across the cell to the man crumbled in a heap on the floor. The human hasn’t moved a muscle since he was returned over an arn ago.
The guards hadn’t even bothered to drop him onto the threadbare matting that served for a bed.
Shuffling over to the unmoving body on hands and feet, silently, he comes to a stop and rests the back of his hand against the man’s cheek. He almost breathes a sigh of relief to find the flesh still warm.
Rolling the man over he can see he’s awake, but there’s something wrong with the stare that looks up at him. He waves a hand in front of his face and doesn’t get a reaction.
He lays him on his back carefully and finds the small cup that was left beside a tray of food cubes. Stark raises his cellmate’s head and lifts the cup to the man’s lips.
He knows that the man is almost too far gone to aid in his own care, and dips two fingers into the water before sliding them across Crichton’s mouth.
This elicits movement, the head moves back into his lap as Crichton’s tongue darts out, brushing across the pads of his fingers.
This brings another sigh of relief. Stark would have gladly aided the man's spirit to whatever afterlife his species kept, were it needed, but that he reacted to something so primal as the water told the Stykera that Crichton’s mind was not yet completely gone. There was still hope.
He doesn’t know why he’s thankful that this human is well enough to live though another day in Scorpy’s chair. He just is; and as he adds more moisture to his fingers, allowing Crichton to suckle from them as he reaches with his other hand, cradling his head in a better position and brushing his eyes shut.
“Rest. Sleep,” he whispers, moving so that the other man is lying in a more restful position on his bedding. He assures himself that Crichton's breathing isn't labored and returns to his own section of cell and tries to rest before it's his turn outside the stone walls.