(no subject)
Below is the first part of a story I'm working on, based on District 9. I just couldn't let the theme go without doing it actual justice and exploring elements that the movie refused to tackle. And so this story is fully based on a single character's point of view and written from his perspective, allowing me to really dig deep into character depth. Seeing as Johannesburg doesn't exist in a vacuum and MNU is not a miniature government, I'm broadening the scope of everything going on, all while attempting not to touch or change canon events. I'm also going off of information from official sites, such as Christopher's blog (www.mnuspreadslies.com).
The story is tentatively titled "District 9: Restitution" and takes place before, during, and after the events of the movie. All characters are original except for the appearance of one canon character a few times.
Enjoy!
General Summary
The reality never changed. Twenty years later, the fact that alien life exists among us within a South African slum known as District 9 reverberates unevenly throughout the world's social order. Humankind has been tested and it has failed.
Lucas Keyes, an ex-lawyer down on his luck, abandons his troubles and takes up the prospect of commiting to a humanitarian group making the trip to Johannesburg. Guided by routine familiarities, Lucas' instincts of survival and deduction are tested to extremes as he unwillingly becomes a fugitive refugee amidst the alien locale of District 9 and is forced to coexist. Caught in a network of double-faced truths and secret political undoings, he finds his only shelter in a resident named Anthony, a 'prawn' that forms a tentative truce for his own agendas. As Lucas attempts adapting to his new foreign lifestyle and learning more from the mysteries surrounding the governing totalitarian body known as Multi-National United and its associates, one truth speaks clearly: the future of District 9 will never remain the same.
------
Eight Months Until The Incident
Bug fucker.
I've heard more creativity from acne-ridden, burger flipping, high school dropouts. I rate the insult a six out of ten, losing points on the fact that I've never set foot in South Africa, let alone had the glowing opportunity to fuck one of its alien inhabitants. Unfortunately, that minor irony was lost on the disapproving group held in place by the thin bravery of America's Best Bus Company employees as we boarded.
I sit in remembrance of my life until this point, perusing its highs and lows like a sports telecaster describing familiar play strategies. There is a feeling a person gets every now and then; a horrible abyss that swirls around in his brain and his guts when he realizes the perfect life that he always believed in was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a consumer byproduct that had to be saved up for throughout years of routine monotony. This sensation tends to lead to a form of self-awareness and an overpowering need to get away from everything that was previously represented. When those bus doors closed, drowning out the jeers of a few gathered protestors and the positive reinforcement from less willing activists, I felt that sensation tenfold; but it wasn't nearly the same. I was nowhere near lucky enough for my pitfalls to consist of cutting off a frappuccino addiction at Starbucks or disabling an eBay account to avoid less practical spending. If everything was only so simple, I would still be at the Civic Center Courthouse bargaining a misdemeanor charge for that Billy Hendricks boy. I would be relaxing to the chaos of Judas Priest in my humble two bedroom apartment, just outside the city limits and away from the unavoidable San Francisco stereotypes; everything from hippies to hipsters.
I'd still have a fiancé.
"That's me," I confirm as the name Lucas Keyes passes through roll call, spoken by a sharply dressed woman in glasses. Her unflinching gaze as she fingers each name on her clipboard-bound paper makes her appear business oriented, fingernails recently manicured. She must find a satisfying medium in the thought that as long as everything remains organized, nothing will go wrong. I can only wonder how long it will be until she's pawning off her pinstripes for a few extra rands to spend once we hit South African soil.
"Well, look at that. I was half expecting you not to show, Lucas."
I recognize the voice before I see the man claiming the empty seat beside me. "Quentin, hey. Sorry. Go ahead and sit down. It's good to see you." Clearing my papers away, I turn and issue a handshake. If my hand had gone permanently numb by the amount of times I'd performed this gesture with clients, I wouldn't be surprised. Assure confidence in the victim's predicament, instill hope with a resolute smile, and presume to know exactly what you are doing even in the face of overwhelming opposition; these were key elements carrying the appearance of all professional defense attorneys, demonstrated by the modest tactic of pressing palms together with another person.
Quentin Markham was an exception, as I was genuinely glad to have a friend accompanying me on this ridiculous trip, and my offered handshake was that of an honest man. It was an easy thing to admit that my life would still be built around twelve hours of sitcom reruns, unemployment checks, and phantom memories held in glass frames if it weren't for the insistence that I join my new friend on his extraterrestrial goodwill trip to one of the most explosive countries on this planet.
How could I say no?
"I warned you about the name calling, didn't I? Not everyone is keen on the idea of climbing into bed with anything that isn't human. Figuratively speaking, of course."
"Former lawyer, remember? Comes with the job." Quentin's grip is firm and resolute, and I take notice of the plastic fastener still caught in the sleeve of his unbuttoned outer shirt, its tag freshly removed. "Dressed for the part? Looks like you're about the only one."
"Not my first trip, you know. Everybody learns the first time, though. You'll see." He taps the side of his skull with an index finger and I am subtly notified of a habit about to manifest itself. "As said by a person with a bit of knowledge: anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new." I wait him out, reserving the answer to his unasked question. "Albert Einstein!" He proclaims it as proudly as ever, and my timid smile is overshadowed by his shit-eating grin.
Quentin has always been this way, fatherly almost, ever since I met him nearly a year and a half ago at one of my support group meetings. He was brazen even then, a stalwart man in his mid fifties speaking openly of his global exploits, all while facing the trauma of losing his only son in the Gulf War. He was a welcome contrast to the self-serving attorneys I had grown accustomed to; sharks and cobras dressed in thousand dollar suits, altering the definition of justice to fit their current victim of the month. I was impressed at his bottomless optimism and sharp intellect, and hoped he might have some to spare. One personal conversation was all it took and suddenly I had found myself friends -comrades, as he put it- with a middle aged paper pusher working for the American Civil Liberties Union, who was somehow Indiana Jones on the side.
"So, you ready to give your all for alien equality? Down with MNU and all that?" My drifting pause ignites Quentin's inquiry, given a humorous flavor. Part of me wonders how serious he really is behind that unassumingly calm exterior.
"I'm just ready to get the hell out of this country for a while, that's all."
"Hiding from the Devil by jumping into the fire?" I liked that analogy; chose to remember it. "Lucas, I asked you to come along because I knew you needed to leave a good deal of, ah, less pleasant things behind. But where we're going isn't exactly a dream getaway. I'm hoping you can do some good while we're there."
The impending discussion on alien rights -or non-humans, as every government official and news anchor had termed them- urges me to slip further into the artificial comfort of my seat, sinking my vision into temporary darkness. "I know. Everybody wants to save the giant bugs, right? Look, I'll help out in whatever way I can, but you're not going to catch me playing Moses. Why do you actually believe everything they say about what's going on over there, anyway?"
"I don't. That's why I talk to one of the giant bugs myself."
"You really are nuts, after all."
"Yes, but a person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." Another quote. Fitting. "It might make you feel better to know that I've met him in person a few times. Some interesting talks we've had. But really, this is my endeavor, not yours. I can understand your reluctance."
Quentin was right; our levels of motivation were as different as they could get. I read about how much life sucks for these things. I hear about it from every damn hippy on every San Francisco street corner. I get the whole sob story slapped in my face every time I try to check the morning commute. Yea, it's rough. But life sucks for me, too; I just got laid off.
I open my eyes again, not content to remain dismissive of the subject. "Reluctance isn't the half of it. I can't imagine our merry band of new age do-gooders accomplishing much of anything, even with the U.S. government green-lighting everything for once."
"Keep your voice down."
I obey Quentin with surprising speed, realizing how out of place I am as the rookie of the group. Literally swallowing the rest of my opinion, he reads my sign for him to continue.
"Look around for yourself. I'm sure you recognize a few faces, or are at least familiar with their names. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm the low man on the pole here when compared to the leading activists sharing our space. Of course, few of them have firsthand experience, and that's why a capable old man like myself is along for the ride. But trust me when I say their motives are all in the right place."
I nod in polite agreement while the logical section of my brain simultaneously labors to tear itself away from the lie. Although a large portion of our group fits Quentin's characterizations, I find it difficult to pull myself away from two names: Bruce Daubney and Joanne Husch. Top tier advocates were one thing, but having two members of the House of Representatives on board ached of political limelight; both democrats, no less. As I take a moment introducing myself to the back of their heads, I realize they must be spending their time writing up reports on their Blackberries or Netbooks. Most likely detailing plans to run for a higher office and tacking on this convenient stint to their résumé as a bullet point. I'm sure they'll even use an invigorating italic font, like Lucida Sans.
My eyes wander over a few other passengers that I am less informed on, separating them into categories of memory by their traits: snappy dressers, all most likely with managing duties, treating this as the latest agenda in their appointment book -Miss Pinstripes is included here-; bullheaded youths, probably PETA or Greenpeace members secretly on the side, all prepared to leap on grenades to save baby seals. They can hardly wait to thrust their spears of opinion straight into the heart of the highest ranking MNU representative available; last are the few very much like myself, wrapped up in their self evaluations and carrying troubled expressions. They question the fortitude of their decision and ponder exactly how long they have to retract it before our bus reaches the San Francisco International Airport. Roughly twenty minutes left to go, by my estimation.
Another pair of eyes catch mine. Dragged out in slow motion, I find myself trapped in a familiar, seconds long moment with an individual that rejects a spot in my recently developed caste system. The woman's experience in field work is obvious, as evidenced by her choice of casual broken in attire. She isn't defined by her chestnut hair, cut short and round for the occasion, or the arrangement of her makeup, lacking -or rather, not caring- to focus much on either. Her gaze, steady and unshaken, reminds me of Quentin. In fact, the old dog would probably mention something about eyes being windows to the soul; but if that was the case, then her drapes were drawn.
Quentin sends a formal wave and the woman echoes the gesture in earnest before facing away. "Got an eye on my girl, do you?"
If we had actually been in earshot of the subject, I'm almost certain his words would have been different. "Your girl? You're old enough to be her father. Grandfather, even, with the way things are today."
"Always quick to judge, aren't you?" Quentin chuckles and eases into his seat, emitting that strangely unwavering resolve of his. "Her name's Salina. And since you're curious, we've been on a good deal of these expeditions together, purely by coincidence. Just a familiar face. I'd like to think of her as a sidekick, but she'd probably kick me in the side if I ever propositioned her about it. The real independent type." Quentin's oblique display of respect catches me off guard. Although he's always been a standup guy, I am fully aware of his duality with women. "Heh, I swear. If I was just twenty years younger..." And there it is, you gutsy bastard.
"All right, I hate to cut your hopeless fantasies short, but I want to rest for a while. This is a big thing, flying internationally. Got a lot of thoughts to sort out." I give my friend little choice in the matter by returning to a meditative state, resting my head back.
"You're on your way to visit creatures not from our planet and be in close proximity to alien technology similar to nothing else on Earth, and the most you're worried about is a plane trip?"
"Hey, I don't know what to expect with aliens. But I can't stand flying, so what can I say?"
I can feel him smile after that statement, obviously enjoying my wit. Something in my chest hums at the thought of entertaining the elder adventurer, like a son impressing his father with an outstanding report card. "When we land in Johannesburg, you can relax for a while," he tells me, shifting to a formal demeanor. "The city is actually quite impressive, but don't get too attached. We'll only be staying in the metropolitan area for a day or two before heading further south to the more rural areas and making our way to the ninth district. From there, well, let's just say the party's over at that point. That's when the sobering begins."
"Assuming I won't be able to get a decent flame broiled burger for miles, then?"
Quentin chuckles lightly, but his politeness is a shallow formality this time. "You joke now, but I promise you, Lucas. This isn't going to stay a vacation for very long. I hope you took my packing advice."
"I stuck to what you said, yea." I had packed all the necessities for intercontinental travel: passport, permits, identification, and papers for my notes. I threw in some grooming tools as well, along with a required power converter; I wasn't about to become one of these idiots who will discover they can't shave when their electric razor doesn't fit into an eastern power outlet.
"Brought a picture of the ex?"
"You kidding me? I'm not carrying along that ball and chain." I choose not to confess how I'd considered otherwise the night before.
"Good man." Quentin offers me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We talked about this in our last meeting, right? No reminders. In an hour or two, you're going to cross a line that doesn't allow going back."
"Right." I scrummage through the messenger bag on my lap, finding the topic difficult to maneuver and the following silence even more challenging. The rectangular electronic device I retrieve fits comfortably in my hand. It could have passed for the latest cell phone, with an LCD screen taking up most of its bulk. I was grateful to have been given it for free, whatever it was. "One last thing. What exactly does this do again?"
"That's right, I didn't show you yet. Here." Quentin nabs the item from my hand, quick to demonstrate his adeptness with it. "It's simple, really. Just use the touchscreen keyboard to type in what you want to say. Nothing too long. Like..." He spells out 'Lucas can't wait to have tea with aliens' and I smirk; what a smartass. "...that. Then hit translate. And there you go. Leave it to those internet junkies to make an app like this."
As I watch, the letters of English text spill away and reshape into foreign lined characters reminiscent of Japanese or Chinese symbols; or possibly Klingon, for all I knew. "I thought your generation was supposed to be bad with this stuff."
"And I thought your generation were all pioneers of technology."
Touché, old man.
He grins triumphantly before returning my translator and continuing his explanation. "Anyhow, that's all there is to it. For practical use, this is really meant to communicate back and forth with one of the non-humans, since it works both ways. Good luck finding one that will cooperate enough, though."
"You really think we're going to be sitting down, talking to these things?"
"Well, you never know, do you? Hold on to that, in any case." And just like that, the portable bug talker takes a higher leap in priority among my personal items; a few inches above my mp3 player. "Anyhow, get some rest, Lucas. We can chat more on the plane. It'll be a long ride."
"Yea, but hey. At least they're paying for business class, huh? That's not too bad. Maybe we'll get some decent food."
"You've never flown out of the country, right?" Quentin pats the creases from his olive fatigue pants and relaxes into his seat for the first time. "Might want to keep from eating too much just before landing. Full stomachs tend to disagree with first time experiences."
Withholding a prideful remark about not being as tame and domesticated as the other businesspeople in our group, I avert my view through the window beside me and to the final reminder that I was about to leave behind the only familiar way of life I knew. The image of the encroaching airport strikes at my fearful hesitations, vibrating the chord of doubt inside. I do my damndest to stay composed in the face of change, swallowing the last of my misgivings and storing them deep inside a hidden pit in my stomach.
I am doing this. I am going to South Africa. I am going to District 9.
And then my Superman-like veneer fades when I recall not having paid this month's rent.
Shit.
The story is tentatively titled "District 9: Restitution" and takes place before, during, and after the events of the movie. All characters are original except for the appearance of one canon character a few times.
Enjoy!
General Summary
The reality never changed. Twenty years later, the fact that alien life exists among us within a South African slum known as District 9 reverberates unevenly throughout the world's social order. Humankind has been tested and it has failed.
Lucas Keyes, an ex-lawyer down on his luck, abandons his troubles and takes up the prospect of commiting to a humanitarian group making the trip to Johannesburg. Guided by routine familiarities, Lucas' instincts of survival and deduction are tested to extremes as he unwillingly becomes a fugitive refugee amidst the alien locale of District 9 and is forced to coexist. Caught in a network of double-faced truths and secret political undoings, he finds his only shelter in a resident named Anthony, a 'prawn' that forms a tentative truce for his own agendas. As Lucas attempts adapting to his new foreign lifestyle and learning more from the mysteries surrounding the governing totalitarian body known as Multi-National United and its associates, one truth speaks clearly: the future of District 9 will never remain the same.
------
Eight Months Until The Incident
Bug fucker.
I've heard more creativity from acne-ridden, burger flipping, high school dropouts. I rate the insult a six out of ten, losing points on the fact that I've never set foot in South Africa, let alone had the glowing opportunity to fuck one of its alien inhabitants. Unfortunately, that minor irony was lost on the disapproving group held in place by the thin bravery of America's Best Bus Company employees as we boarded.
I sit in remembrance of my life until this point, perusing its highs and lows like a sports telecaster describing familiar play strategies. There is a feeling a person gets every now and then; a horrible abyss that swirls around in his brain and his guts when he realizes the perfect life that he always believed in was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a consumer byproduct that had to be saved up for throughout years of routine monotony. This sensation tends to lead to a form of self-awareness and an overpowering need to get away from everything that was previously represented. When those bus doors closed, drowning out the jeers of a few gathered protestors and the positive reinforcement from less willing activists, I felt that sensation tenfold; but it wasn't nearly the same. I was nowhere near lucky enough for my pitfalls to consist of cutting off a frappuccino addiction at Starbucks or disabling an eBay account to avoid less practical spending. If everything was only so simple, I would still be at the Civic Center Courthouse bargaining a misdemeanor charge for that Billy Hendricks boy. I would be relaxing to the chaos of Judas Priest in my humble two bedroom apartment, just outside the city limits and away from the unavoidable San Francisco stereotypes; everything from hippies to hipsters.
I'd still have a fiancé.
"That's me," I confirm as the name Lucas Keyes passes through roll call, spoken by a sharply dressed woman in glasses. Her unflinching gaze as she fingers each name on her clipboard-bound paper makes her appear business oriented, fingernails recently manicured. She must find a satisfying medium in the thought that as long as everything remains organized, nothing will go wrong. I can only wonder how long it will be until she's pawning off her pinstripes for a few extra rands to spend once we hit South African soil.
"Well, look at that. I was half expecting you not to show, Lucas."
I recognize the voice before I see the man claiming the empty seat beside me. "Quentin, hey. Sorry. Go ahead and sit down. It's good to see you." Clearing my papers away, I turn and issue a handshake. If my hand had gone permanently numb by the amount of times I'd performed this gesture with clients, I wouldn't be surprised. Assure confidence in the victim's predicament, instill hope with a resolute smile, and presume to know exactly what you are doing even in the face of overwhelming opposition; these were key elements carrying the appearance of all professional defense attorneys, demonstrated by the modest tactic of pressing palms together with another person.
Quentin Markham was an exception, as I was genuinely glad to have a friend accompanying me on this ridiculous trip, and my offered handshake was that of an honest man. It was an easy thing to admit that my life would still be built around twelve hours of sitcom reruns, unemployment checks, and phantom memories held in glass frames if it weren't for the insistence that I join my new friend on his extraterrestrial goodwill trip to one of the most explosive countries on this planet.
How could I say no?
"I warned you about the name calling, didn't I? Not everyone is keen on the idea of climbing into bed with anything that isn't human. Figuratively speaking, of course."
"Former lawyer, remember? Comes with the job." Quentin's grip is firm and resolute, and I take notice of the plastic fastener still caught in the sleeve of his unbuttoned outer shirt, its tag freshly removed. "Dressed for the part? Looks like you're about the only one."
"Not my first trip, you know. Everybody learns the first time, though. You'll see." He taps the side of his skull with an index finger and I am subtly notified of a habit about to manifest itself. "As said by a person with a bit of knowledge: anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new." I wait him out, reserving the answer to his unasked question. "Albert Einstein!" He proclaims it as proudly as ever, and my timid smile is overshadowed by his shit-eating grin.
Quentin has always been this way, fatherly almost, ever since I met him nearly a year and a half ago at one of my support group meetings. He was brazen even then, a stalwart man in his mid fifties speaking openly of his global exploits, all while facing the trauma of losing his only son in the Gulf War. He was a welcome contrast to the self-serving attorneys I had grown accustomed to; sharks and cobras dressed in thousand dollar suits, altering the definition of justice to fit their current victim of the month. I was impressed at his bottomless optimism and sharp intellect, and hoped he might have some to spare. One personal conversation was all it took and suddenly I had found myself friends -comrades, as he put it- with a middle aged paper pusher working for the American Civil Liberties Union, who was somehow Indiana Jones on the side.
"So, you ready to give your all for alien equality? Down with MNU and all that?" My drifting pause ignites Quentin's inquiry, given a humorous flavor. Part of me wonders how serious he really is behind that unassumingly calm exterior.
"I'm just ready to get the hell out of this country for a while, that's all."
"Hiding from the Devil by jumping into the fire?" I liked that analogy; chose to remember it. "Lucas, I asked you to come along because I knew you needed to leave a good deal of, ah, less pleasant things behind. But where we're going isn't exactly a dream getaway. I'm hoping you can do some good while we're there."
The impending discussion on alien rights -or non-humans, as every government official and news anchor had termed them- urges me to slip further into the artificial comfort of my seat, sinking my vision into temporary darkness. "I know. Everybody wants to save the giant bugs, right? Look, I'll help out in whatever way I can, but you're not going to catch me playing Moses. Why do you actually believe everything they say about what's going on over there, anyway?"
"I don't. That's why I talk to one of the giant bugs myself."
"You really are nuts, after all."
"Yes, but a person needs a little madness, or else they never dare cut the rope and be free." Another quote. Fitting. "It might make you feel better to know that I've met him in person a few times. Some interesting talks we've had. But really, this is my endeavor, not yours. I can understand your reluctance."
Quentin was right; our levels of motivation were as different as they could get. I read about how much life sucks for these things. I hear about it from every damn hippy on every San Francisco street corner. I get the whole sob story slapped in my face every time I try to check the morning commute. Yea, it's rough. But life sucks for me, too; I just got laid off.
I open my eyes again, not content to remain dismissive of the subject. "Reluctance isn't the half of it. I can't imagine our merry band of new age do-gooders accomplishing much of anything, even with the U.S. government green-lighting everything for once."
"Keep your voice down."
I obey Quentin with surprising speed, realizing how out of place I am as the rookie of the group. Literally swallowing the rest of my opinion, he reads my sign for him to continue.
"Look around for yourself. I'm sure you recognize a few faces, or are at least familiar with their names. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm the low man on the pole here when compared to the leading activists sharing our space. Of course, few of them have firsthand experience, and that's why a capable old man like myself is along for the ride. But trust me when I say their motives are all in the right place."
I nod in polite agreement while the logical section of my brain simultaneously labors to tear itself away from the lie. Although a large portion of our group fits Quentin's characterizations, I find it difficult to pull myself away from two names: Bruce Daubney and Joanne Husch. Top tier advocates were one thing, but having two members of the House of Representatives on board ached of political limelight; both democrats, no less. As I take a moment introducing myself to the back of their heads, I realize they must be spending their time writing up reports on their Blackberries or Netbooks. Most likely detailing plans to run for a higher office and tacking on this convenient stint to their résumé as a bullet point. I'm sure they'll even use an invigorating italic font, like Lucida Sans.
My eyes wander over a few other passengers that I am less informed on, separating them into categories of memory by their traits: snappy dressers, all most likely with managing duties, treating this as the latest agenda in their appointment book -Miss Pinstripes is included here-; bullheaded youths, probably PETA or Greenpeace members secretly on the side, all prepared to leap on grenades to save baby seals. They can hardly wait to thrust their spears of opinion straight into the heart of the highest ranking MNU representative available; last are the few very much like myself, wrapped up in their self evaluations and carrying troubled expressions. They question the fortitude of their decision and ponder exactly how long they have to retract it before our bus reaches the San Francisco International Airport. Roughly twenty minutes left to go, by my estimation.
Another pair of eyes catch mine. Dragged out in slow motion, I find myself trapped in a familiar, seconds long moment with an individual that rejects a spot in my recently developed caste system. The woman's experience in field work is obvious, as evidenced by her choice of casual broken in attire. She isn't defined by her chestnut hair, cut short and round for the occasion, or the arrangement of her makeup, lacking -or rather, not caring- to focus much on either. Her gaze, steady and unshaken, reminds me of Quentin. In fact, the old dog would probably mention something about eyes being windows to the soul; but if that was the case, then her drapes were drawn.
Quentin sends a formal wave and the woman echoes the gesture in earnest before facing away. "Got an eye on my girl, do you?"
If we had actually been in earshot of the subject, I'm almost certain his words would have been different. "Your girl? You're old enough to be her father. Grandfather, even, with the way things are today."
"Always quick to judge, aren't you?" Quentin chuckles and eases into his seat, emitting that strangely unwavering resolve of his. "Her name's Salina. And since you're curious, we've been on a good deal of these expeditions together, purely by coincidence. Just a familiar face. I'd like to think of her as a sidekick, but she'd probably kick me in the side if I ever propositioned her about it. The real independent type." Quentin's oblique display of respect catches me off guard. Although he's always been a standup guy, I am fully aware of his duality with women. "Heh, I swear. If I was just twenty years younger..." And there it is, you gutsy bastard.
"All right, I hate to cut your hopeless fantasies short, but I want to rest for a while. This is a big thing, flying internationally. Got a lot of thoughts to sort out." I give my friend little choice in the matter by returning to a meditative state, resting my head back.
"You're on your way to visit creatures not from our planet and be in close proximity to alien technology similar to nothing else on Earth, and the most you're worried about is a plane trip?"
"Hey, I don't know what to expect with aliens. But I can't stand flying, so what can I say?"
I can feel him smile after that statement, obviously enjoying my wit. Something in my chest hums at the thought of entertaining the elder adventurer, like a son impressing his father with an outstanding report card. "When we land in Johannesburg, you can relax for a while," he tells me, shifting to a formal demeanor. "The city is actually quite impressive, but don't get too attached. We'll only be staying in the metropolitan area for a day or two before heading further south to the more rural areas and making our way to the ninth district. From there, well, let's just say the party's over at that point. That's when the sobering begins."
"Assuming I won't be able to get a decent flame broiled burger for miles, then?"
Quentin chuckles lightly, but his politeness is a shallow formality this time. "You joke now, but I promise you, Lucas. This isn't going to stay a vacation for very long. I hope you took my packing advice."
"I stuck to what you said, yea." I had packed all the necessities for intercontinental travel: passport, permits, identification, and papers for my notes. I threw in some grooming tools as well, along with a required power converter; I wasn't about to become one of these idiots who will discover they can't shave when their electric razor doesn't fit into an eastern power outlet.
"Brought a picture of the ex?"
"You kidding me? I'm not carrying along that ball and chain." I choose not to confess how I'd considered otherwise the night before.
"Good man." Quentin offers me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "We talked about this in our last meeting, right? No reminders. In an hour or two, you're going to cross a line that doesn't allow going back."
"Right." I scrummage through the messenger bag on my lap, finding the topic difficult to maneuver and the following silence even more challenging. The rectangular electronic device I retrieve fits comfortably in my hand. It could have passed for the latest cell phone, with an LCD screen taking up most of its bulk. I was grateful to have been given it for free, whatever it was. "One last thing. What exactly does this do again?"
"That's right, I didn't show you yet. Here." Quentin nabs the item from my hand, quick to demonstrate his adeptness with it. "It's simple, really. Just use the touchscreen keyboard to type in what you want to say. Nothing too long. Like..." He spells out 'Lucas can't wait to have tea with aliens' and I smirk; what a smartass. "...that. Then hit translate. And there you go. Leave it to those internet junkies to make an app like this."
As I watch, the letters of English text spill away and reshape into foreign lined characters reminiscent of Japanese or Chinese symbols; or possibly Klingon, for all I knew. "I thought your generation was supposed to be bad with this stuff."
"And I thought your generation were all pioneers of technology."
Touché, old man.
He grins triumphantly before returning my translator and continuing his explanation. "Anyhow, that's all there is to it. For practical use, this is really meant to communicate back and forth with one of the non-humans, since it works both ways. Good luck finding one that will cooperate enough, though."
"You really think we're going to be sitting down, talking to these things?"
"Well, you never know, do you? Hold on to that, in any case." And just like that, the portable bug talker takes a higher leap in priority among my personal items; a few inches above my mp3 player. "Anyhow, get some rest, Lucas. We can chat more on the plane. It'll be a long ride."
"Yea, but hey. At least they're paying for business class, huh? That's not too bad. Maybe we'll get some decent food."
"You've never flown out of the country, right?" Quentin pats the creases from his olive fatigue pants and relaxes into his seat for the first time. "Might want to keep from eating too much just before landing. Full stomachs tend to disagree with first time experiences."
Withholding a prideful remark about not being as tame and domesticated as the other businesspeople in our group, I avert my view through the window beside me and to the final reminder that I was about to leave behind the only familiar way of life I knew. The image of the encroaching airport strikes at my fearful hesitations, vibrating the chord of doubt inside. I do my damndest to stay composed in the face of change, swallowing the last of my misgivings and storing them deep inside a hidden pit in my stomach.
I am doing this. I am going to South Africa. I am going to District 9.
And then my Superman-like veneer fades when I recall not having paid this month's rent.
Shit.