Crichton huddled in the corner of his cell and hugged his chest, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to work through his latest session in the Chair. Stark was curled up in his corner, seemingly asleep, but given that the man was fahrbot, Crichton knew better than to just assume so. His throat was raw from screaming, his head ached from Peacekeeper Barbie feeding his brain through a Roto-Rooter and when he tried to get to his feet so that he could sit next to Stark - the cell was freezing on top of everything he'd been going through for the past few days, and Stark seemed to churn out heat like a furnace - nothing seemed to work any more. He smashed into the cell floor, face first, and somehow that was enough to set off fireworks in his skull.
The sharp crack sounded vaguely like the cell door slamming open, so he tried to sit up straight and face either Crais or Scorpy because there was no frelling way he was going to show them how scared and broken he knew he was. He couldn't focus round the white flashes, though, and he ended up curling into a ball on the floor. Not so far to fall, after all, if one of Crais's goons decided to kick him onto his feet.
After a moment when nothing happened, John carefully (and slowly) unwound himself and tried looking around him. This... was not his cell. This was a street. A street that looked eerily like it could have been found on Earth. This was... this was frelled up. He tried to push himself up onto his hands and knees, but his muscles still weren't getting the right signals from his addled brain. For the second time in as many minutes, Crichton ended up smacking into the ground face-first. "Frell this," he rasped, and tried again.