Title: District 9 Drabbles
Title: District 9 Drabbles
Author: dreamerchaos
Pairing: One-sided ChristopherxWikus in the first drabble.
Rating: Rated R. More because of the gore, but not ignoring the slash context.
Warnings: Language. Slash between an alien and a human(Or who was human…).
Summary: Dabbling into writing more drabbles…
I. Humans joked about designing a virus specifically targeting prawns. Pity for them, that their own invention comes back to bite the hand that created it…
Christopher slowly turns in a three hundred and sixty degree circle, wide disbelieving amber eyes catalogue the extensiveness of the tall towering hives that mesh like alien organic parasites with the looming human skyscrapers. The smooth, glistening black and green surface shines like damp moss beneath the warm rays of gold sunlight. A low, soothing hum of large insect wings stirs a feeling deep within his gut, the thrum of the army of Praetorian and winged Elite nestled deep within the nest of forged hives.
“By the Queen…” Christopher’s whisper of awe is mirrored with the low, reverent murmurs of the workers and soldiers whom have stepped off the ships alongside Christopher Johnson, the drop ships falling from above, peppering the dusty ground miles beneath the clouds of massive ships which hover above Johannesburg.
Oliver approaches his father, older and larger than three years ago, standing with his head level with Christopher’s shoulder.
“Father?” Oliver chirps, “Have we been gone for longer than three years?”
“..no.” Christopher whispered. “But this…is a mystery to me.”
Oliver clasps his smaller claws around his father’s wrist, “Sweetie-man!” He tugs forcefully at Christopher’s long limb, “He has to be close by. I’m sure of it. You said that you’d return, and you always keep your word, father!”
Christopher purrs, antenna bob and sooth his son, gently tapping the pale green forehead, “We will find him. But first we must lead the soldiers to where District 9 once sat. Then we will start our search from there. I promise.”
“Where are all the humans?” Oliver clambers over a rusted husk of an automotive vehicle parked in the middle of the unlit empty city street. The younger prawn shivers, not liking the howl of the wind and the eerie silence of the quiet, unmoving city.
Christopher says nothing. Thoughts distracted, he only thinks back to the handful of prawns that the soldiers had stumbled upon hours earlier during their trek to District 9.
The prawns yowl and hiss, crouched down as the soldiers loom down upon them.
“What is wrong with you?” One of the largest, black soldiers demands. He snarls when his demand is met with silence.
One of the Earth-bound prawns whines, ducking his head. “Strangers…” the smaller prawn groans, “You smell different. Not like the hive.”
“You may have constructed these towers and nests, but do not dare to hint that you have built a new hive,” The smaller prawns cower at the larger one’s indignant fury, “You cannot have a hive without a queen!” The soldier snaps.
His words prompt the smaller drones to keen and wail, hands clutching their heads as they rock and moan upon their knees.
“No…no queen..” They cry, voices feeding together to roll into a mournful wail. “Humans get sick. They wither and disappear in waves. Drones wait until everything goes silent. Do good work and build nice hives. Praetorians born, and prepare a throne and nest. But no queen…no queen for us. We wait and we wait but our queen won’t come.”
The soldiers and Praetorians realize that they are dealing with a new, young colony. As slow and irritating as the process is, they begin to at a snail's pace poke and trek through the mass of nests and bolt holes. They overpower and corral the masses of prawns that inhabit a leaderless city, the drones and others putting up only an initial protest, but eventually they submit and follow the invaders’ orders to board the caravan of floating ships.
The queen aboard the mother ship commanded Christopher to find his ‘Wikus’, the grand ruler wanting to hear for herself from the human turned prawn about what has happened within the last three years.
“Father…?”
“We will find him.” Christopher peers inside a display case, the glass smashed inward ages ago. Once pristine white mannequins now a filmy gray and brown, their clothes hang in tatters of pale shreds, “Wikus is familiar with this city. I am positive that he would not have abandoned his home of so many years.”
“Father.”
“Oliver.” Christopher hushes, “Please be patient. I know that we have been away from the ship for a while, but we still have so many areas to search--”
“Father!” Oliver leaps to his feet, the car moans and heavy flakes of rust flutter like autumn leaves around the deflated rubber wheels, “Father, look!”
Christopher ducks out of the display window and whips his head in the direction that his son indicates.
A block or two deeper within the city, a single small prawn freezes, caught in the middle of crossing in between a row of abandoned empty vehicles. A tiny, thin metal flower clutched within one hand.
Christopher hisses in recognition when the left arm and hand twitch, revealing the scarred, chopped tip of the prawn’s claw where a human thumb would attach.
“Wikus…”
“Sweetie-man!!” Oliver keens, bouncing happily.
The small prawn startles, a weak wail of disquiet, and the prawn immediately drops and abandons his metal artwork and is running away from the two prawns.
“Wait!!” Oliver sails off the car, his father chirring in alarm and Wikus’ sudden flight and his son’s quick response to chase.
Christopher outpaces his son, catching up with Wikus before the smaller prawn manages to squeeze in between and disappear through a narrow crack in a wooden fence between two red brick buildings.
Wikus shrieks and hooks his claws into the thin boards, tethering his slighter frame when Christopher wraps his strong arms around the wailing prawn’s waist.
“Wikus!” Christopher gives an all mighty pull and yank.
To both Christopher and Oliver’s surprise, his move proves true. The large and smaller prawns sail backwards when Wikus’ claws pop free. Christopher grunts when his frame cushions Wikus when they tumble to the ground. The larger prawn swiftly hooks his legs around Wikus’ before the smaller prawn can attempt to scramble free.
Wikus pants shakily, heaving air through his gills while he hangs limp inside Christopher’s coiled arms after exhausting himself in under a minute after kicking and flailing like a cornered feral beast. The smaller prawn too weak with lack of food and rest, and he drops against Christopher’s chest, utterly spent, curled like a sprawnling within the larger prawn’s embrace.
“Back to the mother ship,” Christopher wheezes, face buried into Wikus’ shoulder, breathing in the heady scent of his long-ago ― his truly only ― once human friend. He can’t dredge up the willpower to release Wikus after finally having found him in the labyrinth of the quiet, dead city, “Let us head back now.” Oliver bobs his head in agreement, tenderly rounding his hands around Wikus’ shoulders while the small prawn warily peeks at the young prawn from within Christopher’s arms.
Wikus judders and whines beneath the queen’s larger taloned hand. Her lazy purr and gentle caress do nothing to calm the petrified Earth-born prawn, Wikus cowers partially underneath Christopher, his shoulders and back melded with the larger prawn’s chest whilst he tries to scurry backwards away from the large matriarch.
“So small,” The queen sighs, slanted umber eyes blink, her two pairs closing and opening in tandem. Her larger pair of arms and hands resembles a praying mantis, the massive, eloquent sabers of bone and muscle curved until the sharp tips glide across the smooth metal floor. Her smaller binary hands, the individual talons upon all three of her fingertips were large enough to lop off a prawn’s head, but at the moment her hands tenderly caress the smaller prawn, no matter that his scent is alien to her.
The matriarch cares little about the once-human’s past. To her, he smells like prawn, and looks like prawn, so simply he is prawn. Now, he is a young one new to the hive and that is all that matters. There would be plenty of time to integrate and mantle the scent of her hive to his pheromone marker.
The matriarch’s legs clack and grind when she shifts back to rest upon her wide throne, removing the pressure from the long sinuous curve of her main body and swollen egg sac.
“Where are they, child?” She whispers, her voice as rough as a dragon’s, the grinding timber enough to rattle human bones. “The humans…where have they scurried to and hidden themselves?”
“…dead.” The queen leans forward, closer, in order to make out the soft hush of words, “They…the humans designed a virus..” Wikus curls in tighter against Christopher’s chest and the larger prawn murmurs words of confidence and assurance, urging the smaller prawn to continue, “…the government decided that it was quicker and more cost efficient to eradicate the District’s population rather than to re-house them into improved living quarters in another District.”
The queen’s hiss is emulated by her Praetorian guard.
Wikus shudders, “T-t-the virus was set loose into the District. Many of us grew ill, but none perished after an endless bout of nausea and dehydration…but then…something happened. The virus…mutated…our immune systems adapted and the District’s population developed immunity. But the virus shifted and erupted outside the District, spreading into the human population. Before the end of the week, the entire continent was infected. By the end of the year, there was no radio communication or television signals. All of the other continents had gone silent. The virus had spread past quarantine.”
“Their creation turned on them.” One of the guard sneered.
Wikus nods, “The virus did what it was designed to. It targeted our population..but the humans didn’t anticipate our antibodies developing resistance to the infection.” He swallows nervously, “The District’s population ventured into the city in order to scavenge for food after almost a month without a steady supply of products that the humans sold or offered. When they found the thousands upon thousands of corpses of food lying unguarded--” Here Wikus gulps, resisting the urge to purge, remembering the stench of so many bodies, and the eagerness of the starved prawns cracking open the bloated carcasses.
Christopher shushes him. “It’s okay.” He bobs his chin to nuzzle the smaller prawn, Wikus’ face tucked against his neck.
“It makes sense to me now.” The queen settles back, “once the native, human population disappeared, our kindred spread out past the walls of the District. They made use of the environment and materials, constructing a new hive without any resistance or interference from their now deceased oppressors.”
Wikus nodded again.
“Christopher.” The queen indicated for the larger prawn to rise to his feet, Christopher never releasing Wikus, especially when the smaller prawn whimpered in fear of the larger prawn leaving him, and dug his claws into the thin, sensitive seams of his exoskeleton, “Please take Wikus to your chambers and nest. You both, and your son, should rest after such a long day.”
“As you say, my Queen,” Christopher gently guides Wikus to leave the queen’s royal chambers; the smaller prawn slumped against his chest from exhaustion and a rush of relief at the reality of soon retiring to a private room for rest and quiet.
“Christopher…” Wikus flicks his large amber, blue ringed eyes up towards his face, “What am I going to do? Tania…mom and dad…everyone is gone…”
“I know…” Christopher tenderly guides Wikus into the nest once they reach his chambers. Wikus swallowed by the heavy, downy materials, only his wide, glistening eyes peeking in between the curls of nest material, “But please remember that you have Oliver and me. We may not be your family…but…we would hope that soon, you would look to us as family. Someday,” Christopher leans down, nuzzling and purring the hopeful, quiet face. Wikus whimpers and answers, butting his forehead to Christopher’s, “Now is a time to rest. We will speak more of this tomorrow.”
Wikus’ hands shoots up from the depths of the nest, clinging tight to Christopher’s wrist. “Don’t leave me.” He begs.
“..all right.” Christopher carefully slides into the concave of the nest, moving around until he is curled behind and sprawled partially over Wikus, the nest not designed for a pair. It was so much easier to fit him and Oliver when his son had been a great deal smaller, but even a prawn as slight as Wikus left barely enough room for Christopher to lay without overwhelming the smaller of the pair.
Wikus doesn’t appear to mind. He wriggles around in the nest, stirring a soft chuckle from Christopher as Wikus mutters and kicks the bedding around to get comfortable. His small binary arms curl around Christopher’s waist, his larger pair folded comfortably in between their chests.
Christopher patiently waits until Wikus’ breathing softens, thin back gently rising and falling evenly, before he dares to press an affectionate touch of mandible and tentacle to Wikus’ forehead.
II. What is it there, in the summons, which beckons them to act? This human, yet not. What strange beckoning is this?
The vibration hums throughout the area, the weak trill of a helpless needy sprawnling.
Irritated and alarmed, the large prawn shuffles and peeks around the rusty wall of the shack.
Meters away, a pale, trembling human ― ‘No!’ A primordial wails, ‘Human, but not. Prawn. Sprawnling! ― feebly drags himself with one hand, clawed prawn arm shakily raised in front of his face to try to ward away the leering human male dressed in body armor and wielding a small hand gun.
The large prawn snarls when the trembling hybrid slips and falls onto one shoulder, hand held up in surrender and to shield his face as the barrel of the gun wavers dangerously close to one wide, amber eye.
The sprawnling rattles and quakes with terror, but tries not to release a single sound of fear while the human male sneers, and loudly cocks back the safety lock on the weapon.
He has had enough with merely standing aside and watching.
The human aggressor twitches with alarm as the large prawn clatters and edges towards him and the sprawnling. Koobus snaps for the prawn to get back, and shudders when he is staunchly ignored, the large prawn only responding with a low, rattle of a dangerous snarl.
Koobus quickly sways his gun around as more prawns crawl from every direction, the larger, dangerous creatures answering the summons from the original prawn, the keen for attention and desperate assistance unheard to the human’s dull hearing.
Koobus’ proves his thickness by losing his nerve and firing the first shot. The bullet rips into the shoulder of a tall red prawn. The creature wails and stumbles back, the sting from the tiny metal barb punching through a thick plate stirs a howl, but the prawn lurches back towards Koobus, hissing mad.
The second shot does not stir a pause when another prawn rushes the human. The tall mottled white and yellow prawn grapples for the gun, crunching the thin fingers around the weapon as the prawn squeezes Koobus’ curled phalanges when the human refuses to relinquish the handgun.
The original prawn leaps forward when Koobus has his back turned. Hefty claws curl around the human’s cranium, and Koobus bleats like a knifed lamb.
The prawn gives a wrench, yanking back and pulling down. The human’s head pops off like a plastic bobble head off a toy.
A geyser of blood sprays, dripping down their faces and mandibles. The prawn chirrs with victorious glee while the other prawns grind and twist the limbs by their sockets. Cartilage and tendon pop and shear, the prawns snarling and squabble over the best pieces while they divide the headless, warm jerking carcass.
Thick slimy strands of coagulating blood stream in between his claws. The large drops speckle the wet dirty ground while the prawn tilts his head back and snarls with annoyance at the buzz of white helicopters that swarm the sky.
A brittle, meek whimper stirs him to twist around.
The sprawnling has rotated to lie upon his stomach. Trying to appear as small as a gnat, he attempts to slip away, bruised knees and skinned hands and elbows bearing the weight of his bloody, dirty body.
Wikus shrinks down to lie flat when hands curl over his shoulders, wet patches of his peeling flesh snagged underneath curled claws. “D-Don’t!” He cringes as the fresh, moist gore snakes down his collar bone and neck.
The prawn clacks his mandibles, hunched over him. Wikus makes out a garble of words.
“What-“ Wikus blinks, staring up at the prawn aghast, “Spr…I’m not one of your little prawns!”
The prawn ignores Wikus’ insistence.
Wikus cringes as the damp hands slide through his hair, moaning “Stop…” as tiny giblets of pink flesh tangle within dark gold strands.
The prawn disregards his whimpers, leans forward and gently begins tapping his tentacles and mandibles down Wikus’ cheek, feverishly tracing the swollen, hot bruise that is slow to form after being cruelly struck by one of Obesandjo’s men.
Wikus yelps when an arm encircles his shoulders, effortlessly heaving him off the ground. The back of his heels kick and drag across the ground as he flaps about, uselessly beating at the prawn’s stomach and taut grip, “Where are you taking me?!”
The prawn patiently takes no notice of the sprawnling’s indignant squeals. Instead he huffs, carefully hefting the incensed little creature up higher into a sturdier grip.
He will attend to the sprawnling’s injuries first. Once that priority was settled, he would move on to the task of washing him and cleansing the thick streaks of dirt and blood; preferably stifling the heavy, thick stench of human musk while he was at it.
Author: dreamerchaos
Pairing: One-sided ChristopherxWikus in the first drabble.
Rating: Rated R. More because of the gore, but not ignoring the slash context.
Warnings: Language. Slash between an alien and a human(Or who was human…).
Summary: Dabbling into writing more drabbles…
I. Humans joked about designing a virus specifically targeting prawns. Pity for them, that their own invention comes back to bite the hand that created it…
Christopher slowly turns in a three hundred and sixty degree circle, wide disbelieving amber eyes catalogue the extensiveness of the tall towering hives that mesh like alien organic parasites with the looming human skyscrapers. The smooth, glistening black and green surface shines like damp moss beneath the warm rays of gold sunlight. A low, soothing hum of large insect wings stirs a feeling deep within his gut, the thrum of the army of Praetorian and winged Elite nestled deep within the nest of forged hives.
“By the Queen…” Christopher’s whisper of awe is mirrored with the low, reverent murmurs of the workers and soldiers whom have stepped off the ships alongside Christopher Johnson, the drop ships falling from above, peppering the dusty ground miles beneath the clouds of massive ships which hover above Johannesburg.
Oliver approaches his father, older and larger than three years ago, standing with his head level with Christopher’s shoulder.
“Father?” Oliver chirps, “Have we been gone for longer than three years?”
“..no.” Christopher whispered. “But this…is a mystery to me.”
Oliver clasps his smaller claws around his father’s wrist, “Sweetie-man!” He tugs forcefully at Christopher’s long limb, “He has to be close by. I’m sure of it. You said that you’d return, and you always keep your word, father!”
Christopher purrs, antenna bob and sooth his son, gently tapping the pale green forehead, “We will find him. But first we must lead the soldiers to where District 9 once sat. Then we will start our search from there. I promise.”
“Where are all the humans?” Oliver clambers over a rusted husk of an automotive vehicle parked in the middle of the unlit empty city street. The younger prawn shivers, not liking the howl of the wind and the eerie silence of the quiet, unmoving city.
Christopher says nothing. Thoughts distracted, he only thinks back to the handful of prawns that the soldiers had stumbled upon hours earlier during their trek to District 9.
The prawns yowl and hiss, crouched down as the soldiers loom down upon them.
“What is wrong with you?” One of the largest, black soldiers demands. He snarls when his demand is met with silence.
One of the Earth-bound prawns whines, ducking his head. “Strangers…” the smaller prawn groans, “You smell different. Not like the hive.”
“You may have constructed these towers and nests, but do not dare to hint that you have built a new hive,” The smaller prawns cower at the larger one’s indignant fury, “You cannot have a hive without a queen!” The soldier snaps.
His words prompt the smaller drones to keen and wail, hands clutching their heads as they rock and moan upon their knees.
“No…no queen..” They cry, voices feeding together to roll into a mournful wail. “Humans get sick. They wither and disappear in waves. Drones wait until everything goes silent. Do good work and build nice hives. Praetorians born, and prepare a throne and nest. But no queen…no queen for us. We wait and we wait but our queen won’t come.”
The soldiers and Praetorians realize that they are dealing with a new, young colony. As slow and irritating as the process is, they begin to at a snail's pace poke and trek through the mass of nests and bolt holes. They overpower and corral the masses of prawns that inhabit a leaderless city, the drones and others putting up only an initial protest, but eventually they submit and follow the invaders’ orders to board the caravan of floating ships.
The queen aboard the mother ship commanded Christopher to find his ‘Wikus’, the grand ruler wanting to hear for herself from the human turned prawn about what has happened within the last three years.
“Father…?”
“We will find him.” Christopher peers inside a display case, the glass smashed inward ages ago. Once pristine white mannequins now a filmy gray and brown, their clothes hang in tatters of pale shreds, “Wikus is familiar with this city. I am positive that he would not have abandoned his home of so many years.”
“Father.”
“Oliver.” Christopher hushes, “Please be patient. I know that we have been away from the ship for a while, but we still have so many areas to search--”
“Father!” Oliver leaps to his feet, the car moans and heavy flakes of rust flutter like autumn leaves around the deflated rubber wheels, “Father, look!”
Christopher ducks out of the display window and whips his head in the direction that his son indicates.
A block or two deeper within the city, a single small prawn freezes, caught in the middle of crossing in between a row of abandoned empty vehicles. A tiny, thin metal flower clutched within one hand.
Christopher hisses in recognition when the left arm and hand twitch, revealing the scarred, chopped tip of the prawn’s claw where a human thumb would attach.
“Wikus…”
“Sweetie-man!!” Oliver keens, bouncing happily.
The small prawn startles, a weak wail of disquiet, and the prawn immediately drops and abandons his metal artwork and is running away from the two prawns.
“Wait!!” Oliver sails off the car, his father chirring in alarm and Wikus’ sudden flight and his son’s quick response to chase.
Christopher outpaces his son, catching up with Wikus before the smaller prawn manages to squeeze in between and disappear through a narrow crack in a wooden fence between two red brick buildings.
Wikus shrieks and hooks his claws into the thin boards, tethering his slighter frame when Christopher wraps his strong arms around the wailing prawn’s waist.
“Wikus!” Christopher gives an all mighty pull and yank.
To both Christopher and Oliver’s surprise, his move proves true. The large and smaller prawns sail backwards when Wikus’ claws pop free. Christopher grunts when his frame cushions Wikus when they tumble to the ground. The larger prawn swiftly hooks his legs around Wikus’ before the smaller prawn can attempt to scramble free.
Wikus pants shakily, heaving air through his gills while he hangs limp inside Christopher’s coiled arms after exhausting himself in under a minute after kicking and flailing like a cornered feral beast. The smaller prawn too weak with lack of food and rest, and he drops against Christopher’s chest, utterly spent, curled like a sprawnling within the larger prawn’s embrace.
“Back to the mother ship,” Christopher wheezes, face buried into Wikus’ shoulder, breathing in the heady scent of his long-ago ― his truly only ― once human friend. He can’t dredge up the willpower to release Wikus after finally having found him in the labyrinth of the quiet, dead city, “Let us head back now.” Oliver bobs his head in agreement, tenderly rounding his hands around Wikus’ shoulders while the small prawn warily peeks at the young prawn from within Christopher’s arms.
Wikus judders and whines beneath the queen’s larger taloned hand. Her lazy purr and gentle caress do nothing to calm the petrified Earth-born prawn, Wikus cowers partially underneath Christopher, his shoulders and back melded with the larger prawn’s chest whilst he tries to scurry backwards away from the large matriarch.
“So small,” The queen sighs, slanted umber eyes blink, her two pairs closing and opening in tandem. Her larger pair of arms and hands resembles a praying mantis, the massive, eloquent sabers of bone and muscle curved until the sharp tips glide across the smooth metal floor. Her smaller binary hands, the individual talons upon all three of her fingertips were large enough to lop off a prawn’s head, but at the moment her hands tenderly caress the smaller prawn, no matter that his scent is alien to her.
The matriarch cares little about the once-human’s past. To her, he smells like prawn, and looks like prawn, so simply he is prawn. Now, he is a young one new to the hive and that is all that matters. There would be plenty of time to integrate and mantle the scent of her hive to his pheromone marker.
The matriarch’s legs clack and grind when she shifts back to rest upon her wide throne, removing the pressure from the long sinuous curve of her main body and swollen egg sac.
“Where are they, child?” She whispers, her voice as rough as a dragon’s, the grinding timber enough to rattle human bones. “The humans…where have they scurried to and hidden themselves?”
“…dead.” The queen leans forward, closer, in order to make out the soft hush of words, “They…the humans designed a virus..” Wikus curls in tighter against Christopher’s chest and the larger prawn murmurs words of confidence and assurance, urging the smaller prawn to continue, “…the government decided that it was quicker and more cost efficient to eradicate the District’s population rather than to re-house them into improved living quarters in another District.”
The queen’s hiss is emulated by her Praetorian guard.
Wikus shudders, “T-t-the virus was set loose into the District. Many of us grew ill, but none perished after an endless bout of nausea and dehydration…but then…something happened. The virus…mutated…our immune systems adapted and the District’s population developed immunity. But the virus shifted and erupted outside the District, spreading into the human population. Before the end of the week, the entire continent was infected. By the end of the year, there was no radio communication or television signals. All of the other continents had gone silent. The virus had spread past quarantine.”
“Their creation turned on them.” One of the guard sneered.
Wikus nods, “The virus did what it was designed to. It targeted our population..but the humans didn’t anticipate our antibodies developing resistance to the infection.” He swallows nervously, “The District’s population ventured into the city in order to scavenge for food after almost a month without a steady supply of products that the humans sold or offered. When they found the thousands upon thousands of corpses of food lying unguarded--” Here Wikus gulps, resisting the urge to purge, remembering the stench of so many bodies, and the eagerness of the starved prawns cracking open the bloated carcasses.
Christopher shushes him. “It’s okay.” He bobs his chin to nuzzle the smaller prawn, Wikus’ face tucked against his neck.
“It makes sense to me now.” The queen settles back, “once the native, human population disappeared, our kindred spread out past the walls of the District. They made use of the environment and materials, constructing a new hive without any resistance or interference from their now deceased oppressors.”
Wikus nodded again.
“Christopher.” The queen indicated for the larger prawn to rise to his feet, Christopher never releasing Wikus, especially when the smaller prawn whimpered in fear of the larger prawn leaving him, and dug his claws into the thin, sensitive seams of his exoskeleton, “Please take Wikus to your chambers and nest. You both, and your son, should rest after such a long day.”
“As you say, my Queen,” Christopher gently guides Wikus to leave the queen’s royal chambers; the smaller prawn slumped against his chest from exhaustion and a rush of relief at the reality of soon retiring to a private room for rest and quiet.
“Christopher…” Wikus flicks his large amber, blue ringed eyes up towards his face, “What am I going to do? Tania…mom and dad…everyone is gone…”
“I know…” Christopher tenderly guides Wikus into the nest once they reach his chambers. Wikus swallowed by the heavy, downy materials, only his wide, glistening eyes peeking in between the curls of nest material, “But please remember that you have Oliver and me. We may not be your family…but…we would hope that soon, you would look to us as family. Someday,” Christopher leans down, nuzzling and purring the hopeful, quiet face. Wikus whimpers and answers, butting his forehead to Christopher’s, “Now is a time to rest. We will speak more of this tomorrow.”
Wikus’ hands shoots up from the depths of the nest, clinging tight to Christopher’s wrist. “Don’t leave me.” He begs.
“..all right.” Christopher carefully slides into the concave of the nest, moving around until he is curled behind and sprawled partially over Wikus, the nest not designed for a pair. It was so much easier to fit him and Oliver when his son had been a great deal smaller, but even a prawn as slight as Wikus left barely enough room for Christopher to lay without overwhelming the smaller of the pair.
Wikus doesn’t appear to mind. He wriggles around in the nest, stirring a soft chuckle from Christopher as Wikus mutters and kicks the bedding around to get comfortable. His small binary arms curl around Christopher’s waist, his larger pair folded comfortably in between their chests.
Christopher patiently waits until Wikus’ breathing softens, thin back gently rising and falling evenly, before he dares to press an affectionate touch of mandible and tentacle to Wikus’ forehead.
II. What is it there, in the summons, which beckons them to act? This human, yet not. What strange beckoning is this?
The vibration hums throughout the area, the weak trill of a helpless needy sprawnling.
Irritated and alarmed, the large prawn shuffles and peeks around the rusty wall of the shack.
Meters away, a pale, trembling human ― ‘No!’ A primordial wails, ‘Human, but not. Prawn. Sprawnling! ― feebly drags himself with one hand, clawed prawn arm shakily raised in front of his face to try to ward away the leering human male dressed in body armor and wielding a small hand gun.
The large prawn snarls when the trembling hybrid slips and falls onto one shoulder, hand held up in surrender and to shield his face as the barrel of the gun wavers dangerously close to one wide, amber eye.
The sprawnling rattles and quakes with terror, but tries not to release a single sound of fear while the human male sneers, and loudly cocks back the safety lock on the weapon.
He has had enough with merely standing aside and watching.
The human aggressor twitches with alarm as the large prawn clatters and edges towards him and the sprawnling. Koobus snaps for the prawn to get back, and shudders when he is staunchly ignored, the large prawn only responding with a low, rattle of a dangerous snarl.
Koobus quickly sways his gun around as more prawns crawl from every direction, the larger, dangerous creatures answering the summons from the original prawn, the keen for attention and desperate assistance unheard to the human’s dull hearing.
Koobus’ proves his thickness by losing his nerve and firing the first shot. The bullet rips into the shoulder of a tall red prawn. The creature wails and stumbles back, the sting from the tiny metal barb punching through a thick plate stirs a howl, but the prawn lurches back towards Koobus, hissing mad.
The second shot does not stir a pause when another prawn rushes the human. The tall mottled white and yellow prawn grapples for the gun, crunching the thin fingers around the weapon as the prawn squeezes Koobus’ curled phalanges when the human refuses to relinquish the handgun.
The original prawn leaps forward when Koobus has his back turned. Hefty claws curl around the human’s cranium, and Koobus bleats like a knifed lamb.
The prawn gives a wrench, yanking back and pulling down. The human’s head pops off like a plastic bobble head off a toy.
A geyser of blood sprays, dripping down their faces and mandibles. The prawn chirrs with victorious glee while the other prawns grind and twist the limbs by their sockets. Cartilage and tendon pop and shear, the prawns snarling and squabble over the best pieces while they divide the headless, warm jerking carcass.
Thick slimy strands of coagulating blood stream in between his claws. The large drops speckle the wet dirty ground while the prawn tilts his head back and snarls with annoyance at the buzz of white helicopters that swarm the sky.
A brittle, meek whimper stirs him to twist around.
The sprawnling has rotated to lie upon his stomach. Trying to appear as small as a gnat, he attempts to slip away, bruised knees and skinned hands and elbows bearing the weight of his bloody, dirty body.
Wikus shrinks down to lie flat when hands curl over his shoulders, wet patches of his peeling flesh snagged underneath curled claws. “D-Don’t!” He cringes as the fresh, moist gore snakes down his collar bone and neck.
The prawn clacks his mandibles, hunched over him. Wikus makes out a garble of words.
“What-“ Wikus blinks, staring up at the prawn aghast, “Spr…I’m not one of your little prawns!”
The prawn ignores Wikus’ insistence.
Wikus cringes as the damp hands slide through his hair, moaning “Stop…” as tiny giblets of pink flesh tangle within dark gold strands.
The prawn disregards his whimpers, leans forward and gently begins tapping his tentacles and mandibles down Wikus’ cheek, feverishly tracing the swollen, hot bruise that is slow to form after being cruelly struck by one of Obesandjo’s men.
Wikus yelps when an arm encircles his shoulders, effortlessly heaving him off the ground. The back of his heels kick and drag across the ground as he flaps about, uselessly beating at the prawn’s stomach and taut grip, “Where are you taking me?!”
The prawn patiently takes no notice of the sprawnling’s indignant squeals. Instead he huffs, carefully hefting the incensed little creature up higher into a sturdier grip.
He will attend to the sprawnling’s injuries first. Once that priority was settled, he would move on to the task of washing him and cleansing the thick streaks of dirt and blood; preferably stifling the heavy, thick stench of human musk while he was at it.