And he does.
It's not that it's wrong, or doesn't line up storywise. I buy it. That's the sucky part, because you buy it and you don't... It's that I love them too much to watch it. There's a difference. I would have liked to know these things going in. That's all. I'm sorry, but that's all. It'll grow back. I just want to know the kind of people I'll be working with, and Pilot gets denied that knowledge well fucking too often for comfort.
Oh, look! Pilot's fucking arm. On a table in Namtar's lab. His arm. I've only got two and mine don't grow back, so maybe I'm being gay about this, but mostly everybody on this show can go to hell. "We have upheld our end of the bargain, Namtar." Namtar agrees and tells the assholes that he'll have to take a second to get all the maps onto a crystal for them. Zhaan and D'Argo exit after giving him some shade about just how long, and then Namtar yaks at his assistant Kornata: "Let us hope the Pilot DNA shows better results." And we see another Pilot, deformed, broken, two heads. Two heads, crushed together, mutated, screaming. Chained. I hate to see anything chained.
Velorek: Look up. What do you see?
Pilot: The stars!
Velorek: That's what I offer you. The stars.
Pilot: I dream of nothing else.
Fuck absolutely everyone right now.
Except the DRDs, who are cauterizing Pilot's wound. His missing arm. After all we know about what it takes to get the job done, the only job that ever mattered to a Pilot, to get that done, against every nerve and every single sense of pain. In order to reach the stars, and hurt every fucking second of the day, knowing that you were getting the job done. To know that he's doing a job that he gave his soul to perform, to take all that sensation and intuition and use it to get the job done. To take his purpose -- like Aeryn -- and get it done with something missing. We're the only ones who know how hard that is; us and Aeryn. And we're a soldier down, through no sin of his own. It's not that he's hurting, he was already hurting: it's that he's less useful to Moya. Can you imagine? Donât. Don't even try, it's too ugly. They take something glorious and they make it a broken mockery. They take pain and they add pain and uselessness, and all the while they say, "This is necessary. This is necessary for us." Not even the Peacekeepers. Not even the fucking Peacekeepers.