Harvey gives another Yee-haw and abruptly climbs; Aeryn takes a pissed-off second to get back, cursing, looking for the module. It's above her, and slowly dropping. Aeryn warns John he doesn't have the fuel to fly around until Scorpius arrives; he replies that it all depends on how close Scorpius currently is. "Look, John. If you're even in there anymore, look at what you're doing." Listen to her play both sides; listen to the pain in admitting that this still might not be Harvey. Even still. Her Waterloo is trust, is seeing the open hand instead of the enemy; every time they fuck with her, it's through her desire to trust. How many times does she get burned on Earth? By John? Every season? Every time she hopes, that's all. Every single time she dares to hope. And what's John's Waterloo? Every time they fuck with him, it's by putting him in the hero role: by putting Aeryn in danger. From the beginning, it was clear that the only thing the show was interested in taking away was what they loved the most.
"You fail to understand the extent of your friend's misery! He wants Scorpius to find us. He wants to end his pain." Aeryn calls bullshit. "Whatever you are, recognize -- atmosphere included -- I am the superior combat pilot." He laughs, calls her "Darling." Doesn't contest this. "So land your craft now, or I shall be forced to demonstrate that skill." John wonders if she'd really shoot him down. "You know the answer." John complies, and lowers his landing gear -- as Crais begs her to be careful, to "trust nothing," in fact -- right into the roof and cockpit of the Prowler. I hope Crais didn't have to watch that part.
"Terribly sorry," John laughs. "Didn't see you there!" He pulls up and out, Aeryn screaming over and over into comms: "I am under attack! I repeat! I am under attack!" D'Argo shouts for her, terrified, as she reports her every move to Moya and Talyn: "Attempting to gain ejection altitude! All options depleted. Requesting position track. Requesting position track!" Crais tells her to climb, to eject. All her options are depleted; she's in free-fall. Gravity around her like a fist, like a singularity. She punches out, locked in her pilot's chair, launching high. No options, no guns, nothing solid beneath her. No John. All alone in the sky. This isn't just about John: this is every nightmare coming true at once. At the very point she gave in, he disappeared, and she couldn't hold him tight enough.
"Well done, Officer Sun!" John laughs. "Are you still conscious?" She tells him to go fuck himself, and the chair reaches the top of its trajectory; it begins to descend. You can see the Prowler smashing into a mountain; you can see John clapping wildly. "Fireworks!" And D'Argo still screams for her. Jets ignite beneath the chair, slowing her fall. "It's all right, D'Argo. The descent brakes auto-ignited. I'm all right!" John -- "in deference to that part of Crichton which still cares" -- feels duty-bound to inform her that she's descending not over solid ground, but into a frozen lake. She spares a look down, and rolls her eyes. "He's right. D'Argo, Crais, do you have my position?" They do. Three warriors. D'Argo asks if she can maneuver at all; her options are gone. Crais tells her to let the jets weaken the ice, but to release herself from the chair before touchdown. "I repeat, separate before touchdown!" Harvey giggles.