Pictures, images, memories, bioloids: everything but the real deal. Which -- if the baby's not his -- is as close to the truth as we'll get. I think this is where God steps in, honestly. Aeryn on the screen turns to John, her voice like an echo: "I believe Katratzi to be some sort of base. Highly guarded." John blinks, not the least because VCRs are usually the province not of God but of his opposite number, and rewinds the tape again. "...Officer Sun?" She does not speak. If she could smile, she would, and we'd see her again the last way we saw her: unspeaking, unable to talk about the baby. Unable to bring up any emotion at all. Shocked into nothingness. John stares intently at Aeryn on the screen. Aeryn: "Uh...uh...uh..." She tilts her head, blinks; however long this is taking you know for her it's twice, five times as long. "Yes," she smiles. "I was just thinking. Well...there's no way to be sure at this point. However, our physiologies do appear to be very similar." Remarkably so, he notes, and she nods. Several times. Out of her depth in every way.
John continues to stare as R. Wilson Monroe returns to the Alien Visitation backdrop: "Was Officer Sun's hesitation at my question an honest moment of introspection? Or was it something more? These are now the issues we grapple with." (P.S. This is not Monroe talking either. Not really, and maybe not actually.) "How much to trust? How open do we allow ourselves to become? Do we view an alien commingling of our gene pool as a favorable step towards integration into a larger community, or as a threat?" And what if it's a lie?
Aeryn in the kitchen, joined by Bobby. Buddhist guy: "Well, one can only hope that a union between those of Earth and elsewhere is possible -- such marriages will foster bonds of family, and generate trust between disparate peoples." Mean old Edith Anderson: "If you thought children of race-mixed parents took abuse at the hands of other children, wait until one is born with tentacles!" Gross. Your speech betrays you. AGAIN. Stop fucking talking until you can get your mind around what an asshole you're making yourself out to be. Olivia Crichton laughs, onscreen: "Seriously now, what is the big deal? Firstly, I do not believe Aeryn's pregnant with John's baby and, secondly, if she was?" Olivia shrugs, full of love for them both.
On video: John at a workbench on Moya; Bobby's spying between struts in the bay, whispering quietly to himself: "Am I going to get in trouble for taping this..." John and his sister, having a talk. It begins with this: "Not of the physical kind, no." Olivia joins him, staring him down. "You gonna be okay?" Fine, he admits, but never the same. "Aeryn," she says suddenly, into the air, and he begs her to stop. She reminds her whining, begging little brother of his long-ago attempts to hide his crush on Jill Steiner; finally John gives: "What's my tell?" His lips; when he sees Aeryn, "they soften just a bit." I never thought of it that way, but she's right. Aeryn, he explains, has "a word for us: Yesterday." She snorts, and he can't look up or at anybody, barely raises his voice above a murmur: "She have a tell?" She does: "Her eyes. She's waiting for you." She's waiting for you.