Figment
Author: The Right Brain
Email: spooky@wdsection.com
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Farscape does not belong to the Right Brain. Farscape and all related elements belong to the Jim Henson Company.
Summery: A tale of John Robert Crichton, III.
Author's Notes: Just a little dream I had that demanded it be told. Make of it what you will.
Archive: If you would like it, you may have it, just tell the Right Brain where so the Right Brain may visit.

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"Get up."

Hard and whispery, each word broke through his delicate skull like an explosion. He peeled one eye open and looked up at the monstrous and scowling figure towering over his prone body. If, where the piercing words had failed, the light cutting across his optic nerve like a laser saw didn't make his head burst he was going to be mighty surprised. He squeezed his eyes shut again and curled up on his side. "Don' wanna. Hurts."

"LJ, I insist that you get up immediately. LJ!"

"Frell," he whispered and rolled to his stomach, pushing himself slowly to his knees. The world tumbled around him and he gripped the frozen cobbled street with white hands. Dropping his head back down to the ground, he sighed as the icy stone soothed his flushed forehead. "It's cold," he noted absently.

"It is winter. If you do not rise, you will freeze."

"What does it matter? I've been here forever anyway." Raising his head he blinked foggy eyes and stared at his companion again. "I am here and nowhere. What does it matter?" He sighed and reached up a hand to scratch at his jaw where an irritating burning was drawing him from his not entirely unpleasant drowsy state.

"It matters to me, LJ. I have already been here longer than I can tolerate."

"When did I grow a beard?" He scratched at his jaw some more, wondering at the thick hair he found there.

"What does it matter?" His companion snarled back at him with bitterness as cold as the air around them.

He sighed and followed the line of his beard until his fingers encountered a painful swelling. "What?" He pressed on the swelling, feeling a thick ooze flow out, and his head suddenly swam again. Dropping his hand from the sore he pressed his fist against his mouth, trying to stop the heaves that wracked his body. Collapsing against the hard stone again, clipping his chin on the cobble and feeling the street tear at his hands, he fought back the tremors, almost weeping as the muscles in his body screamed in agony.

"LJ, there is no time, you must fight this!" His companion was down on his knees at his side. The companion's voice, once hard and angry, softened and wheedled, pleading, always wanting. A distant voice, flowing almost out of reach, whispered to him, 'this one is a deceiver'. What did he want now?

He turned his head and lay his inflamed cheek on the frigid ground. The pain sent sparks of lighting through his head, down his spine, across his weak and trembling form. "There's all the time. Every time. I am time and I am nothing. What does it matter?" He sobbed.

"LJ!" His companion barked and the words thundered through his head.

He jerked, scraping his cheek against the rough, unforgiving cobbles and his body twisted in agony again. His back arched off the ground as every muscle in his torso seized and hacking, he spewed the thin, bilious contents of his stomach across the icy street. "Ah god!" He cried when his body dropped heavily again. "God."

"Get up, LJ, you must."

"Kill me!"

"I can't."

"God," he moaned. "Make it stop."

"Only you can do that, LJ."

"I can't. I can't," he wept, tears freezing on his fevered cheeks. "Please, god," he pleaded hoarsely. "Why can't I die?"

"It's not your time," his companion suggested with a wry twist to his thin, hideous lips.

He peered up, through lashes heavy with tears, at the only other soul in all of his world and all of his time. "It's all my time. Only time. Eternity of time. Why?"

"LJ, listen to me. I can help you but you must get up."

"How will you help? Whisper in my ear? Haunt me for all my eternity? You're a ghost! You're not real!" He pushed himself up again and with what strength he had, he railed against his companion. "I'm not real! What do you want? Time? Take it! Take it all! Take time! Kill me!" He raised his hands and grabbed his fiercely pulsing skull. "Why can't I think? God."

"You are sick, LJ." His companion told him, earning a glacial, if woozy glare. "A plague. This city," his companion waved his hand towards the street, "is dead. Every being in it, stricken. Including yourself."

"Dead?" He whispered.

"Dead. You alone survive."

"I survive," he whispered harshly to his companion, "because I'm not real!" His voice rose to a harsh shout. "This is not life! Not survival!" His words echoed and broke against the bleak and empty buildings, shattering, raining back down onto the desolate street.

"It is what you have, LJ. And time is all you have and not even I know how much is left."

"Will I die?" He asked, almost hopefully.

"Perhaps. A hundred turns from now."

"A hundred?" He asked weakly, horrified. A hundred turns. A hundred eternities.

"Maybe two hundred, maybe a thousand. I don't know."

"I can't remember," he said hopefully.

"I can. And you can feel it. Imagine this for a hundred more turns."

"No," he whispered.

"Yes. Imagine this a thousand more times," his companion hissed viciously. "Ten thousand more. Again and again."

"No, no, no, no" he whimpered and balled his fists up in the thick fabric of his coat. "No, no." Shaking his head he tried to turn from his companion's spiteful stare.

"I will make sure you live every microt of every turn as fully as I live it," his companion promised him cruelly.

"No, I'm not here, I'm not real. I'm a ghost," his voice wavered and cracked uncertainly. His face crumpled and he looked back at his companion. "Please."

"Stand."

He swallowed back a sob and pushed himself painfully to his feet, swaying slightly and looking to his companion for direction.

"We have to make it to your shuttle. The longer you take the more likely it is that you'll do this all over again. If you wish to avoid that, I suggest you move as quickly as you are able."

"Which way? I don't remember."

"I will show you. Move quickly," his companion warned again.

He followed his companion, stepping as quickly as his heavy limbs would allow. By turns he froze and burned, his vision clouded or sparks danced around the edges, his stomach heaved, the ground pitched, his tongue dried and cracked and with every step he wept. And with every step his companion whispered in his ear, words to make him angry, words to make him scared, words of remembrance of all the turns before and threats of all the turns to come, words of remembrance for that life he lived when he existed.

"I hate you," he growled.

"Do you?" His companion asked, not bothering to disguise his disinterest.

"My father hates you, too. I remember that."

"And your mother."

"And my mother," he confirmed.

"And they each know this truth ­ I will do what I must to survive, LJ."

"Why haunt me?"

"You asked for it. Do you remember that, as well?"

"No. Why would I ask for you?" He spat, disgusted by the entire notion. "You are a plague. As brutal as the one that killed this city."

"Globe."

"What?"

"The plague spread rapidly, I imagine the planet is dead." His companion stopped and faced him, his ghastly face tight with anger. "And you weak with mercy," his companion sneered, "you tried to stop it and look where it got you. Eternity. Imagine LJ, if you had listened to me, your hated companion," he spat, "you could be free of me even now. Willful. Stupid. Weak. Human."

His eyes widened in rage and with pain and torment forgotten, he stepped up as close to his companion as he could. "Then take me," he growled.

"I tried!" His companion finally lost his rigid control and raged back. "Your body," the companion glanced at him disdainfully, "was too weak."

"Strong enough to stand here now and your only hope to exist," he said with a small amount of smugness.

"That is why you will move. And I will see to it that one of these turns you will succeed."

"For your survival."

"Of course. I won't let you die, LJ."

"I hate you."

"And I hate you. Does it warm you? Make you stronger? Good, keep moving."

He plodded forward, head lolling heavily on his neck, but somehow managing each necessary step. Time blurred, his mind wandered in and out of here and there, and his body mechanically followed his abominable companion.

"We're here."

"Now what?"

"Now we treat your illness and hope you can gain enough clarity to use that magnificent gift of yours."

"Gift," he repeated dully. "A gift of not existing? A gift of eternity? Curse."

"Child," his companion spat angrily back at him. "Spoiled child."

"What do I do?" He asked, getting to the heart of the matter, weary of the endless contempt radiating from his companion. If beating off this plague with what strength he had left in his failing body, would relieve him of his ghoulish familiar he would do so without further complaint.

"Med kit, under the pilot's seat. Use the green vial."

"What's in it?"

"Does it really matter?" His companion asked impatiently.

"No." He bent down, falling heavily to his knees when vertigo overwhelmed him. Catching himself against the chair, he grasped the seat almost desperately and gasped for air and stability.

"You're close, LJ, so close," his companion encouraged him, careful hope lightening his brusque and grating voice.

Blindly reaching a hand under the chair, he fumbled around until his frozen fingers knocked painfully against a metal box. He fought with it for a moment, almost weeping when it caught against the seat's mount and was pulled out of his hands. Finally, though, his almost completely nerveless hands obeyed his hazy commands and secured it. He set the box on his lap and after a few frustrating microts, pried it open. Searching the contents, he clumsily picked through the various vials and packages.

"There, that one," his companion told him breathlessly. "There, by your thumb."

"Are you sure?"

"We've already tried the others."

He shrugged listlessly and pulled out the medicine, staring at it for a moment and struggling to keep his thoughts where they belonged. It was so hard, though, he was so tired and he hurt so much and every breath tore at him, every touch was a thousand needles, every sight burned. If he could just lie down, for just a microt. What did it matter? Again and again, and eternity. It didn't matter, he didn't exist. A ghost on a ghost planet, haunted for eternity. He sentenced himself to his own hell.

"LJ," his companion prompted irritably. "Use it."

He forced the vial into the injector and pressed it to the side of his neck, hissing when the drug whipped through his veins like acid. Then he sat back heavily and waited for the promised clarity.

Looking up and out at the darkening planet, he wondered how long he really had. How long until the next turn? Until eternity started again? Time. All the time in the universe and so short on time. How ironic.

He caught sight of his reflection in the view screen and stared at himself curiously. He had a beard, he really did. He didn't remember that. Did he have a beard when he existed? Or was it turn after turn that gave him that? He thought about asking his companion but decided against it. He leaned forward and stared curiously into his own eyes. They were shot through with blood and the pupils were dilated until his irises almost disappeared. He cocked his head and watched his reflection do the same. It was almost as if they were a stranger's eyes, unfamiliar and compelling just the same. His father had always said he had his mother's eyes. He supposed he did, though he'd never thought about it before. Why did it matter now? If he didn't exist did it really ever matter?

"LJ, how do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Can you concentrate?"

He sighed and slumped back against the bulkhead. "I can try."

"No," his companion barked. "Do it! Do you hear me? Do it."

"I can try," he repeated wearily. "Help me start, I don't remember."

"Time," his companion whispered to him. "You are its master," he hissed seductively. "Feel it weaving itself around you. Can you feel it?"

"I feel it."

"Break the loop, LJ."

"It's hard."

"If it was easy we wouldn't be here," his companion muttered sourly.

"It's like a grav- gravity well. I need to climb out. Oh, god I'm so tired."

"Concentrate."

"It's heavy. It's pressing me down, holding me in."

"You can fight it, you have to fight it."

He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and tried to pull himself out of his self-made hell. "I can't," he panted. "I can't. Drowning."

"You can," his companion yelled viciously, desperately. "We will not do this again. Do you hear me? Not again!"

"Sorry," he whispered.

"You listen to me, LJ," his companion was down on the floor with him, demanding his attention with intense whispers. He opened his eyes and met his companion's gaze. "For all your weakness, human failings, you alone can do this. You alone have this strength." His companion paused and stared at him, searching his face for something. "What is it about your species? All these long cycles and I have yet to solve this riddle. Sometimes I think you're doomed to your own failings, weak and barely sentient. Other times, I get a taste, a glimpse, of worlds I've never seen and could only see through you. I've never told your father this; he'd take it as a sign that I was weakening. Imagine that? But you and I, LJ, we understand each other better."

"I hate you."

"Exactly what I mean. And yet you still asked for me. Your father never asked, he demanded and forced when he could. Took everything I'd give him and threatened me when it wasn't enough. He's a brute. But you? You can overcome your human emotions and embrace all your ambitions, all your abilities. You are so much more than I dared dream you would be."

He couldn't tell if he was heartened or disgusted by the pride in his companion's tone. He thought for a moment that he must be lying, but the fervor in his eyes and the passion behind his words said otherwise. He dropped his head back again, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to pull his mind together enough for one last try and hoping he had enough time.

"I will give your father marks in one instance," his companion prodded again. He opened his eyes and raised a curious eyebrow. "Stubbornness. To the point of folly, overwhelming all reason. Were he here, in your place, he'd climb out of time with his last breath. And if it would in someway spite me, all the better for him."

"I'm not my father."

"No, but over long cycles I've learned the occasional value of that trait and I believe you possess it in quantities at least as great as your father."

He closed his eyes again and rested his mind for a moment. He hadn't needed the last prod, his companion's earlier approval had disturbed him to a degree that shocked his body and mind into focus. He let himself flow into time and felt it swirl around him. Navigating the eddies and cascades of the loop, he searched for the way out. He was cognizant of the self-imposed deadline he faced, and with every passing microt, weaving in and out of the passing microts, feeling them crash down on him and toss him about, he became increasingly frustrated.

Finally he felt a lifting, like moving from mud to water. His heart quickened and he pulled himself towards the channel. He wanted to rush forward and tear himself free of time, but a soft voice whispered his mother's words to him, 'be as careful at the ending as you are in the beginning.' He forced himself to calm and grappled with the tidal force of his time loop - one microt pulling him down, one microt lifting him up. There was a tearing, and almost audible rip, and blackness swallowed him.

Something pulled him from his darkness. Cold. And pain. "Oh god," he whimpered.

"LJ."

No, he didn't want to hear that voice. He didn't want to hear what it had to tell him. He curled up on his side and tried to shut it out.

"LJ, get up."

He threw his head back and let out a wordless howl. Again and again and eternity. He didn't exist, he couldn't exist, he prayed to every god that hated him that he didn't exist.

"LJ?"

"NO! No, damn it! We're not real, don't you get it? Why should we be? We don't move forward. We don't move backwards. We don't move."

"LJ?"

A blast of cold air hit his face and he broke into harsh laughter. "Nope. John Robert Crichton THE THIRD! Commander of a starship that doesn't exist. Ghost. Wraith on a dead planet. Nobody here but us god forsaken."

He opened his eyes to see his companion staring down at him, a grim smile twisting across his bloodless lips. "So much more than I dared dream." His companion disappeared and the figure of his father took his place.

"Dad?"

"LJ? C'mon buddy," his father's hands went around his shoulders and tugged him up. He fell into his father's embrace and wept again, clutching at his jacket.

"Am I real?" He asked plaintively. "Dad?"

His father pulled back and avoiding the oozing sores, touched his bearded cheek gently. He could read the bleak understanding in those cool blue eyes. "Yes. You're real."

"Just so many turns. So many and and I forgot." He let out a long sigh and trembling, clinging to consciousness, he collapsed against his father's warm bulk again. "Don't let me go back."

"We're going home, buddy."

"I'm real," he sobbed into his father's chest.

"Yes." His father smoothed his fingers through his hair, easing the pain shooting through his skull.

"I exist."

"I swear."

"Home," he mumbled.

His father tightened his embrace. "Where your mother's going to kick my ass for taking so long."

"Mom."

"That's right, buddy." He felt his father's hold on him shift slightly. "Why don't you go to sleep and we'll get you out of here. That might be easier, huh?"

"No," he screamed. "No, no, no. If I sleep I might not be real again."

"If you sleep, you'll wake up at home and I'll be there."

He bit his lip and looked up into his father's worried eyes. Fighting back the trembling of his lip and the terror in his heart, he pleaded with his father, "Don't leave."

"I won't."

He clutched desperately at his father's coat. "Promise me," he demanded.

His father leaned over him and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I promise, LJ. Go to sleep."

Trusting his father's word and with the feel of him to ground him in what he fervently hoped was reality, he closed his eyes and started to drift back into the blackness. "Time," he murmur quietly.

"Time," his father replied just as quietly. "I am so sorry."

He shook his head and weakly pulled himself tighter against his father's chest, breathing deeply the comforting scent of leather and oil. "No. Thank you. Thank you." He was losing the battle with consciousness, and he was torn in the struggle. Part of him was still terrified, despite his father's assurances, and part of him was just too tired to care. One last, shuddering sigh, one last desperate prayer, and he willed himself into the hands of fate and time.