theatrical_muse challenge catch-up
I was born into Peacekeepers; carrier-bred, and proud of it. I never expected anything other than a typical soldier's life: birth, service, promotion, death. I took pride in my combat skills, enjoyed the companionship of my unit, recreated when someone caught my eye. It was a satisfactory life; simple, if you followed the rules. Easy.
But one day--as I was on duty chasing a renegade Leviathan that had slipped away from our command carrier's convoy--I disobeyed the order to return and instead followed the fleeing vessel, determined to prevent its escape. The ship went into Starburst, dragging my Prowler along with it.
Instead of taking prisoners, I was made one; but my captors were inadequate to the task of holding me, and with assistance from the male who had been incarcerated with me, I successfully eluded recapture and made my way to the docking bay and my Prowler. I set course for the nearest commerce planet, and we were away even before the Leviathan's crew suspected we were no longer in our cell.
I did what was expected of me; I followed regulations as a Peacekeeper should and sent a message to the carrier with our coordinates for pick-up. I expected to be returned to my unit--that was what I wanted, what I had intended. But I discovered that my commanding officer had a personal vendetta against my cellmate, and in a matter of microts Captain Crais turned on me as well, declaring me irreversibly contaminated--a death sentence. I was taken into custody by my own people, pending execution; but the Leviathan's crew had followed us to the planet, and between my cellmate and the Luxan, we freed ourselves once again.
I will admit that I was not thinking clearly, at the time. My captain's betrayal ran deep; so when my cellmate released my bindings and insisted I go back with him to the Leviathan, when he caught my eyes and said You can be more... I did not want to die.
And not so very long after that... I realized that I no longer wanted to return to my former life. Despite unhappiness in the cycles that followed, pain and loss and self-doubt, fear and death and more betrayals, I do not regret the decision I made--to trust a near-stranger and his hope for a better future.
I'm not one for possessions; I own my clothes, and my boots, and my Prowler--but those are all utilitarian items, with a clear purpose.
Crichton, on the other hand--and he's not alone; D'Argo and Chiana, Rygel, everyone but Pilot seems to go around collecting things. John's cell is cluttered with Earth memorabilia--much as he insists a Slinky has a function, I do not believe him--and D'Argo has his shilquin, and Luxan objects from his encounter with the Orrican. Rygel hoards anything and everything, while Chiana's trinkets are testament to her thievery and eclectic tastes; and once of friendship, in the form of a stolen locket.
There is something, though, that is mine. I did not want it, at first; I was afraid of the responsibility, and the frightening intensity of its meaning. But will it or not, it was given to me--and only now do I fully understand the priceless gift, the soul-deep power it bestowed.
John Crichton's heart belongs to me.
Between us, a word or gesture, an unspoken shifting of muscles, two languages--of the body, the eyes, and that which is spoken--in everything we say and do, I hold his well-being in the palm of my hand. I could destroy him, flay him to the bone, if I am not careful; I have cut him, made him bleed, squeezed his heart in an invisible vise of carelessly-chosen words, a cold shoulder. He has shut me out, built a near-impenetrable wall between us, turned to drugs for comfort and relief from the pain of his love for me.
Still, anyone can see it--that he is mine.
What astonishes me is that none of them, not even John, could see that the same was true for me.