Bargain with the Devil (PG-13)
1,347 words, written 5/1/04
Set between seasons 3/4, spoilers for 4.2-4.3, What Was Lost & 4.5, Promises
Written for viola_dreamwalk's Behind Every Good Woman Lies a Trail of Men challenge
Summary: You know that Scorpius is ruthless. But without him you will die, and you aren’t ready to die.
Bargain with the Devil
You are alone, adrift in your prowler in unfamiliar space. You wait for death.
You are unaware of the tug as a docking web is deployed against your sharp-nosed fighter craft. The fever confuses your senses; all you feel is the burning of your skin, the head-to-toe shuddering that you can’t control.
You’d dialed down the life support systems, setting the cockpit temperature to just above freezing in a futile attempt to stave off the inferno building within your body. You’d fought to stay conscious, to focus, until the realization slapped you in the face---what was the point? You’d left behind those who’d cared about you, who would have helped you; walked away from the one who loved you, who’d promised you anything and everything, if only you would stay.
The vivid hallucinations of heat delirium conjure his shade there beside you, blue eyes accusing in a grim face torn by fear and anger, as you remember from the last time you were together. He doesn’t flicker an eyelash at the harsh metallic grinding noise that hurts your sensitized ears, or the sudden jolt that snaps your head back, though you are still strapped in your seat.
“Sorry,” you whisper, because you know you are going to die and you understand that by leaving him, you gained nothing. No insight. No clarity for the decision you needed to make. You’d asked him for time, but what had you done with it? Thrown yourself back into a lifestyle that no longer fit---you followed orders, but questioned them inwardly; eliminated targets, and wondered what about your own species was so frelling superior.
You had your time, and squandered it---wasted precious days and weekens and monens fooling yourself, afraid to be with John because you might lose him and the pain would be unbearable---and now someone has killed you. Bitter irony blends with the coppery tang of blood on your tongue; your teeth are chattering so severely you’ve bitten yourself.
You hardly notice the hiss of escaping air as the canopy seal is compromised. When hands reach for you, grasp your arms and tug, you look desperately for John but he is no longer beside you. There is no fight left, so you close your eyes and submit, slide willingly down into blackness hoping death will arrive swiftly to claim you.
***
Apparently, you aren’t dead.
You can feel the touch of a gloved hand tracing the line of your jaw. You struggle to wake, blinking against the grogginess and sweat that stings your eyes.
A cool, damp cloth wipes your face, and when your vision clears you are startled to see that it is Scorpius who tends you. Your already-unsteady heart skips another beat.
“I have no intention of harming you, Officer Sun,” he says, and you remember that he can read the energy signatures of those around him. He leans in and you shrink away ineffectually; the cot is small and you are trapped, helpless. You are naked beneath the thermal sheet, which is damp with your perspiration; but as Scorpius speaks you see the plume of his breath.
“Whatever have you been up to,” he continues casually, seating himself on the edge of the narrow cot, his thigh pressed to yours. “You seem to have contracted heat delirium. Your condition is quite serious.”
A glance around reveals that you are on board a marauder. The medical supplies are adequate for field dressings and triage, as evidenced by the drop in your fever. You might survive, after all---to be turned over to High Command and executed for treason. Frell, Scorpius might kill you himself; you did conspire and assist in the destruction of his command carrier, after all.
You say nothing. With a delicate finger, he flicks a drop of blood from the corner of your mouth.
“Your case is unusual,” he elaborates, ignoring your silence. “The customary treatment appears to have only slowed your deterioration, rather than reversing it. If nothing else is done, the living death will take hold.”
You turn your face toward the wall.
“I have overridden the atmospheric settings to chill this portion of the vessel. I could similarly modify a flight suit into a version of my own coolant suit, if you wish.” He brushes sweaty strands of hair from your cheek, tucks them behind your ear.
You can’t hide your surprise. “Why would you do that?”
A grimace twists the cadaverous features behind the mask. “Grayza and the council stubbornly cling to the naïve belief that negotiations will prevent a Scarran invasion. I know that such a course will be perceived as weakness, and only serve to invite an assault.”
He looks at you appraisingly. “John Crichton is our only hope to deter the Scarrans, Officer Sun. His knowledge of wormholes is the only means at our disposal to protect our race, to keep the galaxy safe from the Scarrans.”
The sharp pain in your gut is unrelated to the heat delirium. “I left Moya. I haven’t seen John or the others in monens.”
“But I have. On Arnessk, in Grayza’s power,” he tells you, and for a microt you can’t breathe. Arnessk. You’d been so close.
“What do you want?” Now you can’t allow yourself to succumb. The others need your help. John needs you.
Scorpius gestures with a gloved hand. “There are those who remain loyal to me, but with Grayza in command, I can hardly hope to remain undiscovered. My sources tell me that Crichton and your crewmates escaped from Arnessk, but their current location is unknown.”
You struggle to sit up, to think clearly. With a creak of black leather, Scorpius supports your shoulders, helps prop you against the pillow. “However, recently acquired information suggests that Moya may be nearby. In exchange for my assistance---without which, you will most assuredly die---I ask for asylum.”
You can’t possibly have heard him correctly. “You want asylum, aboard Moya?”
“It is a logical proposal,” he scowls at your incredulity.
“John doesn’t trust you. He’ll never agree to let you on board Moya,” you are compelled to point out, though surely he already knows.
He nods, a brief inclination of the head that acknowledges your words, even if he doesn’t agree with them. “His emotions affect his ability to see reason. You know this yourself, Officer Sun, as you can appreciate the Scarran threat in ways that he cannot or will not.”
“But he does trust you,” Scorpius continues. “I believe he would consent if you asked it of him.”
“And why should I do that?” you choke out on a laugh. “Why would I bring his enemy on board? And the others would never permit it.”
“Think, Officer Sun,” he chides you, losing patience. “I am not your enemy, nor am I Crichton’s. I know Crichton. I have observed him---and his reckless actions---and learned his mind. If you ask him, he will agree, and he will convince the others.”
Think, he demands. But it is difficult. Your vision is blurred; you are weakening. Your skin is dry and hot; the fever has regained its hold.
You remind yourself that John had wondered if Scorpius was right about the Scarran threat.
Then you remember that Scorpius implanted his neural clone to forcibly extract the information he wanted. You think of John’s torment, and the suffocating weight of water in your lungs.
You know that Scorpius is ruthless. But without him you will die, and you aren’t ready to die. Not yet. Not like this. There are things John should know, things you need to say. If Scorpius can keep the living death at bay, and get you back to Moya, you can figure out what to do next. You’ll be with John and Pilot and Moya, and maybe D’Argo and Chiana and Jool, and whatever happens after that, you won’t be alone.
Strong fingers rest against your neck, press the rapid, fluttering pulses. Scorpius tilts his head slightly; looks intently into your eyes. “Officer Sun?”
You swallow, and give him your answer.
Set between seasons 3/4, spoilers for 4.2-4.3, What Was Lost & 4.5, Promises
Written for viola_dreamwalk's Behind Every Good Woman Lies a Trail of Men challenge
Summary: You know that Scorpius is ruthless. But without him you will die, and you aren’t ready to die.
Bargain with the Devil
You are alone, adrift in your prowler in unfamiliar space. You wait for death.
You are unaware of the tug as a docking web is deployed against your sharp-nosed fighter craft. The fever confuses your senses; all you feel is the burning of your skin, the head-to-toe shuddering that you can’t control.
You’d dialed down the life support systems, setting the cockpit temperature to just above freezing in a futile attempt to stave off the inferno building within your body. You’d fought to stay conscious, to focus, until the realization slapped you in the face---what was the point? You’d left behind those who’d cared about you, who would have helped you; walked away from the one who loved you, who’d promised you anything and everything, if only you would stay.
The vivid hallucinations of heat delirium conjure his shade there beside you, blue eyes accusing in a grim face torn by fear and anger, as you remember from the last time you were together. He doesn’t flicker an eyelash at the harsh metallic grinding noise that hurts your sensitized ears, or the sudden jolt that snaps your head back, though you are still strapped in your seat.
“Sorry,” you whisper, because you know you are going to die and you understand that by leaving him, you gained nothing. No insight. No clarity for the decision you needed to make. You’d asked him for time, but what had you done with it? Thrown yourself back into a lifestyle that no longer fit---you followed orders, but questioned them inwardly; eliminated targets, and wondered what about your own species was so frelling superior.
You had your time, and squandered it---wasted precious days and weekens and monens fooling yourself, afraid to be with John because you might lose him and the pain would be unbearable---and now someone has killed you. Bitter irony blends with the coppery tang of blood on your tongue; your teeth are chattering so severely you’ve bitten yourself.
You hardly notice the hiss of escaping air as the canopy seal is compromised. When hands reach for you, grasp your arms and tug, you look desperately for John but he is no longer beside you. There is no fight left, so you close your eyes and submit, slide willingly down into blackness hoping death will arrive swiftly to claim you.
***
Apparently, you aren’t dead.
You can feel the touch of a gloved hand tracing the line of your jaw. You struggle to wake, blinking against the grogginess and sweat that stings your eyes.
A cool, damp cloth wipes your face, and when your vision clears you are startled to see that it is Scorpius who tends you. Your already-unsteady heart skips another beat.
“I have no intention of harming you, Officer Sun,” he says, and you remember that he can read the energy signatures of those around him. He leans in and you shrink away ineffectually; the cot is small and you are trapped, helpless. You are naked beneath the thermal sheet, which is damp with your perspiration; but as Scorpius speaks you see the plume of his breath.
“Whatever have you been up to,” he continues casually, seating himself on the edge of the narrow cot, his thigh pressed to yours. “You seem to have contracted heat delirium. Your condition is quite serious.”
A glance around reveals that you are on board a marauder. The medical supplies are adequate for field dressings and triage, as evidenced by the drop in your fever. You might survive, after all---to be turned over to High Command and executed for treason. Frell, Scorpius might kill you himself; you did conspire and assist in the destruction of his command carrier, after all.
You say nothing. With a delicate finger, he flicks a drop of blood from the corner of your mouth.
“Your case is unusual,” he elaborates, ignoring your silence. “The customary treatment appears to have only slowed your deterioration, rather than reversing it. If nothing else is done, the living death will take hold.”
You turn your face toward the wall.
“I have overridden the atmospheric settings to chill this portion of the vessel. I could similarly modify a flight suit into a version of my own coolant suit, if you wish.” He brushes sweaty strands of hair from your cheek, tucks them behind your ear.
You can’t hide your surprise. “Why would you do that?”
A grimace twists the cadaverous features behind the mask. “Grayza and the council stubbornly cling to the naïve belief that negotiations will prevent a Scarran invasion. I know that such a course will be perceived as weakness, and only serve to invite an assault.”
He looks at you appraisingly. “John Crichton is our only hope to deter the Scarrans, Officer Sun. His knowledge of wormholes is the only means at our disposal to protect our race, to keep the galaxy safe from the Scarrans.”
The sharp pain in your gut is unrelated to the heat delirium. “I left Moya. I haven’t seen John or the others in monens.”
“But I have. On Arnessk, in Grayza’s power,” he tells you, and for a microt you can’t breathe. Arnessk. You’d been so close.
“What do you want?” Now you can’t allow yourself to succumb. The others need your help. John needs you.
Scorpius gestures with a gloved hand. “There are those who remain loyal to me, but with Grayza in command, I can hardly hope to remain undiscovered. My sources tell me that Crichton and your crewmates escaped from Arnessk, but their current location is unknown.”
You struggle to sit up, to think clearly. With a creak of black leather, Scorpius supports your shoulders, helps prop you against the pillow. “However, recently acquired information suggests that Moya may be nearby. In exchange for my assistance---without which, you will most assuredly die---I ask for asylum.”
You can’t possibly have heard him correctly. “You want asylum, aboard Moya?”
“It is a logical proposal,” he scowls at your incredulity.
“John doesn’t trust you. He’ll never agree to let you on board Moya,” you are compelled to point out, though surely he already knows.
He nods, a brief inclination of the head that acknowledges your words, even if he doesn’t agree with them. “His emotions affect his ability to see reason. You know this yourself, Officer Sun, as you can appreciate the Scarran threat in ways that he cannot or will not.”
“But he does trust you,” Scorpius continues. “I believe he would consent if you asked it of him.”
“And why should I do that?” you choke out on a laugh. “Why would I bring his enemy on board? And the others would never permit it.”
“Think, Officer Sun,” he chides you, losing patience. “I am not your enemy, nor am I Crichton’s. I know Crichton. I have observed him---and his reckless actions---and learned his mind. If you ask him, he will agree, and he will convince the others.”
Think, he demands. But it is difficult. Your vision is blurred; you are weakening. Your skin is dry and hot; the fever has regained its hold.
You remind yourself that John had wondered if Scorpius was right about the Scarran threat.
Then you remember that Scorpius implanted his neural clone to forcibly extract the information he wanted. You think of John’s torment, and the suffocating weight of water in your lungs.
You know that Scorpius is ruthless. But without him you will die, and you aren’t ready to die. Not yet. Not like this. There are things John should know, things you need to say. If Scorpius can keep the living death at bay, and get you back to Moya, you can figure out what to do next. You’ll be with John and Pilot and Moya, and maybe D’Argo and Chiana and Jool, and whatever happens after that, you won’t be alone.
Strong fingers rest against your neck, press the rapid, fluttering pulses. Scorpius tilts his head slightly; looks intently into your eyes. “Officer Sun?”
You swallow, and give him your answer.