Title: Flash of Moments
Title: Flash of Moments
Author: dreamerchaos
Pairing: Wikus centered. Later ChristopherxWikus.
Rating: R. Slash hints.
Warnings: Language. Slash (and slash hints) between an alien and a human.
Summary: Little moments in time…like the frozen image in a Polaroid…Before and after District 9.
Author’s note: I blame stumbling across the many authors, but especially swipeatronspark’s livejournal, for luring me into this world. XD
I. First meeting
Wikus was around six years old when he met his first prawn.
Unlike his other schoolmates, he didn’t scream and run at the sight of the tall, thin clacking creature. Instead, the young boy, short blond hair spiked and gleaming underneath the hot sun, tilted his head in quandary of the large creature.
“Hi.” He chirped.
The much larger prawn tilted its head as well. Covered with dust and dirt, dark plating a mottled gleam with the rays of the hot South African sun. Clacking its mandibles, tentacles writhing around its mouth. Pondering the small organic creature. Its hands relaxing, the hitched claws drooping, considering the young human as not a threat.
“You’re dressed kind of funny.” Said with the innocence of a child. Lacking derision or cruel laughter.
The prawn considers the tattered clothes hanging from its own chest and waist.
“But that’s okay.” Wikus’ hands rustle the thin plastic bag between his hands, his lunch box spread out at his feet, the young boy sitting comfortably on the ground while the prawn hovers not too far away, “At least you’re not naked.” The child squelches his face in an expression of distaste, “One of the kids lost his britches when we went swimming in the slew. The other kids laughed at him for a while.”
The curled mandibles clattered and clicked in a series of undistinguishable syllables. A large eye following the young boy as Wikus fiddles with his sandwich bag.
Wikus looks from the prawn, and then down to his food. “…Are you hungry?” He asks.
The prawn clatters with a tinge of excitement and desperation. Crouching down onto all fours, and taking a few cautious steps toward the human.
“If you want it…” Wikus held out the sandwich bag, “My mom made tomato and mayonnaise; even though I’ve told her a billion times that I hate mayonnaise.”
Wikus blinks when the sandwich immediately vanishes from his hand. The prawn snarling eagerly, ripping into the thin, flexing bag, gnashing the sandwich with ravenous glee.
“You’re not supposed to eat the bag!” Wikus chides.
II. And He Has Gone
It’s been little over a month since Christopher has gone, taking the mother ship back to the home planet.
And Wikus is utterly miserable.
Piss-poor pathetic at scrounging for food amongst the trash heaps, and far worse at scratching up a hovel in which to curl and sleep. He hasn’t found an unoccupied shack, and isn’t willing or daring enough to test his luck with the much larger prawns.
His transformation complete, Wikus is slowly learning to adapt and handle his long claws to pick through the twisted maze of trash and metal. Probably because he was once human, his Prawn body is smaller and even thinner than the other inhabitants of District 9, giving the man - the prawn - a pathetically sickly look as he delicately steps through trash bags filled with glass and broken cans.
He unearths a miniscule treasure amongst the next rubbish heap he scrabbles his way through. A torn plastic container, with the sliver of rain water gathered within the base.
When human, Wikus would have scoffed and gagged at the thought of drinking the filthy water, a dull brown from dust and exposure.
But now, he shakily drops to his knees, cupping the container, tilting the liquid into his parched mouth. The short tentacles overlapping his lips wriggling with gratification as he dry throat is quenched. The liquid is slick like oil, with a rusty tang, but he greedily drains the sliver of water before it can go to waste.
The water is drained all too soon. Wikus tilts the empty container, a low moan of despair trickling from his mandibles as he shakes the cracked plastic trough, not a single drop remaining.
III. His Allies
Perhaps it is because he is such a pathetic sight, even to the other prawns, that finally they cannot ignore his sorry state any longer.
Wikus shrieks and trills when he is unceremoniously scooped up from his shallow hole in the ground at the base of a tall trash pile, having only just settled in half an hour ago for another chilly night of sleep. Kicking and flailing, the smaller prawn’s claws drag grooves in the dirt as he is so easily dragged from underneath his nest of newspapers and rotting blankets.
The large prawn is joined by another, both wrestling with the shrilling prawn while the smaller tries to wriggle free and crawl away.
“No no no no-“ Wikus moans, his ankles grasped by the strong hands. Tugged backwards away from his hole when he tries to crawl back underneath the shelter of his matted heap of blankets and stained newspapers.
Mandibles clack in disapproval at his behavior. The two prawns chattering together, the larger pair half carries, half dragging the whining prawn through the dust.
Wikus struggles anew when they begin to tug the resisting prawn through the doorway of a metal shack. The smaller prawn clinging onto the askew frame of the entrance, before one of the prawns carefully peels his claws free from the flimsy wood.
“--didn’t do anything!” His speech warbles, Wikus understanding their language with more skill than he can speak it, learning to use his curled mandibles to enunciate the clicks and growls. “Let go back!” He babbles.
He is dropped down into the thick nest of blankets, newspapers, and cardboard. The nest isn’t pristine, but it is far nicer and less dirty than his.
Wikus hides his face in a pile of crumbled newspaper while the prawns continue to chatter. Squeaking when one crawls into the nest, wrapping its long, strong arms around his shoulders when he tries to dart away.
He wriggles helplessly, confused and terrified when the large prawn presses a hand to the thick carapace of his temple, nudging the smaller prawn to lay his head on a broader chest.
Immediately the larger prawn’s chest begins to hum, the rolling ripple of sound causing Wikus to momentarily halt his struggles. The arms around him tightening further.
The prawn tracks its other hand down the curved spines of his back, purring and trilling to the smaller prawn in the manner prawns used to sooth their young. Wikus shuddering, unconsciously relaxing against the rumbling chest and the therapeutic pressure running up and down his back.
The second prawn, seeming to know when it was now best to crawl into the nest as well, curled up against Wikus’ back. Nuzzling and settling its larger bulk against the smaller prawn, the warmth of the two larger creatures settling into Wikus’ plating. For the first time in many nights, his body isn’t wracked with shivers, the smaller prawn’s eyes glazing from the comfort and warmth, antennas drooping, twitching repeatedly during his efforts to stay away.
He loses battle to sleep, vision fading to black surrounded by the streaked print of black letters on newspaper and twisted blankets, amidst the low clattering of mandibles and curled plates of the other prawns settling down with him.
IV. Feed
“Don’t want.” To the other prawns, his speech is still immature, broken and sprawn-like. Shivering and curling a tattered blanket around his shoulders, the smaller prawn forever seeming to be terribly plagued by the cold nights, much to the consternation of the other prawns.
One of the larger prawns clicks his mandible authoritatively, hefting the steaming piece of hot flesh towards him once again.
Wikus’ stomach region churns, his human preconceptions still too strong for him to ignore. “It’s raw!” He groans, eying the slab of fat and meat with abject horror.
The smaller prawn doesn’t know where the group of prawns has managed scavenge so much fresh meat. Obviously they had left the barb-wired fences of the District, sneaking out in search of food. The meat could be from anything: goat, dog, gazelle…Wikus stopped himself from thinking further of all of the possibilities.
Another prawn slurps his piece of meat down―Jonathan, if he remembers the prawn’s growl of his name ―with only three snaps of his sharp mandibles, chin and face streaked with red. Flicking his tentacles down the length of his gory talons, lapping up the tiny pink morsels that remain.
Jonathan also notes Wikus lack of interest in partaking of the fresh, glistening meat. Growling with little patience, far less than the first prawn that still persists in offering the quivering flesh, the larger prawn of the three strides over towards them.
Being so much larger, Jonathan isn’t contested when he snatches the meat from the other’s hands. Turning on Wikus, the large prawn grabs the smaller by the back of his head. Holding Wikus as he wriggles and curses, Jonathan snaps off a small piece of meat with a sharp strike of his mandibles.
“What the fook-” Wikus exclamation is the opportunity to strike. Jonathan darting forward with the piece of meat clenched between his mandibles.
Wikus gurgles when the prawn shoves the piece of meat down his throat, the larger prawn’s mandibles and tentacles preventing him from gagging or spitting out the flesh.
The smaller prawn’s eyes bulge when he is released, clutching his throat with a hand as if he has ingested poison.
If he isn’t mistaken, the other prawns shake with low rumbles of laughter―even Jonathan looking to bear a version of a prawn grin―as the large prawn shreds off another piece of flesh, but this time holding it out to Wikus.
Wikus isn’t willing to test his luck. This time he takes the meat with a well-aimed glare and the drooped pout of his shoulders. Shuddering as he pops the meat into his mouth, while trying to ignore the sudden thrill deep within his stomach as the blood and quivering flesh shivers down his throat.
V. Christopher
Three years and the mother ship hovers above them, flanked by a menagerie of large ships. The District full of prawns raising fists into the air, a clatter of excited mandibles when the sides of the ships open to release a cloud of ship pods which slowly drop down to Earth, the human resistance ignored, their weapons inferior to the cannons and energy fields that surround the ships.
Prawns bedecked with black shoulder crests and ornate colored collars of metal step off the pods, greeting their smaller, starved fellows, the prawns sharing embraces and eager chatter as thousands upon thousands flood towards the drop ship sites.
Wikus lags behind, hiding behind one of the shacks. Peering up in awe and hesitation at the large ships. Was Christopher here, he wondered? Did he remember his promise?
Wikus races away from the ships, in the direction of the remains of Christopher’s old shack. Anticipating that Christopher would meet him there, if the larger prawn intended to keep his word.
Wikus waits, huddled near the crumpled shack. Clawed hands wringing together, jumping and whipping his head around with each little sound, the smaller prawn certain that what he had heard was a footstep or exhalation of air.
When time passes, and the sun is dipping towards the horizon, Wikus sighs. Curling his arms around his shoulders, he plops down upon the thick dirt.
“He’s not coming.” His antennas droop, eyes sadly tracing the flakes of metal in the dusty soil.
“You have so little faith in me, Wikus?”
Wikus twists around, gasping at the sight of the larger prawn scaling down the side of a mountain of trash. “Christopher!” The smaller prawn stumbles over his feet in his haste to run towards the other prawn.
Christopher chuckles, catching Wikus before he trips and face plants onto the ground.
Wikus purrs, shivering as Christopher’s hands curl over his shoulders, the other prawn’s antennas nudging and waving around his.
“I have missed you, my friend.” Christopher embraces Wikus.
Wikus shudders with broken laughter, clinging to the other prawn, “You came back.”
“Yes.” Christopher reluctantly pushes them apart. Taking a good look at Wikus, “You…you are so thin.” He says with surprise.
Wikus ducks his head, embarrassed, “I don’t think anyone here is well-fed or in too great of shape.”
“True.” Christopher agrees, “But you…you are smaller than the others. Even the ones who are clearly starved.”
Wikus shrugs, helpless and unable to give the prawn adequate reason. They both knew that logically it was because Wikus had been human, lending his smaller Earth form would be somewhat reflected in his prawn shape and size.
“Wikus,” Christopher drags Wikus’ attention back to him, “I have the cure.”
Those four words steal the air from his gills. Wikus trembles. “H-human..?”
At first Christopher believes that Wikus is shaking from relief and excitement. However, his opinion is negated by the wideness of the smaller prawn’s eyes, and the tiny step back that Wikus takes.
“Wikus..”
“No.” Wikus abruptly shakes his head. “Not them. Not one of them anymore. I can’t even look at them without feeling disgust.”
“Don’t.” Christopher holds out a curled hand, “Don’t despise them. Not all humans are like those who have harmed you.”
“But I can’t look past that!” Wikus cries, “How can I look to those people as…as home..When those here in this District have looked out for me and treated me better than my own kind?”
“…What do you wish to do, then?”
Wikus darts towards Christopher, and the larger prawn willingly opens his arms to him. Wikus throwing himself against the other, wrapping his arms around Christopher’s waist.
“Take me with you.” Wikus hides his face against the larger one’s chest, “Don’t leave me here.”
Christopher shudders. A mixture of the thought of willingly leaving Wikus, and the larger prawn responding to the warmth and feel of the smaller prawn fitting so perfectly within his arms.
Wikus’ throat croaks sadly when Christopher hesitates too long with his answer. The smaller prawn dreading that the other one is preparing to shove him away.
Christopher purrs softly, brushing his mandibles and tentacles soothingly against the other prawn, antenna flicking and tickling Wikus’, earning a startled giggle from the smaller prawn.
“Come with me.” Christopher regrets abandoning his hold, but instead he transfers a hand to lie upon Wikus’ shoulder. Tossing his head in the direction of the ship, Christopher eagerly begins to race in the direction of the mother ship. Wikus slower and less brave to leap the piles of trash, the smaller prawn still lacking confidence with his new body, but Christopher patiently and frequently turns back to pace him. The larger prawn protecting his back as the two beings race towards their future.
Author: dreamerchaos
Pairing: Wikus centered. Later ChristopherxWikus.
Rating: R. Slash hints.
Warnings: Language. Slash (and slash hints) between an alien and a human.
Summary: Little moments in time…like the frozen image in a Polaroid…Before and after District 9.
Author’s note: I blame stumbling across the many authors, but especially swipeatronspark’s livejournal, for luring me into this world. XD
I. First meeting
Wikus was around six years old when he met his first prawn.
Unlike his other schoolmates, he didn’t scream and run at the sight of the tall, thin clacking creature. Instead, the young boy, short blond hair spiked and gleaming underneath the hot sun, tilted his head in quandary of the large creature.
“Hi.” He chirped.
The much larger prawn tilted its head as well. Covered with dust and dirt, dark plating a mottled gleam with the rays of the hot South African sun. Clacking its mandibles, tentacles writhing around its mouth. Pondering the small organic creature. Its hands relaxing, the hitched claws drooping, considering the young human as not a threat.
“You’re dressed kind of funny.” Said with the innocence of a child. Lacking derision or cruel laughter.
The prawn considers the tattered clothes hanging from its own chest and waist.
“But that’s okay.” Wikus’ hands rustle the thin plastic bag between his hands, his lunch box spread out at his feet, the young boy sitting comfortably on the ground while the prawn hovers not too far away, “At least you’re not naked.” The child squelches his face in an expression of distaste, “One of the kids lost his britches when we went swimming in the slew. The other kids laughed at him for a while.”
The curled mandibles clattered and clicked in a series of undistinguishable syllables. A large eye following the young boy as Wikus fiddles with his sandwich bag.
Wikus looks from the prawn, and then down to his food. “…Are you hungry?” He asks.
The prawn clatters with a tinge of excitement and desperation. Crouching down onto all fours, and taking a few cautious steps toward the human.
“If you want it…” Wikus held out the sandwich bag, “My mom made tomato and mayonnaise; even though I’ve told her a billion times that I hate mayonnaise.”
Wikus blinks when the sandwich immediately vanishes from his hand. The prawn snarling eagerly, ripping into the thin, flexing bag, gnashing the sandwich with ravenous glee.
“You’re not supposed to eat the bag!” Wikus chides.
II. And He Has Gone
It’s been little over a month since Christopher has gone, taking the mother ship back to the home planet.
And Wikus is utterly miserable.
Piss-poor pathetic at scrounging for food amongst the trash heaps, and far worse at scratching up a hovel in which to curl and sleep. He hasn’t found an unoccupied shack, and isn’t willing or daring enough to test his luck with the much larger prawns.
His transformation complete, Wikus is slowly learning to adapt and handle his long claws to pick through the twisted maze of trash and metal. Probably because he was once human, his Prawn body is smaller and even thinner than the other inhabitants of District 9, giving the man - the prawn - a pathetically sickly look as he delicately steps through trash bags filled with glass and broken cans.
He unearths a miniscule treasure amongst the next rubbish heap he scrabbles his way through. A torn plastic container, with the sliver of rain water gathered within the base.
When human, Wikus would have scoffed and gagged at the thought of drinking the filthy water, a dull brown from dust and exposure.
But now, he shakily drops to his knees, cupping the container, tilting the liquid into his parched mouth. The short tentacles overlapping his lips wriggling with gratification as he dry throat is quenched. The liquid is slick like oil, with a rusty tang, but he greedily drains the sliver of water before it can go to waste.
The water is drained all too soon. Wikus tilts the empty container, a low moan of despair trickling from his mandibles as he shakes the cracked plastic trough, not a single drop remaining.
III. His Allies
Perhaps it is because he is such a pathetic sight, even to the other prawns, that finally they cannot ignore his sorry state any longer.
Wikus shrieks and trills when he is unceremoniously scooped up from his shallow hole in the ground at the base of a tall trash pile, having only just settled in half an hour ago for another chilly night of sleep. Kicking and flailing, the smaller prawn’s claws drag grooves in the dirt as he is so easily dragged from underneath his nest of newspapers and rotting blankets.
The large prawn is joined by another, both wrestling with the shrilling prawn while the smaller tries to wriggle free and crawl away.
“No no no no-“ Wikus moans, his ankles grasped by the strong hands. Tugged backwards away from his hole when he tries to crawl back underneath the shelter of his matted heap of blankets and stained newspapers.
Mandibles clack in disapproval at his behavior. The two prawns chattering together, the larger pair half carries, half dragging the whining prawn through the dust.
Wikus struggles anew when they begin to tug the resisting prawn through the doorway of a metal shack. The smaller prawn clinging onto the askew frame of the entrance, before one of the prawns carefully peels his claws free from the flimsy wood.
“--didn’t do anything!” His speech warbles, Wikus understanding their language with more skill than he can speak it, learning to use his curled mandibles to enunciate the clicks and growls. “Let go back!” He babbles.
He is dropped down into the thick nest of blankets, newspapers, and cardboard. The nest isn’t pristine, but it is far nicer and less dirty than his.
Wikus hides his face in a pile of crumbled newspaper while the prawns continue to chatter. Squeaking when one crawls into the nest, wrapping its long, strong arms around his shoulders when he tries to dart away.
He wriggles helplessly, confused and terrified when the large prawn presses a hand to the thick carapace of his temple, nudging the smaller prawn to lay his head on a broader chest.
Immediately the larger prawn’s chest begins to hum, the rolling ripple of sound causing Wikus to momentarily halt his struggles. The arms around him tightening further.
The prawn tracks its other hand down the curved spines of his back, purring and trilling to the smaller prawn in the manner prawns used to sooth their young. Wikus shuddering, unconsciously relaxing against the rumbling chest and the therapeutic pressure running up and down his back.
The second prawn, seeming to know when it was now best to crawl into the nest as well, curled up against Wikus’ back. Nuzzling and settling its larger bulk against the smaller prawn, the warmth of the two larger creatures settling into Wikus’ plating. For the first time in many nights, his body isn’t wracked with shivers, the smaller prawn’s eyes glazing from the comfort and warmth, antennas drooping, twitching repeatedly during his efforts to stay away.
He loses battle to sleep, vision fading to black surrounded by the streaked print of black letters on newspaper and twisted blankets, amidst the low clattering of mandibles and curled plates of the other prawns settling down with him.
IV. Feed
“Don’t want.” To the other prawns, his speech is still immature, broken and sprawn-like. Shivering and curling a tattered blanket around his shoulders, the smaller prawn forever seeming to be terribly plagued by the cold nights, much to the consternation of the other prawns.
One of the larger prawns clicks his mandible authoritatively, hefting the steaming piece of hot flesh towards him once again.
Wikus’ stomach region churns, his human preconceptions still too strong for him to ignore. “It’s raw!” He groans, eying the slab of fat and meat with abject horror.
The smaller prawn doesn’t know where the group of prawns has managed scavenge so much fresh meat. Obviously they had left the barb-wired fences of the District, sneaking out in search of food. The meat could be from anything: goat, dog, gazelle…Wikus stopped himself from thinking further of all of the possibilities.
Another prawn slurps his piece of meat down―Jonathan, if he remembers the prawn’s growl of his name ―with only three snaps of his sharp mandibles, chin and face streaked with red. Flicking his tentacles down the length of his gory talons, lapping up the tiny pink morsels that remain.
Jonathan also notes Wikus lack of interest in partaking of the fresh, glistening meat. Growling with little patience, far less than the first prawn that still persists in offering the quivering flesh, the larger prawn of the three strides over towards them.
Being so much larger, Jonathan isn’t contested when he snatches the meat from the other’s hands. Turning on Wikus, the large prawn grabs the smaller by the back of his head. Holding Wikus as he wriggles and curses, Jonathan snaps off a small piece of meat with a sharp strike of his mandibles.
“What the fook-” Wikus exclamation is the opportunity to strike. Jonathan darting forward with the piece of meat clenched between his mandibles.
Wikus gurgles when the prawn shoves the piece of meat down his throat, the larger prawn’s mandibles and tentacles preventing him from gagging or spitting out the flesh.
The smaller prawn’s eyes bulge when he is released, clutching his throat with a hand as if he has ingested poison.
If he isn’t mistaken, the other prawns shake with low rumbles of laughter―even Jonathan looking to bear a version of a prawn grin―as the large prawn shreds off another piece of flesh, but this time holding it out to Wikus.
Wikus isn’t willing to test his luck. This time he takes the meat with a well-aimed glare and the drooped pout of his shoulders. Shuddering as he pops the meat into his mouth, while trying to ignore the sudden thrill deep within his stomach as the blood and quivering flesh shivers down his throat.
V. Christopher
Three years and the mother ship hovers above them, flanked by a menagerie of large ships. The District full of prawns raising fists into the air, a clatter of excited mandibles when the sides of the ships open to release a cloud of ship pods which slowly drop down to Earth, the human resistance ignored, their weapons inferior to the cannons and energy fields that surround the ships.
Prawns bedecked with black shoulder crests and ornate colored collars of metal step off the pods, greeting their smaller, starved fellows, the prawns sharing embraces and eager chatter as thousands upon thousands flood towards the drop ship sites.
Wikus lags behind, hiding behind one of the shacks. Peering up in awe and hesitation at the large ships. Was Christopher here, he wondered? Did he remember his promise?
Wikus races away from the ships, in the direction of the remains of Christopher’s old shack. Anticipating that Christopher would meet him there, if the larger prawn intended to keep his word.
Wikus waits, huddled near the crumpled shack. Clawed hands wringing together, jumping and whipping his head around with each little sound, the smaller prawn certain that what he had heard was a footstep or exhalation of air.
When time passes, and the sun is dipping towards the horizon, Wikus sighs. Curling his arms around his shoulders, he plops down upon the thick dirt.
“He’s not coming.” His antennas droop, eyes sadly tracing the flakes of metal in the dusty soil.
“You have so little faith in me, Wikus?”
Wikus twists around, gasping at the sight of the larger prawn scaling down the side of a mountain of trash. “Christopher!” The smaller prawn stumbles over his feet in his haste to run towards the other prawn.
Christopher chuckles, catching Wikus before he trips and face plants onto the ground.
Wikus purrs, shivering as Christopher’s hands curl over his shoulders, the other prawn’s antennas nudging and waving around his.
“I have missed you, my friend.” Christopher embraces Wikus.
Wikus shudders with broken laughter, clinging to the other prawn, “You came back.”
“Yes.” Christopher reluctantly pushes them apart. Taking a good look at Wikus, “You…you are so thin.” He says with surprise.
Wikus ducks his head, embarrassed, “I don’t think anyone here is well-fed or in too great of shape.”
“True.” Christopher agrees, “But you…you are smaller than the others. Even the ones who are clearly starved.”
Wikus shrugs, helpless and unable to give the prawn adequate reason. They both knew that logically it was because Wikus had been human, lending his smaller Earth form would be somewhat reflected in his prawn shape and size.
“Wikus,” Christopher drags Wikus’ attention back to him, “I have the cure.”
Those four words steal the air from his gills. Wikus trembles. “H-human..?”
At first Christopher believes that Wikus is shaking from relief and excitement. However, his opinion is negated by the wideness of the smaller prawn’s eyes, and the tiny step back that Wikus takes.
“Wikus..”
“No.” Wikus abruptly shakes his head. “Not them. Not one of them anymore. I can’t even look at them without feeling disgust.”
“Don’t.” Christopher holds out a curled hand, “Don’t despise them. Not all humans are like those who have harmed you.”
“But I can’t look past that!” Wikus cries, “How can I look to those people as…as home..When those here in this District have looked out for me and treated me better than my own kind?”
“…What do you wish to do, then?”
Wikus darts towards Christopher, and the larger prawn willingly opens his arms to him. Wikus throwing himself against the other, wrapping his arms around Christopher’s waist.
“Take me with you.” Wikus hides his face against the larger one’s chest, “Don’t leave me here.”
Christopher shudders. A mixture of the thought of willingly leaving Wikus, and the larger prawn responding to the warmth and feel of the smaller prawn fitting so perfectly within his arms.
Wikus’ throat croaks sadly when Christopher hesitates too long with his answer. The smaller prawn dreading that the other one is preparing to shove him away.
Christopher purrs softly, brushing his mandibles and tentacles soothingly against the other prawn, antenna flicking and tickling Wikus’, earning a startled giggle from the smaller prawn.
“Come with me.” Christopher regrets abandoning his hold, but instead he transfers a hand to lie upon Wikus’ shoulder. Tossing his head in the direction of the ship, Christopher eagerly begins to race in the direction of the mother ship. Wikus slower and less brave to leap the piles of trash, the smaller prawn still lacking confidence with his new body, but Christopher patiently and frequently turns back to pace him. The larger prawn protecting his back as the two beings race towards their future.