D'Argo opens John's door and comes in, telling him to stop watching the show, offering a tape of a football game John brought on board. "State wins, no big plays: put mine back in." He tosses himself off the couch and starts toward him. D'Argo levels: "Katratzi. We can't find it. Pilot searched every frequency..." John shakes his head and all his body: "No. The Scarrans have Aeryn in a box, D'Argo." Known. John demands to know why he knows the word. "Katratzi. Katratzi." D'Argo reminds him that Sikozu overheard the Scarrans say it while arresting Grayza. "No," says John crazily. "From before! You know it too." D'Argo shakes his head, worried about his friend, and tells him to get some sleep and stop watching the horrible show. "They hate you guys," John says, appalled. D'Argo is grace personified: "Well, I liked it there." John asks if he's seen it yet, and D'Argo says he has not. "You should. It's educational: They're not ready." The loss of hope, now, so far from home. It's broken and sad. D'Argo says they'll have to move on, and start asking around on planets. John stutters and stammers and says they won't know, and he knows this for no reason, and please put the tape back in, and points wordlessly at the screen. Like a child.
D'Argo puts in a different tape, instead. Olivia says that John has changed -- as he screws around with a photo album -- for the better. In some ways it's true. "He's even more thoughtful than he was. He studies everything keenly before deciding what to do." I don't know who she's talking about! Bobby interviews John, who's sitting on the Crichton staircase -- his face is framed by the stair-rail's carving. A heart. "I'm here with IASA Commander John Crichton, the first and only human to boldly go where no man has gone before. You spent over three years in deepest, darkest space..." John leans his head on his hand and looks at him as he speaks. "Battling aliens and evil races...What was the worst part?" John says that it was the "complete and utter lack of toilet paper," then gets a serious smile. He holds up an old black-and-white photo. "Missing family." The picture is of his mother. Leslie. He is framed in love. "When you got back, what was the most different about Earth?" John says nothing: "Earth's pretty much the same."
Bobby: "Are you different?" And there are two Johns, in that moment, with the same look. John on the video; John on the couch on Moya, watching with us. And for just a second, there's a look I don't ever want to see on another man's face. Is he different? He's broken, hollowed out, skin scraped with glass from the inside. Is he different? He's terrified, all the time, one tiny man trying to keep the devils of the universe from shredding up his home -- both of them -- worse than they've already done. He's haunted by all the things he's done, and all the things they've done to him, even here in his repose, even framed in love he is terrified. He is a killer. He is a man who has taken what was most precious to him and crushed it in his hands. He's caused death and heartbreak. He has suffered both of these. He has traded science for violence on a hundred planets, made choices no man should ever have to make, under the harsh light of a hundred suns, and he has broken his own heart and had it broken for him more times than you can count. He has been tortured and hounded and raped. Is he different?