Title: Mercy
Author: dreamerchaos
Pairing: Wikus and other Prawn character.
Rating: R. For innuendo and insinuated violence.
Warnings: Language. Slash hints between an alien and a human(Or who was human…).
Summary: "It would be so easy to twist your head right off your shoulders…" The large, ghostly white prawn flexes his claws across the expanse of a pale, shivering cheek, Wikus' wide eyes staring back, a pale blue mirror reflecting the sun and the shadows across the large prawn's shoulders, "I have already take the lives of three of your miserable kind. What is one more?"
He had been a fool to believe he was safe.
Shivering and huddled inside an abandoned hut, dry, soiled blankets curled around his head and shoulders, Wikus curled within the farthest corner of the rickety hut. He bites his lip to stifle a low keen of pain, a wracking shudder of agony spiking across his flesh as another thick stretch of carapace shears through the pale, human, fleshy layer of his lower back.
The smell of fresh blood is a lure, a dip and glide, a tease and taste.
Wikus wiped ineffectively at a drying streak of Koobus' blood, fingers curled and hands shaking violently. The mercenary's yowl of pain as his limps were rent and his head popped off…
Wikus claps a hand over his mouth to choke back the desire to retch, the haunting image running behind his eyes.
Such a wretched, sweet poison. It drives one mad…
The transforming human jumps when the door suddenly bangs open, the slim frame of the metal door smacks against the rotting wood wall.
Wikus keens again, this time in honest, blood-chilling terror.
The huge white prawn fills the doorway, claws cracking apart the weak, brittle wood along the doorway.
"Little man…" Wikus shudders, cornered like a small rat. The prawn snarls, "Little man wandered into our nest. Should know better," The prawn enters, slamming the door shut behind him.
"N-no, wait-!" Wikus raises his hands in self defense, sliding down in a weak attempt to shrink out of sight.
The large prawn is on him in a flash. Wikus chokes around a shrill scream, neck twisted back, long, sharp thumbs pushing the point of their talons into the soft skin underneath his bottom eyelids.
His aggressor purrs, antenna quiver at the rush of spicy pheromones, his prey's terror spurs him on.
"It would be so easy to twist your head right off your shoulders…" The large, ghostly white prawn flexes his claws across the expanse of a pale, shivering cheek, Wikus' wide eyes staring back, a pale blue mirror reflecting the sun and the shadows across the large prawn's shoulders, "I have already take the lives of three of your miserable kind. What is one more?"
The human only whimpers in reply.
Wikus shivers, sharp and long as if clutched by an epileptic fit when he is shoved flat onto his back. Weakly he tries to retain possession of the blankets, but they are viciously ripped off him and thrown across the tiny room.
He is reminded too much of Obesandjo as the prawn intensely critiques his human limb, and then his prawn extremity. Much to his further dismay, his prawn arm looks shriveled and sickly in comparison to the thick, strong forearm, white claws curled around Wikus' flexed wrist.
"Weak as a sprawnling," The prawn tsks. Wikus blinks away a hot spill of angry, humiliated tears when his arm is negligently dropped, the large clawed hands distracted by his shirt. He gasps when the lapels are gripped, and the front of his dirty gray shirt split apart.
It's an ironic, bitter mesh of yin and yang. Human flesh and prawn matter woven together by a thick roadmap of fresh, seeping wounds and caked blood.
White claws tickle beads of blood from the human portion of his torso when the snick and break flesh. Carapace click underneath claw tips, a drum beat of dry cinder falling upon the floor.
"Over half of your body has shifted." The prawn notes, idly fascinated by the hues of red, umber, and forest green of his surfacing prawn flesh, "You will be unrecognizable by the end of the week."
Wikus grimaces. His chest rattles with a rush of undirected resentment, the hybrid cursing his father-in-law, blaspheming Christopher, wanting to drop curses like bombs upon MNU and District 9. Hating what both icons have brought upon him in a matter of seventy two hours.
"Have you changed down here, I wonder." The prawn slides a large hand in between the tight seam of Wikus' thighs.
Wikus squeals in alarm when the warm appendage curls around his manhood. His hand snaps downward, gripping the prawn's thick wrist, "Don't!"
The prawn continues as if not hearing him. "Wouldn't it be so easy to slip in between your pale, human thighs, and split you open? Your women lay down with our workers and sate their frustrations and aggression. I wonder if a man's insides would feel just as slick and warm."
Wikus wishes he could just curl up and die.
"…" Instead of continuing upon the thread of his threat, the large prawn hesitates a moment before he lunges forward.
Wikus jerks away, head twisted to the side and eyes squeezed shut. The prawn's tentacles weave above the quick rabbit hop skip of his pulse, the cool and sweat damp flesh humming with tension beneath the alien's sharp beak.
The white prawn approves of the quick submission ― the figurative and literal baring of one's stomach and throat ― hesitating long enough by the gesture to pause the sharp, fatal bite that would ordinarily split open the human's jugular.
The large prawn rattles with his approval, signaling his quick change in attitude, moved with a momentary thought of mercy, "You grasp your place quickly enough." With a pat of Wikus' head like a master would award a pet for a pleasant trick, the prawn slides off him, "Adapt and continue to learn, and acknowledge your place, and you just may survive."
Like a broken doll, eyes wide and limbs akimbo Wikus remains frozen while the prawn rises onto his feet, the hybrid sprawled upon the floor while the door swings open and then shuts silently behind the prawn.
Once the shadows again fill the interior of the shack, Wikus feels safe in curling on his side. Shivering, he lays there, arms encircled tightly around his chest, not finding the will or the strength to sit up and search for his pile of blankets as the sun begins to set and the chill wind of the dark sky and orb of the moon glides into the frame of the shack's single window.
'Mercy….' His mind snorts, 'A quick kill is plenty of mercy. There is more than one prawn within the District, and I doubt that many of them will feel charitable towards another squatter, especially one with my reputation.'