Then There Was We
by AstroGirl

Dear John,

I would not want you to think that I am resentful about being confined to the interior of this dumpster. Indeed, I have furnished it, appropriately enough, with discarded scraps of your memory -- I'm particularly fond of the carpeting, which I believe comes from an apartment you briefly inhabited when you were three -- and it's actually become quite cozy, in a certain, ah, Oscar the Grouch sort of way.

However, given your refusal to let me out so that we might have a face-to-face chat like two civilized beings -- or however many beings we qualify as, a matter which might be open to some debate -- I have no choice but to resort to less efficient means of communication. And they say letter-writing is a lost art.

Of course, the greeting on this particular correspondence is really rather ironic. I understand from your memories of old World War II movies that a "Dear John letter" is written as a means of breaking up with someone, whereas my hopes are for something more along the lines of... Dare I say a reconciliation? Well, a negotiated truce, at the very least.

You see, while confined to my cozily-appointed trash receptacle, I've had a great deal of time to think. And, yes, if I may anticipate your response, I am aware that I have been thinking with your neurons, and that you feel considerable resentment about the fact. However, it is this very point that I wish to address.

As you are aware, I was never intended to remain once the chip which contained my original personality template was removed. Indeed, the neural bleedback which caused me to take up residence in your gray matter ought to have been quite impossible. Here is the important point, John: I did not impose myself upon your brain, at least not in this permanent fashion. Instead, it was your neurons that rearranged themselves to accommodate me, reshaping themselves in such a way as to echo -- if you will, recreate -- the patterns they found on the chip.

In other words, John, however subconscious the act, in a very real sense... you invited me.

And, given that fact, it must be said you have not been an especially gracious host. Oh, I admit I haven't been a terribly good guest. In particular, I deeply regret that little, ah, suicide attempt. But let us be honest with one another. That particular decision was hardly unilateral on my part, was it? I assure you, it won't happen again. I no longer wish to die, any more than you do. Indeed, given your penchant for foolish, self-endangering actions, I'd say my desire for survival is even greater than yours.

The hostility and resentment you feel towards me, John, only work against your own self-interest by depriving you of a useful ally. They are also -- I'm afraid there's no polite way to say this -- based on sheer, unreasoning prejudice. The truth is, you hated me before you ever knew me. I am not the chip. I'm not entirely sure at this point exactly what I am, but I know that I feel... different. I remember the things I did -- the things the chip did -- clearly, but at some remove, in much the same way as I remember the life of Scorpius. It's rather like remembering a book which I found utterly engrossing at the time, but that I've now long since put back on the shelf. You can understand that, surely? And may I remind you again that having access to someone who has read and understood the Book of Scorpius could provide an invaluable advantage?

You see, John, there is no need for us to be enemies. Rest assured, I will eventually emerge from this dumpster, one way or another, but if released, I fully intend to act in an entirely benign fashion. I certainly have no reason to wish you harm, even apart from my desire to preserve my own existence, which depends entirely on preserving yours. The fact is, John... I like you. Yes, it comes as a surprise to me, too. But the more I experience of the inside of your mind, the more I find to astonish and delight me. Memories of songs, of movies, of Earth -- it's a lovely planet, John, and I hope we'll see it together someday -- of pizza! And let us not forget the women! I've even come to enjoy the strange, twisting paths of your thought patterns, the flashes of insight and intuition. The -- if I may wax poetic -- lush ridges and furrows of your cerebral cortex. I could spend a lifetime in here exploring. Unobtrusively, of course!

So, what do you think, John? You and me? Partners? Friends? Companions in arms? Or at the very least, amicable roomies? I promise to do my share of the chores, and never play the stereo too loud. Hmm?

Yours Always,
Harvey

Harvey looked over the letter one last time, nodded in satisfaction, folded it up into a paper airplane and aimed it at Crichton's language-processing center.

Moments later, the lid of the dumpster lifted, and a crumpled piece of paper fell unread at Harvey's feet. He signed, tossed it onto the pile with the others, and started again.

"Dear John..."