Fic: Purgatorio: The Seven Sins of John Crichton
This is a series of seven linked drabbles, each 100 words or less, that was inspired by the seven deadly sins prompt for the microfic challenge at Terra Firma. At first I only wrote two, each about John Crichton, but decided to write the entire seven sins. The title refers to Dante's Divine Comedy and the second Canticle, where he toured the seven levels of purgatory.
Farscape's not mine, I'm just having some fun. I hope you enjoy this and I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Purgatorio: The Seven Sins of John Crichton
* ~ * ~ *
Do it. You know you want to.
Adrenaline still floods his body and he can still feel the cold sharpness of the blade pressed against his throat. Now, his inquisitor wants something else entirely. He shouldn’t. Technically, he is a married man. And then there is Aeryn. Always Aeryn.
She left you. You want to live; you’ll do whatever she wants. You must survive.
Bare skin, taut against his chest. Blood flows south and he gives in to the disquieting whisper in his head and the urges of the flesh.
What the hell.
Carpe diem.
* ~ * ~ *
He opens the refrigeration unit. Only four fellip nectors left. Damn.
He reaches in and grabs the tall blue bottle, pops the top and takes a long drink, the cool liquor burning its way down his throat. He chug-a-luggs the rest and tosses the empty into the waste funnel. He eyes the remaining three bottles. Not nearly enough to forget Linfer and the fact that Scorpius is still alive. Still obsessed with wormholes. Or that Talyn is still AWOL.
God only knows when they’ll hit the next Commerce planet. He grabs the last three bottles and heads for his quarters.
* ~ * ~ *
It’s quiet in Pilot’s den. Too quiet. Pilot wasn’t talking. Or moving, for that matter. This wormhole is killing him-killing Moya.
He should feel guilty about it. He doesn’t. Sure, he feels bad; bad that Pilot and Moya would not be coming along for the ride. The others certainly blame him for their current predicament, but they don’t understand. This wormhole’s also a superhighway through time and space and he holds the golden ticket in his hands. Pilot would understand his overwhelming desire.
Neeyala’s gizmo flickers image after image.
Countless worlds. A way home.
He wants it all.
* ~ * ~ *
A gentle breeze shakes the canopy above him, the sound of waves and women laughing blending in the background of a pristine sea and a crystal blue sky. John leans back into his air filled cushion oblivious to it all. He’s supposed to be enjoying himself. He would, if he could muster the will to care-or to feel anything but dissatisfaction with being stuck here, with the forced inactivity, with his traveling companions. With everything.
D’Argo will be back soon and he’ll be back to counting the microts until Moya returns and he can get off this rock.
* ~ * ~ *
‘Just almost always your fault.’
Pure dren. And he’s had enough of it. And Zhaan’s patronizing tone. And Aeryn’s disapproving stare.
Temper tantrum. That what his mother called it when he’d throw a fit at home. She’d send him to his room and let him stew in his own juices until he’d calmed down. He can’t do that here-privacy curtains don’t block out the sound of angry D’Argo’s bellows.
He brushes past Aeryn and hops into the cockpit of his module. He needs to go for a spin before he goes postal.
* ~ * ~ *
It was perfect. We were so-perfect.
He stands amidst the ruins of Moya’s command, alone. And he can see it, in the sympathetic looks Crais and even Rygel give him, in the depths and contours of her grief, in the contentment on his face as he passed the hero’s mantel onto his shoulders.
I missed that dance.
He slams his hand against a broken conduit in frustration, wishing against reason he was the cold corpse blazing into the sun instead of the one left behind, knowing what was and might never be.
I just can’t watch that happen-again.
* ~ * ~ *
The Leviathan stinks like something Rygel barfed up, there’s at least one mutant Sebacean on board, and the maintenance bay doors are sealed shut. Something’s seriously wacked here and he wants to know what.
D’Argo thinks finding the Pilot is a bad idea. Of course, he also thinks dying of asphyxiation on their frelled up pod is preferable, so, not the best person to ask.
Let the big guy waste time finding the narium coil in the haystack. Best go to the source, get what he needs and beat him back.
He’ll only pretend to resist saying ‘told you so.’
Farscape's not mine, I'm just having some fun. I hope you enjoy this and I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Purgatorio: The Seven Sins of John Crichton
* ~ * ~ *
Do it. You know you want to.
Adrenaline still floods his body and he can still feel the cold sharpness of the blade pressed against his throat. Now, his inquisitor wants something else entirely. He shouldn’t. Technically, he is a married man. And then there is Aeryn. Always Aeryn.
She left you. You want to live; you’ll do whatever she wants. You must survive.
Bare skin, taut against his chest. Blood flows south and he gives in to the disquieting whisper in his head and the urges of the flesh.
What the hell.
Carpe diem.
* ~ * ~ *
He opens the refrigeration unit. Only four fellip nectors left. Damn.
He reaches in and grabs the tall blue bottle, pops the top and takes a long drink, the cool liquor burning its way down his throat. He chug-a-luggs the rest and tosses the empty into the waste funnel. He eyes the remaining three bottles. Not nearly enough to forget Linfer and the fact that Scorpius is still alive. Still obsessed with wormholes. Or that Talyn is still AWOL.
God only knows when they’ll hit the next Commerce planet. He grabs the last three bottles and heads for his quarters.
* ~ * ~ *
It’s quiet in Pilot’s den. Too quiet. Pilot wasn’t talking. Or moving, for that matter. This wormhole is killing him-killing Moya.
He should feel guilty about it. He doesn’t. Sure, he feels bad; bad that Pilot and Moya would not be coming along for the ride. The others certainly blame him for their current predicament, but they don’t understand. This wormhole’s also a superhighway through time and space and he holds the golden ticket in his hands. Pilot would understand his overwhelming desire.
Neeyala’s gizmo flickers image after image.
Countless worlds. A way home.
He wants it all.
* ~ * ~ *
A gentle breeze shakes the canopy above him, the sound of waves and women laughing blending in the background of a pristine sea and a crystal blue sky. John leans back into his air filled cushion oblivious to it all. He’s supposed to be enjoying himself. He would, if he could muster the will to care-or to feel anything but dissatisfaction with being stuck here, with the forced inactivity, with his traveling companions. With everything.
D’Argo will be back soon and he’ll be back to counting the microts until Moya returns and he can get off this rock.
* ~ * ~ *
‘Just almost always your fault.’
Pure dren. And he’s had enough of it. And Zhaan’s patronizing tone. And Aeryn’s disapproving stare.
Temper tantrum. That what his mother called it when he’d throw a fit at home. She’d send him to his room and let him stew in his own juices until he’d calmed down. He can’t do that here-privacy curtains don’t block out the sound of angry D’Argo’s bellows.
He brushes past Aeryn and hops into the cockpit of his module. He needs to go for a spin before he goes postal.
* ~ * ~ *
It was perfect. We were so-perfect.
He stands amidst the ruins of Moya’s command, alone. And he can see it, in the sympathetic looks Crais and even Rygel give him, in the depths and contours of her grief, in the contentment on his face as he passed the hero’s mantel onto his shoulders.
I missed that dance.
He slams his hand against a broken conduit in frustration, wishing against reason he was the cold corpse blazing into the sun instead of the one left behind, knowing what was and might never be.
I just can’t watch that happen-again.
* ~ * ~ *
The Leviathan stinks like something Rygel barfed up, there’s at least one mutant Sebacean on board, and the maintenance bay doors are sealed shut. Something’s seriously wacked here and he wants to know what.
D’Argo thinks finding the Pilot is a bad idea. Of course, he also thinks dying of asphyxiation on their frelled up pod is preferable, so, not the best person to ask.
Let the big guy waste time finding the narium coil in the haystack. Best go to the source, get what he needs and beat him back.
He’ll only pretend to resist saying ‘told you so.’