Commercial. Tocot drops a knot of black tendrils, some red lights, a little bit of brain, into a little jar. John watches, not talking, unmoving. Tocot shows him the jar, and John erupts into triumph and joy, for this final small victory. But it's wordless, and meaningless. His cheers of joy are gibberish; the victory means nothing anyway. Tocot promises to restore John's brain and John stops raving long enough to laugh. Life without Aeryn Sun.
Braca casually searches the body vault, not recognizing Aeryn in her casket. He notices a food wrapper at the floor before one of the cryopods, and spots Grunchlk standing in one, his hand over his face. Grunchlk stares out at Braca through his fingers.
There's a golf ball-sized piece of John's brain missing, where the chip used to be. Tocot makes ready to replace it.
Black leather grasshopper wings, black leather boots, coming down the corridor, as Scorpius hums "The Star-Spangled Banner," coming closer and closer.
The doors of the surgery burst open; Scorpius greets the Doctor under the green light. "So good to see you again." John's eyes grow wider; he begins to scream in gibberish. The Doctor squeals, grabbing at his mask. The horrified Doctor comes down off the platform and asks politely after Scorpius's cooling apparatus. "Just as functional as the day you installed it! Eternal thanks." The Doctor reaches out to close the door, quietly chiding Scorpius for disturbing the clean room. "I am so sorry to disturb the...sterility of your theatre, but...you no longer serve a purpose." John stares as Scorpius lifts the Doctor's mask and breathes a hiss into his nose and mouth; Tocot drops, another clean, kind story perverted. John watches, tied to the bed, silent, terrified.
"What irony. Sensitivity to heal anything but oneself," Scorpius chuckles. He tosses Tocot's mask to one side and circles the surgical platform. John screams wordless threats and curses, gibberish; embarrassed but unable to stop screaming. "Well, Crichton. So much to say...and yet, such little capacity." Scorpius steps up on the platform, past Crichton's right side, to the head of the table. John mutters gibberish, clear as hate, as he passes. Scorpius retrieves the jar with the chip, holding it up to his eye. "I only hope the wormhole technology I've waited so patiently for makes more sense." John rages against him, senseless and wild. "Don't need a translator microbe for that one, do we?" Scorpius says archly, and sighs. He leans over John's beautiful, twisted face. The things he would do, if he could move; the things he would say, if he could speak. "You've cost me much. And I do not suffer disappointment well." The rubber band holding John's forehead down: Scorpius places the tiny jar on this band. John stares at him, unable to move, unable to even speak. That rage, and hate, and fear; he shakes without moving.