Never As Simple As It Should Be (Even Though It Is)
The man sighs with frustration, "Look. Look," He tries to clarify, "It wasn't that simple-"
"You got sucked into a big swirling wormhole the size of Nantucket, and found yourself hurtled, unbeknownst by you, far across the galaxy where you had the unfortunate luck of being picked up by a bunch of convicts on the run from an Empire-like group called the Peacekeepers."
He blinks for a few seconds, and his cheek twitches as if he's going to say something. He shakes his head again, this time out of self- deprecation, "Ok, ok, it's that simple but still, you've gotta understand, that wasn't necessarily the bad thing."
"Then what was? The part where you were physically and mentally tortured at an alarming rate, or the part that almost every person you ever met," The man smiles, playing along, "Including, apperently, you, died at one point or another-"
"-And came back, mind you."
The other person sighs, and shifts in his seat, "But not always."
There was silence for awhile; neither of them could bring themselves to continue. But the man, John Crichton, Lost Astronaut Extraordinaire, couldn't really be that quiet for that long, "Yeah." He shifted in his seat again, "Yeah, ok, that too."
"So it's a bit simple, but as I was trying to say, we're not at the bad part yet."
"What can be worse than carrying around a bastardized Mexican wrestler with a fetish for leather who pops up in your mind in some odd outfit or another as your own personal Faustian-demonic moral conscience?"
"I call him Harvey. I think it cute."
It's the other man's turn to sigh and shift in his seat, "You were saying-?"
"But I haven't told you about Aeryn yet. Aeryn, man, she's-"
"-Attractive, yes, I know, I've seen the drawings."
"Yeah, and-"
"She's an 'alien', yes I got that to."
"Well frell, you just have all the answers then, dontcha? You don't need me, I can just move along-"
The man raises his hand and points back to the seat of which John has just vacated, "Sit. Down. Mr. Crichton," He does, "We are so not done it is not even funny."
"It's frelling hilarious."
"Whatever you might think, you have to answer these questions."
"Fuck you."
"At least I can understand that. You seem to be making up words just for the sake of screwing up this investigation. I will not have fucking up just for kicks."
"This is an investigation about me so fuck you if I don't want to answer your questions."
"Whatever you might feel Mr. Crichton; let's just get this over with. I don't want to do this any more than you do. I have a wife, kids, and warm pot roast in the oven, so just help me out here."
Crichton is silent for a moment. He finally sighs and slaps his thigh, as if mentally preparing himself. The man writes something on his paper and Crichton eyes the scribble with suspicion, "Fine then," He begins slowly, "As I was saying, I haven't told you the worst parts yet."
"From your file almost every day in the 'Uncharteds' could have qualified as the `worst'."
"There's-" He begins slowly, "There's a difference between running for your life and then not..." His finger runs across his bottom lip and he looks almost thoughtful. The man knows better; John Crichton doesn't think, he reacts, he listens, but thinking leads to this `Harvey' and `Harvey' opens a can of worms that Crichton doesn't seem to be willing to address.
And then again, there are times, the man muses, that all the guy does is think, rather than talk, as he should be doing.
"Yeah, so almost everyday there is some crises, one of us screws up and ends up getting everyone else into deep dren," He pauses, "Uh, sorry, shit. Anyway, that's bad, yeah, sure, but not bad."
"Than what is bad?" The man adds the same intonation that John had used.
"Bad is the after, the ripples that extend after the dren: the things that happen when it's quiet." He stops, his eyes seemingly fixated on the man's shoes. "Those are nice shoes." He doesn't look up and his lips barely move, "Real shiny, you know?"
"Mr. Crichton."
"Yeah, sorry." He shifts again, one leg splayed out in such an angle that his elbow rests on an upturned knee, "Aeryn. Yeah. Ok,"
"Aeryn." The man repeats, he rotates his wrist, goading Crichton into continuing.
"Aeryn is amazing. Think Ripley with curves. She just, she kicks ass, you know?"
The man doesn't answer, his eyes fixated on John who has suddenly stopped breathing. John, the man notes, seems distracted, and it takes a little prodding with the tip of his shiny shoe to get him to pay attention again.
'May have Attention Deficit Disorder.' He notes on his paper.
"Sorry," John wipes his face with a sweaty hand, "We- we had something."
"Something?"
"You know...tension. This string that just kept drawing us closer. She- I loved her."
"What happened?"
"I don't know if anything happened. I don't think it was us-it wasn't us. It was them, her and him."
"Him?"
"Me, him, same difference," He drags his thumb across his bottom lip and the man can't take his eyes away, "He was me, I was him, all that metaphysical shit that I can't stand." He sighs, a little sound that escapes half-heartedly. "Let's just say that I had a twin for a while."
"Explain."
"It's might be in the file that your currently doodling in, with the whole dead leviathan thing." He points to a scrap of paper that the man pulls out, "Yeah, that."
The man reads the first few lines, trying to refresh his memory, "There's no mention of anything about a `twin'."
"I-" He laughs but doesn't look amused, "-Left it out. Ah, it-it would have just confused things."
The file is thrown on the table and the man angrily points his finger, "You don't do that. You understand me? You don't fuck with this. You can't fuck with this."
"I can't do what ever damn thing I please." John's hand slams the table just as hard.
"No. No you can't. I need to know. I need to know everything. Do you understand me?"
"No, you little bureaucratic shit. I'm home. For the first time in four years: I. Am. Home."
"You can't-"
"I can. I've had my mind fucked with way too many times to begin even counting. I'm not even sure if this is real, if you are real."
"I assure you I am very real."
"I don't care. Do you get that? I am so tired of little bureaucratic dipshits telling me that I can't go home because there's an `investigation' as to my whereabouts. Fuck this investigation."
"Fuck you Mr. Crichton. You can be out of here in the next half hour, you can be in a car and at the front porch of your home if you work with me."
John laughs at this and the man is struck the distinct lack of humor in its tone; it's a bitter sound, "That's a lie and you know it."
The man doesn't say anything and John chuckles again, "I'm not going to get out of here for awhile. You know it, I know it, so don't pull that shit."
"You can be-"
"Bullshit." John's hand slams on the table, all traces of laughter gone, "You want answers, fine, you'll get them when I damn well feel like giving them."
"I don't-"
John holds up a hand, "You don't what? What?" He shoves the table hard, the metal tables pulling against the ground, "Keep me here? I'm not going any where, I probably wont be going anywhere for some time."
"What makes you think that?"
A manic giggle escapes from John's throat and the man notes the beads of sweat already developing on his reddening hairline, there is something distinctly off about a grown man giggling. "I came from outer space dumbass, I've been missing for four years."
"And you say you were in space?"
"Fuck! Where else did I go?!?"
"Maybe you crashed-"
"Again with the bullshit." He smiles; it's unsettling, "They scooped me up in a shuttle. Four years after my supposed 'crash'. Was I floating in space for four fucking years?"
The man sighs and drops his gaze to the clipboard.
"I will do everything in power to get you out of here as soon as possible-"
"And where am I going to go?" John's arms wave to encompass around the room, "Where? Huh? Can you answer that brainiac? Dad's dead. DK's not going to want to even talk with me `cause I ruined his favorite toy, and god knows my ex-girlfriends don't ever want to look at my sorry face again. Aeryn is gone. D'Argo won't dare step his foot here, not after what happened last time. And fuck-all if you guys aren't ever going to let me back into space. So tell me," He taps his temple, "Where am I gonna go?"
"I don't know, but you don't want to stay here, do you?"
John is silent for a moment. "I don't know what I want."
"No, no. That much is clear."
John doesn't answer, his gaze seemingly following the crack in the cement. It traversed from the tip of his chair until disappearing into the wall behind the man. John's hands were clasped under his chin and he didn't seem to be paying attention.
"What do you want John?" The man tries again, his voice lower, calmer.
John doesn't take his eyes off of the crack in the floor. He briefly licks his lips before finally looking up.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Their eyes met and for a brief moment the man feels something in John break. John just laughs and shakes his head, not bothering to answer.
The man sighs and scribbles `her' on the edge of his paper.