farscape stuff

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."