Crais enters the Diagnosan's chambers, to John's irritation, but he calls his attendance a "meager gesture of support," with just a hint of passive-aggression: "...While the others attend to Aeryn and Jothee." Crais circles around to look at him. John asks if he did any "permanent damage," and Crais says it's only their pride. "You seem remarkably lucid." Grunchlk hides behind Stark, circling back away from Crais. "Don't get too close," says John grimly. "I could turn any second." Stark lovingly promises that they'll fix it. "Everyone's pledged to give whatever it takes." Tocot bleeps at Stark, and getting no response, pokes him in the tummy. Stark steps off the platform accommodatingly. I don't like that; I need him so much closer. John needs him closer. Tocot turns the lights out in the chamber, and the platform is illuminated green. Tocot slowly removes his face mask; the chamber doors are still wide open. Stark's confused: "I thought he couldn't inhale our contaminants?" Grunchlk points up at the green light. "Biological neutralizer...you could have the Karatonga Plague in here, wouldn't touch him. Outside, pick your nose and he's dead." Grunchlk's gotta lot of fucking rules for somebody that looks like rotten seafood on meth.
"No pain. Relax," Tocot sighs, stroking John's head gently. Another flash, and the skin and skull disappear, revealing John's brain: covered in a seething net of black tendrils. Tocot looks closer, nose flexing; Crais steps onto the platform, his usual face thawing into concern and fear. Grunchlk gets profane, Tocot bleeps, nobody's saying anything we can understand. Language is the greatest tool we ever had, because it makes other people comprehensible. Language takes two lonely black holes and joins them, gap to gap. Language charts the souls of people around us; without it you're alone. Translator microbes don't come from just anywhere, do they? They come from Moya. Without language you can't have love; you can't even prove you exist. "You're gonna tell me my health plan doesn't cover this, right?" Tocot whistles and clinks. Even Grunchlk's horrified: "Doctor doesn't often say this... There's nothing he can do. That thing in his head: he can't get it out without killing him." John relaxes and laughs, ironically; Harvey laughs too. They laugh together, both of them.
Chiana follows D'Argo down a corridor, babbling. "D'Argo, the surgeon said it's a numbing anesthetic, okay, so don't breath too much and...all right? And shake the canister every couple of..." He snaps at her again, almost striking her as he turns: "I remember!" I don't take Chiana and D'Argo that seriously, but like, I'm not a Luxan: I only have one heart. I couldn't care about them this week if I tried. Chiana asks him, with innocent offense, what the hell his problem is. "What's the matter with you?" he asks in return. "I'm just trying to have a relationship," she stammers, and he chills out a bit. "Listen, Chiana. You have to understand, it has been so long since I've seen my son." He knows. "D'Argo, I know how long it is. There is no one -- no one -- who has lived this dream of finding your son more than me," she says weakly. And they look. Stark breaks into the silence: "You going to help, D'Argo?" D'Argo wheels on Stark, telling him to wait a fucking second, but when he turns around she's gone. Stark is clearly somewhat looped by Tocot's mixture, but tries to explain how they'll be applying it to Moya's burned flesh; D'Argo notes that Stark can apparently understand the Diagnosian. Of course he can: they're both high-pitched, slightly freaky, and save things beyond saving.