Disclaimer: I don't own District 9! :(

For the past week Wikus had been surviving off very little. After MNU's fiasco, the whole world had converged on Johannesburg's door step. And from some higher powers he had managed each day after the other, hiding in the confines of one rickety shack in the heart of District 9.

The past few days however had been the worst. Wikus could only exert so much energy before having to take several hours to recover. He could push himself, stop and rest for at least an hour before grinding out the rest of his tasks. Scavenging after curfew with very little reward; it was surprising how far he had gone with the amount of morsels and scraps available.

Although, as it was he could barely sit up. Hunger ravaged inside his gut in painful waves, while his body ached from every joint; his skin - burning. If he moved too quickly he risked tearing the stretched tissues of his former body. He just lied there in his shack, trembling, scared of discovering new parts. Especially now in his most weakened and vulnerable state yet. With nothing besides the obscene details of flesh sloughing off, the pain, his mind was without boundaries. Hysterical moods swept from all corners from the pure joy of meeting death, towards the insufferable hope that there was still a chance he could survive this. And like the worm he felt he was; kept crawling regardless of the improbabilities surrounding him.

The thought of Tania was both a blessing and a curse. He couldn't decide whether it was worth having her suffer, or if it was too much to hope for that she could wait long enough for him to recover. In his once perfect world he had maintained appearances, a job, he was a man; but as it continued to fall away in pieces all he had was her. That subjective attachment, indescribable, personal and private.

Did it even exist, now that he was changing into this thing?

He cursed underneath his breathe, which sounded more like a small grunt because of his dry mouth and throat. Thinking at this point alone became too much effort. His breathing was labored and heavy, though so very slow and drawn. His burning skin crawled all over his body, consuming every nervous fiber. Everything was surreal and numb; the only thing tying him back to reality was his breathes. The tight recoil after every intake encouraged him to take one after the other- a mindless task that now become Wikus' primary focus.

Until his efforts came to a halt, and his eyes fluttered back into darkness; for once he had finally found respite.

When Wikus awoke he found himself in a state of shock. Immediately he became aware that he was not where he once was. This place, foreign, was all together sterile in its white ceiling and walls. He jerked his hands up, unconsciously kicking his feet at the same time to find them bound to the hard table underneath. With the incredible rise in his heart rate he started to scream, a scream so feral and wild that he freaked himself into a stuttered silence. He didn't recognize it, nor did he enjoy the slick tentacles trailing below his mouth or the hard skin that seemed to desensitize his sense of touch.

Why hadn't he just… died? How in God's name could he have endured the transformation? It wasn't even physically possible! His body couldn't have handled it! And yet…

There he was, with wide miss-matched eyes staring hard and wide into the ceiling with rasping breaths. It wasn't even him anymore. This thing that surrounded him- couldn't escape from it.

"Wikus."

The voice held authority, but this meant very little to Wikus. He was off, somewhere else.

"Wikus." A hand of some sort grabbed his wrist. The head that neared his vision was blocked out as anxiety and fear ripped through his senses. He didn't realize that the bindings had been released, let alone who had spoken to him.

"Please, Wikus. Listen to me, you are safe here…" These words were soft and steady. They finally drew his attention back. Wide, terrified eyes met the assumed stranger.

"Safe?" He tried saying, but at most a garbled muffle hit the air.

"Safe." The stranger repeated. But obviously this was a lie. He took advantage of the stranger's hesitance, propelling his legs off the table and tackling the individual to the ground. Before he could club the stranger to death, its hands locked onto his wrists midair. They struggled.

"Wikus, we came back! Don't you remember me?"

No, no and he didn't care. He was too angry, angry because he couldn't hit the stranger, couldn't see Tania; couldn't, didn't… there was nothing.

But those words and those eyes finally hit him.

Oh God.

He pulled back, staring at him.

"It's Oliver, do you remember?"

Oliver had shifted upright and pulled himself away from Wikus, who had crawled back, sat and leaned against the table. A bright, hopeful gaze met Wikus; he could hardly hold it.

"Is- is that really you?" Wikus took a shallow breath.

"Oliver, little Oliver?"

A wiry smile crossed the alien's features, bright blue eyes alight.

"It's good to see you, Wikus." He couldn't believe it. Oliver had grown; light green exoskeleton, smooth and lean, adorned by pieces of cloth that served to cloth the young alien adult in a fine fit. But how long had it truly been? Where was Christopher?

Oliver sensed this. His appearance took on a more reserved, neutral state before finally getting up and offering the shocked Wikus a hand.

"It took father longer to get us home." Wikus had to steady himself with the table as he accepted the hand. "And even longer to find our way back to Earth; the space we left wasn't the same. Finding Earth took some time, as did gathering the resources for the rescue."

Wikus fell silent; and instead watched as Oliver activated a cupboard space. The wall glowed light fluorescent blue as it opened up to reveal a metallic vial.

"He-…" Oliver huffed. "He died on the way home." Wikus watched, at a complete loss for words. Being totally incapable of controlling himself, he felt pathetic for not reacting more towards this news. It struck him regardless, even if he simply stood there, quiet.

A wave of guilt smothered his initial shock.

"I made him a promise, Wikus. And here it is."

The vial Oliver held; his cure. Wikus remained choked.

"How much do you remember?" He whispered. Oliver observed the hybrid carefully.

"The hijacking, the part where you almost left my father behind; everything." Curiously, Oliver followed Wikus' downward gaze.

"Wikus, what has happened has already passed. You ensured that my people would have a future, and for that I am more than grateful."

Wikus shook his head. "No, no… Fook me… Fook!"

"Wikus."

"Don't, please! I don't deserve this. I'm not a fook'n hero." He shook as he gripped harder and harder on the bed's edge behind him. Wikus shut his eyes as the grief punctured into his soul. He was wicked, selfish, an abomination, traitor, he deserved absolutely nothing. Oliver's firm grip forced him to meet his eyes.

"Don't deny me the promise I made to my father, Wikus. You would do me a greater injustice by refusing to accept what you've sacrificed all these years for."

There was a long silence in the room. Each kept his gaze locked; Oliver firm and sure, Wikus afraid and listless. There was simply no substance that held Wikus, soulless and unbound.

Finally, Wikus went for the vial, hot forming tears approaching the edges of his eyes. He shoved the liquid past his mouth and down his throat; a mild burning sensation coated his esophagus.

Some of it must have gone the wrong way though, because he started coughing. And continued to do so, prompting him to keel over and start to choke. The world began to whirl away as he dropped to the floor.

"Elijah…"

Voices hovered above Wikus as he continued to sputter and gasp.

His upper body, man-handled to an incline, lacked the energy to resist the hands that pried him upright. When he came to there was a watery liquid lying across his chest and surrounding blankets. He couldn't quite make out the crouched brown-hued prawn at his feet, or the immediate creature to his left for several seconds.

"Is it still alive?"

"Indeed he is," the voice grunted. The same hands took his jaw and pried it open. By then Wikus had at least gained some sense of control and jerked his head away. Though this did very little, being so weak, the hand at his jaw remained where it was while the other hand fished around in his mouth.

"Stop it, human. I am retrieving your teeth. It would be best if you remained still."

"The foook-?!"

The prawn made an annoyed whirl as Wikus squirmed further.

"There…"

The prawn, pale blue retrieved two molars from Wikus' mouth.

"Damn, fook'n prawns…," Wikus cursed underneath his breath. The brown prawn hissed underneath his breath, while the blue one remained unmoved.

"How much longer?"

"Soon…"

Wikus continued to drift in and out consciousness. He didn't sleep, he couldn't. The pain kept him from reaching complete unconsciousness, and the lack of energy made it hard to concentrate on the sounds and smells sprawled out before him. He had lost all sense in his body, including most of his spatial awareness.

Though the ebbing dream echoed and repeated as the night went on. His company, forced to muffle his cries, reinforced the choking sensation that followed the end of the dream after each vial, one repeat after the other. The whole passing out portion afterwards was somewhat euphoric for Wikus, and became an effective way of shutting him up for a while.

Wikus preferred it.

As a child Wikus was shy. Being naturally quiet, he preferred to do things independently from group activities. This often made him a target for bullying. Boys were loud and rough, Wikus was articulate and gentle. He remembered coming home; how he locked himself in his room trying to avoid his father's accusatory eyes.

Perhaps his mother supported him, but it was never enough to keep him from falling into his own confusing world of isolation and distance from the other children. He resisted her emotional inputs as time went by, caving in and seeking advice only when he was truly lost. But that was just before adolescence hit, where he'd adapted to physical threats with verbal insults and gags. He could make the class laugh even if it made the jocks resent him even more; he'd learned to escape by simply out-running or out-smarting their pursuits. Well, most of the time.

In a social context though he never had what it took to stand up for himself, or anyone else. It never crossed his mind to prevent someone from being roughed up by the local school bully. It was beneficial for him to follow the general consensus, even if he himself was one of those 'outsiders' by definition. And if a crowd had formed he found himself to be a part of it, even if it the kid on the floor could have very well been himself.

It was ironic for Wikus to have this similar pattern play out repeatedly throughout his life.

Even now, as he lied awake and in pain, he couldn't escape his fate. He had had his 'laughs', MNU the next cooperate venture, turning a blind eye to the creatures who found themselves at the mercy of mankind. He'd joined the crowd, and now it was his turn to live out a lifetime of beatings, including the ones he'd given himself. Having lost track of time as the transformation accelerated, Wikus pleaded with himself, with God, that he should just die instead. He didn't even recognize himself anymore, so bent on preserving his identity. But his pleas remained forsaken, and the grotesque hardened carapace that caged him further smothered his spirits.

Damn fook'n prawns, he thought. Shit.

There was a tube in his mouth now. Ever since he had lost his teeth and the ability to move independently, it resided there curling away from his face; purposely far from reach. He had also begun to recognize the prawns residing with him, especially the brown one. Wikus would open his eyes, barely conscious to find the brown prawn at his feet staring straight back after him. Unnerving Wikus, because those eyes were murderous in a way he couldn't quite explain logically, it appeared purely instinctual that this prawn would more than likely rip him a part given the choice.

There was another, who worked quietly and would answer the brown prawn's questions. Of many of these Wikus couldn't quite catch; whether he still had ears was questionable in of itself.

Of the numerous times that he had grasped enough consciousness, he drifted off.