Patterns
He has worm holes in his blood now. And too many people want to shed it.
He thinks he remembers a time before that but he can't be sure, too many holes in his memory, a kaleidoscope of neuroses and neurons firing, random synapses that have been ripped and torn. He giggles to himself, wiping one rough hand across his mouth, staring in fascination at the chain of saliva that glistens, arcing from lips to fist. Prisms. Patterns. He sees those everywhere now. And sometimes he can't even remembers if there was a time before the patterns. But his friends tell him that there was. That there is a shape to this pattern that is, they tell him, John Crichton.
Human they tell him. Astronaut. Stubborn, compassionate, suffering. He frowns in puzzlement, feeling the pull on skin that seems detached, his eyes tracking space, not really seeing any thing. Anything but the patterns.
The grey skinned female leans over, curves and shifts of skin and shadow. More patterns there, like Doppler shifts, phase inversion in the curve of her hip, wormholes dance in the dark of her eyes. Maybe he could open them..he reached out a hand to touch the field, to trace the patterns, watch her flinch, visibly pull herself in hand, skittish, and approach again. She calls him John. Speaks his name with layers and depths of emotion that he sees but cannot touch, a man from a tropical planet unable to grasp the concept of snow.
She is the only one to come near him now. The others all stay away, driven by boredom or distaste, inertia breaking the bonds that adversity made stronger, as he fell deeper into the patterns that make up the universe and left them behind.
For a while he thinks, he remembers people trying to reach him, the shadow memory of pain, inflicted, inflicting. A chair, another female, a male, dark leather and pale skin, scents that some part of him found arousing, his erection stiff and sudden and wholly unexpected. But they stopped chasing him when he found their patterns, turned them inside out, made wormholes - -beauty out of dross, something wonderful out of a vision of flesh. A distant part of him still finds that amusing that Scorpius, so persistent in the search for wormholes should become the fleshy centre of his own. Dreams and visions concluded, won, although not in the way he might expect.
He had to find the patterns in a few other things before they left him alone. Bits, pieces, ships, a planet once, gray ball dirt of blue and green, with the wormhole inside begging to be let out, like a puppy panting at the gate. He remembers he had a puppy once. Sometime. He recalls the large male screaming at him, raging, calling him planet killer among other things. But no one chases him now and the large male left a long time ago or yesterday maybe, before he could find the pattern in him. And he has another puppy that comes at his call. He calls it Rover. Just another spatial anomaly to add to a growing herd.
The grey girl is pulling at him, tugging, trying to urge him to get up, saying something about food, eating, about sleep and sex. He goes with her. He remembers food, or he thinks he does. And maybe when he's finished he'll find her pattern too.
He has worm holes in his blood now. And too many people want to shed it.
He thinks he remembers a time before that but he can't be sure, too many holes in his memory, a kaleidoscope of neuroses and neurons firing, random synapses that have been ripped and torn. He giggles to himself, wiping one rough hand across his mouth, staring in fascination at the chain of saliva that glistens, arcing from lips to fist. Prisms. Patterns. He sees those everywhere now. And sometimes he can't even remembers if there was a time before the patterns. But his friends tell him that there was. That there is a shape to this pattern that is, they tell him, John Crichton.
Human they tell him. Astronaut. Stubborn, compassionate, suffering. He frowns in puzzlement, feeling the pull on skin that seems detached, his eyes tracking space, not really seeing any thing. Anything but the patterns.
The grey skinned female leans over, curves and shifts of skin and shadow. More patterns there, like Doppler shifts, phase inversion in the curve of her hip, wormholes dance in the dark of her eyes. Maybe he could open them..he reached out a hand to touch the field, to trace the patterns, watch her flinch, visibly pull herself in hand, skittish, and approach again. She calls him John. Speaks his name with layers and depths of emotion that he sees but cannot touch, a man from a tropical planet unable to grasp the concept of snow.
She is the only one to come near him now. The others all stay away, driven by boredom or distaste, inertia breaking the bonds that adversity made stronger, as he fell deeper into the patterns that make up the universe and left them behind.
For a while he thinks, he remembers people trying to reach him, the shadow memory of pain, inflicted, inflicting. A chair, another female, a male, dark leather and pale skin, scents that some part of him found arousing, his erection stiff and sudden and wholly unexpected. But they stopped chasing him when he found their patterns, turned them inside out, made wormholes - -beauty out of dross, something wonderful out of a vision of flesh. A distant part of him still finds that amusing that Scorpius, so persistent in the search for wormholes should become the fleshy centre of his own. Dreams and visions concluded, won, although not in the way he might expect.
He had to find the patterns in a few other things before they left him alone. Bits, pieces, ships, a planet once, gray ball dirt of blue and green, with the wormhole inside begging to be let out, like a puppy panting at the gate. He remembers he had a puppy once. Sometime. He recalls the large male screaming at him, raging, calling him planet killer among other things. But no one chases him now and the large male left a long time ago or yesterday maybe, before he could find the pattern in him. And he has another puppy that comes at his call. He calls it Rover. Just another spatial anomaly to add to a growing herd.
The grey girl is pulling at him, tugging, trying to urge him to get up, saying something about food, eating, about sleep and sex. He goes with her. He remembers food, or he thinks he does. And maybe when he's finished he'll find her pattern too.