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Shh. She keeps Simon thoughts locked away in her head, but they run about like mice, scattering about til they come out of her mouth

They give her letters to write and she knows that they could get computers to do this, but they want to prove that she obeys.

Simonthoughts come out onto the page, too, tripping up her pen when she writes words. They jump about and she writes in Chinese characters, then kanji, hiragana and katakana, Latin, English, Russian, but the mice follow her there as well. Word games played with Simon, who learnt things first even if she learnt them better, like writing French words in the Cyrillic alphabet and changing midway to Greek.

Simonthoughts sit on the paper and argue over who should protect who, because she needs him so much, and she knows that if she saw Simon go through this, she'd go insane. Simon is her big brother and she must protect him.

Simonthoughts sit in her ear and tell her she's his brilliant little sister, even if she is a dummy.
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Chiana always weighs more than you'd expect, like a cat that slinks across the room, graceful and sure, then collapses on your lap like its bones are made of lead.

in contrast, Sikozu is painfully light. He can fit two hands around her waist and lift her up like she's nothing, like she's been filled with feathers even though her body is harder than Chiana's, bones closer to the surface and without the cushion of muscle and flesh Chiana has.

Sikozu is birdlike and he sometimes pictures them like that, a cat and a canary battling through Moya.
jamjar: (Default)
She doesn't see the future anymore.

Never saw it much anyway, just as an extension of the present so whatever she was doing then, was the same thing she'd be doing tomorrow, ten cycles from now, forever. She saw herself with Nerri, living by wits and looks and luck, forever until the day he left. Then she saw herself occasional lovers and mostly alone, jumping from place to place one step ahead of the Nebari. And then captured, and she could picture her life inside a cell, until she was old and bent and broken.

But that was the future then and this is the future now. Nerri off somewhere else, always out of sight and out of reach.

This is the future-forever, right at this moment. Absolute darkness, there never is even when she closes her eyes. Sounds from all over the place, meaningless without the visual clues to tell her where they're coming from, what made them. drowning in it, lost and cut off and there doesn't seem like anything real, nothing solid, up could be undless and down doesn't stay still and she will be like this forever, dependent and defenseless and...

Crichton is there, warm and solid and like an anchor or a blanket wrapped around her. The ground seems steadier, even though she knows Moya is tossing about like a drunk hynerian sea snake. He's asking her what she saw and telling her everything wil be alright and now, this moment, will be what makes up the future.
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Crichton talks in code, constantly referring to things only he understands.

He talks in moyacode too, the verbal shortcuts of shared history she has learnt to expect from this group. The sentences, the nouns and verbs, and she can't always tell which is which, always followed by this look like a closed door and something patronising when they look at her. Chiana with her head tilted, smiling like an amused parent at Sikozu's ignorence. Crichton, oblivious or offering explanations that are overly simplicstic, like she was a child that needed every bit of information carefully prepared before she understood it.

The Hynerian enjoys her weaker position, enjoys the feeling of superiority over her.

This is not the way it should be. She knew her future once, could picture her customers buying her services, her attention to their problems. She would sift throught data, evaluate and extrapolate and they would flock around like...

well, the image is embarassing, but like petitioners around a high priestess of some god of wisdom. A childish image, vain, but satisfying as those kind of fantasies often are.

Instead she is stuck on this ship, where she is made to feel ignorant and naive and stupid as a child, and they put all these demands on her, dothis, dothat, whyisthatlike that and nownownow, no time to study, no neat solutions, and none of the rewards she would expect for getting it right.

There are compensations, of course. Scorpius is a marvel, and the other don't understand how much. To have survived the Scarran labs, to have forced his body to work... His mind, his ambition, his endless control over his warring biology, all are things that amaze her.

Wormholes, the bizarre and ugly name Cricton uses for the beautiful rifts in space that are one of the constant mysteries of the universe.
jamjar: (Default)
The skies of Nebari are pale grey, clouds cross them like ink in water. The light is thin and deceptive, its weakness hiding the radiation carried from the bright sun and pale moons, rarely seen behind their cloud cover.

Underneath the skies are a billion small lights. The main oxygen producer on Nebari Prime is a family of single-celled, algae like plants that take in the sickly light and emit something bright and warm and almost harmless. Before cities and houses and walls, parents would soak their children's clothes in water thick as syrup until they glowed.

Skin gets more solid each day outside the womb, becoming matt and opaque. Adult Nebari do not die from radiation poisoning. It's only the chldren with their pale, translucent skin so thin you can tell veins and arteries apart from colour that have to wrap up against the sky.

Her skin was solid by the time she left, though Nerri's was still thin in places, low on his back, on the inside of his thighs and the soles of feet. She walked on Nebari with her head uncovered, skin showing on her shoulders, her midriff, her legs.

Out here, her skin offers no protection and the charcol markings of adulthood that gave her a currency to trade with are also bright and tempting to alien eyes, glowing arrows to her vulnerable places.

She doesn't bruise easily, but when she presses her hands on her hips she can feel the places that would be purpleblack if she had childskin, thin and transparent.
jamjar: (Default)
She looked like she could have been my parent's daughter. I look like my mother, like my grandmother. It's seen as a good sign.

This girl looks like both my parents, my father-that-isn't and my mother that is. A compromise between them, with my father's hair and my mother's eyes. She looks like she could be my sister and the thought makes me laugh.

The hair must come from her mother. The eyes as well. The way she stands, though, halfway between challenge and concilatory is the same as my...

...the man that sired me. The gene contributor, who loved the thought of me, my potential for life, so much he would have given up his home to stay on an alien world with a woman who didn't love him.

Didn't. She loves my father, the one who raised me, cared for me, loves me. She loved him then, loved him always. They fit together like two halves of a whole and they have never, to my knowledge, lied to me.

I saw the recording he made for me and the few from the security monitors my grandmother did not destroy.

(Father said my energy comes from mother, but I saw the recordings and knew they came from him).

"Jeanie Crichton."

"Is that a human name," I ask. I want the option, after this conversation is finished, of erasing it from my mind. I want to know everything, but only if it's good. I don't care about her name, I want to know about mine.

"Normally. It's short for Gilina in my case."

"Hmm? Oh, hybrid vigour. Late bloomer, long life. Unless it's all downhill when you hit treble figures."
jamjar: (Default)
farscape snippet

Crichton has always listened to the voices in his head. Not split personality, not total schizophrenia, but every time he wrote a paper, he could hear his mother, her voice like an echo in every sentence. His dad going through the pre-flight check.

He knows that Harvey is not him. Harvey is an alien consciousness, carved out onto his brain.

All this time, and he's started to think that what he really wants is someone that won't give up on him. Can't think of anyone like that here, not anymore.

Life in the UTs is starting to blur at the edges. He's losing his landmarks and one commerce planet blends into another. Space is calm and beautiful and freeing. Zhaan has her meditation, communing with the Goddess while Stark communes with her, but she can hear the song of her family too loudly to properly let go.

Moya sings of space and freedom, sings to her Pilot of beautiful emptiness and the joy of travel. Crichton looks at the stars and thinks.
jamjar: (Default)
She thinks, how difficult [painful, empty] it must to carry your crew [family, loves] outside you always, in danger or fraying or being detached.

Leviathans are solitary creatures. They do not flock or swarm, do not travel together except for those rare occasions where two have the same destination. Distant calls across space and brushes in passing. Communications sent out at random, warnings and greetings to be heard by any Leviathan that travelled in that space.

[like penpals, Crichton says, posting letters into the void]

Exterior is solitude. Belonging, in the species/family/crew sense, is interior. Her people are carried inside, in the walls of her body.

She had a son/was a mother, once. Leviathans are not tribal, have no network tied by species and kinship. mother/child is the only relationship that exists, teh only reason for two leviathans to have each other's company. For a time.

[dead and lost and lost fist, her son born in space, distance between them since he left her. She was only a mother before his birth]

Her Pilot who was not her Pilot, who came after the first. Painful, to wake up and find the emptiness inside where companionship would be.

[shh, she tells him, whispers, sings, when his guilt threatens. Past, and I have you now/we are here]

Space is distance, freedom, movement. Space is mostly empty.

[she was mostly empty, pain-crippled-pilot, no family inside her, just a control collar until they freed her, freed themselves].

Crichton loves space, needs it as much as she does. Space is distance, is freedom, is exterior.

They carry all their [belong-to] outside, unattached, so they can be lost by any passing wind.

Birth is loss. Separation is loss.

Zhaan sang and opened, so Moya was [inside the feel of Zhaan] when Zhaan was within her.

She has kinship with these, people who swim through/need space as she does.

[Aeryn, spaceborn, raised, who loves her, will protect her, but only when within her. She's leaving now, painselfish and empty].



Aeryn Sun is separating. [like birth] she thinks, [like waking up to find emptyPilotspace].

She can't protect him/them, the ones she belongs to/with. These are the people she loves.

She thinks [how can you bear it, carrying your loves outside your body].

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