Disclaimer: I do not own D9, or its characters
Kintsukuroi: pronunciation: kin-tsU-kU-roi ; definition: 'the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer resin dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver or platinum. As a philosophy it speaks to breakage and repair becoming part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.' (wikipedia; wordstuck)
3 and a half years later
The moon hangs in the sky above them, full, bright.
The noise in District 10 is loud on these nights. Restlessness hangs in the air; the guards are visibly tense as they walk along their posts. Eyes pay close attention to the silhouettes that near too close to the walls and barricades. A misfire, regardless, would send the victim's painful whirl into a clear echo across camp. The sound could easily cascade and gather large groups. It would trigger a spark, and a reckless outcry might result in a rush to the barricades.
Thus their aim required precision.
It was unwise then for the young or old to wander between the tents, or too far.
Inside his tent between two other bodies and the child that rested soundly beside him, Wikus – registered under Desmond Stewart - struggled against the heady scent surrounding them.
He shifted anxiously, his antennae writhing as he forced his eyes shut.
The body behind him grunted, but didn't wake. The arm that slugged across him tightened.
Desmond steadied his breath. After a few successful ins and outs, they quickly deteriorated as the previous body cooed quietly to him. The grip released and rested a hand against his back.
With another breath of coos Desmond's body visibly started to relax again. The hand rubbed against his back between the segments up and down. With each of his breaths Desmond could feel their lengthening depth. The coos stilled his antennae, his little arms tucked away, and he melted into the nest underneath them.
He woke up before the light could break through their tent. The arm, Christopher's, had resumed its place around him during the night.
Desmond shifted between prawn and the child snuggled up to him. With a successful chirp, he crawled out of the nest and exited the tent.
Only a few of the aliens were out at this hour. There wasn't much at all to scavenge, especially after the relocation. Food supply was now completely monitored and controlled by MNU.
He walked out to a clearing where a few poles stuck out from the ground; a line of outdoor shower heads. Desmond recalled the reaction to these contraptions with a smile. The aliens weren't stupid; but as they quickly discovered how to turn on the outdoor showers they found them rather useless, perhaps even childish. It was a waste of water even though fountain areas provided clean drinking sources. They might run out of food, but at least they had been guaranteed full access to these sites.
The thought was a hopeful one in the first year. After several acts of resistance against their gate keepers, MNU exercised their complete control by cutting off their water supplies. The aliens quickly relented after a week. Eventually the water came back, and the food re-appeared.
Desmond neared one of these poles and pressed the button with a firm push.
The rush of water made him hiss sharply; it was cold. His body tingled because of it, but it was worth these small, null grievances. Despite the nature of his hard, blue-greenish carapace it was hard to feel beyond it. The force behind the water head felt like a sloppy message; but a message nonetheless and absolutely wonderful.
After ten minutes Desmond wandered farther out against the rough field. He squatted down to the ground, curled himself with his arms crossed and waited for the sun to come up.
The muggy air surrounded him. The accumulation of scents hung with it; but the District had finally quieted. The few vocalizations spouting out from within soothed rather than aggravated.
Peace. This is what he would have called it.
When he returned to the tent Christopher was sitting on the floor near a small table set to the corner. The child, his child, sat in Christopher's lap with a piece of meat in his mouth. Oliver ate with them.
Oliver had molted just over a year ago. The process of it appeared startling at first. Memories of his change could not be separated from the active metamorphosis. It wasn't as gruesome and disfiguring as his had been, but it forced his memories out with unsettling consequences. He had spewed bile just outside the tent even if there had been no awful stench to deal with (because the process was a clean one). But he swore he could still smell rot and the taste of stale iron in his mouth.
It wasn't painful for Oliver though, and with a bizarre fascination Desmond watched the dramatic metamorphosis occur (as much as he could tolerate). Both Christopher and he sacrificed most of their meals to sustain Oliver's rapid growth. While it would have happened anyways, less health risks (he'd been told) were associated with adequate nutrition during the change. It made sense, and so far Oliver's exoskeleton had sustained very few, if any, breaks.
Desmond trilled in light greeting, taking the only other spot left at the table.
"You leave. What time?"
After the transformation the language had been one of the hardest adjustments. Pieces his brain could hardly fathom to move for the right sounds to occur. He'd learned to give himself some patience, but even then, he was susceptible to bouts of frustration.
"Just before noon."
Christopher didn't look up. He watched the child.
"Time," Oliver repeated quietly.
"Time," he said slowly. Not quite getting the click at the end of the roll.
"Time…" Oliver nodded.
He grabbed for his piece, tearing it apart and chewing.
His son had a name. He settled with Theo, short for Theodore Stewart.
They sat in a mutual silence, Theo's happy chirps and whirls filling the emptiness. This seemed appropriate and nice for the morning, with every now and then interrupted by Christopher or Oliver talking; mostly to Theo.
The toddler appeared happy for the most part. Desmond wasn't sure what he made of it though. When an alarm sound rang – time for the morning pickups – Christopher finally made eye contact and automatically handed Theo over.
Desmond shook his head. Ripping the piece and swallowing the rest in a hurry.
"I will go. Today," he nodded. Avoiding the child with a gentle push back to Christopher.
"Are you sure?"
The crowds could get rough. Depending on who was there; the gangs weren't so bad, and there hadn't been any food shortages lately. For the most part, the colony was usually subdued after a full moon. He should be fine.
Christopher held his eyes though. It wasn't sentimental, rather, concern for his safety.
Desmond huffed and flicked his antennae in mild annoyance.
"Yes."
Christopher sat back, his eyes on Oliver.
"I'll go," he chirped. Finishing the rest of his meat and standing up.
Desmond shook his head, snorting through the bellows of his gills. He picked up a large, worn out fabric bag.
"We'll be back soon." Oliver nuzzled his father's face quickly.
The toddler warbled, watching them leave with an uncertain look directed at his father. One that Desmond failed to notice as he exited the tent with Oliver.
It would have been easier for Christopher and Oliver had he not begged them to help him. All he could recall during that state was the sound of his voice; not really intelligible, but the sound of it that had seared into his memory. Voice ragged and gravelly, parched and choking on the muggy air; the desperation came out in his vocalizations. Grunts, and wheezing; like a hunted animal pulling against the weight of its own dying body. Bleeding slowly and desperate to cling on to life.
Somehow his plea pulled through.
Oliver's fascination, now that he could look back on it, amused him.
'We will be the same soon.'
Little Oliver would compare their arms and legs throughout the process, when he'd been too fatigued to respond. He caught glances of Christopher, perhaps amused by his son but too polite to voice them in front of him.
And from then on he had only known Christopher as 'Guardian'.
"Desmond."
Desmond shook his head, and finally looked at Oliver. The boy laughed the way prawns did, a noise that was light on the tongue. Oliver's was strangely bright, the way it rolled off his throat.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded, and focused on where they were going.
"You weren't responding… I was going to start shaking you."
He snorted, glancing back with a wiry grin – for a prawn –. Desmond had discovered various expressions; it took him a while to process their subtle differences though.
"Tired today."
"You did not sleep well last night?"
"No. Bad night."
He approached the end of the line which had formed quickly and continued to grow.
"Let's play a game Desmond."
He raised a brow.
"It will be a long wait. It won't be that bad of a game."
Oliver smiled.
Fokk, the kid was too cute, even if he had changed to look like one of the adults.
"Fine."
"Okay… I'm nobody."
Desmond rolled his eyes; his vocabulary lacking, he took a moment to find the simplest response.
"Wise f-fool."
"-wise," Oliver repeated for him
"Wise…"
"Alone together."
Again, a long pause before, "Bitter sweet."
Despite their flaws and minor upgrades, the tents were close enough that they provided a sense of protection from MNU. Suicidal, if an agent thought he could walk in the thick of it. Tensions had their lulls, but any human willing to pass through the heart of the new District would certainly die from the hostility.
It provided an opportunity for 'the people' to be close to one another (while often beneficial, there were certain consequences). During the noon hours Desmond and Oliver would go to a different tent. Theo alongside, where one of the older adults taught some of the youngsters. Oliver would help, and sometimes teach classes himself. They were beneficial for Desmond, despite the youngsters and the amused smiles of the other adults when he left.
He thought he didn't care; why would he? He was different and he was not one of them. But he was neither human, he thought. Simply 'hybrid' would do; a one word summary.
He was playing quietly with Theo back at their tent, half engaged with the toddler and responding only now and then. The day went quickly, and now the sun hovered just above the ground. Oliver was reading over some notes his father had made; symbols Desmond didn't recognize.
Finally Christopher returned from his meeting with a trill. He smiled at Theo and Desmond.
"It's good to see you playing with him."
Christopher took a seat near him with a grunt. He reached out to stroke the toddler's face, and received a delighted screech. Desmond didn't respond. He let Theo walk clumsily towards Christopher and hug his leg. The adult instead scooped him up with a warm, rumbling laugh.
"How did the meeting go?"
Oliver abandoned the notebook and sat with them.
"It was okay."
Oliver waited for more, but Christopher was busying himself with the child instead.
"Father?"
"Hm?"
"What made it okay?"
Desmond watched the young thing. All grins and elated vocalizations; it looked nothing like a human baby. Its eyes, one blue and the other green, brought out Desmond's struggle to feel any paternal connection to the creature. It wasn't really his, was it? He couldn't deny that Theo was his own flesh and blood, nor could he deny that it was simple for its age and ugly.
"Little progress, but-," he grinned, admiring the little child. "-ah, the gangs are slowly working with us."
The toddler settled down, snuggled in Christopher's arms and looked at Desmond.
"Are you okay?" Christopher's eyes had settled on him.
"Yes, fine." He shrugged, pulling his eyes away from his kid and crossing his arms.
"What about the fluid?" Oliver went on.
Christopher shook his head. "No plans for this week. Too risky."
Oliver went quiet with a small nod. He got up and grabbed the notebook and sat beside his father.
"There's some of these that don't make sense to me. Can we go over them?"
Christopher trills with a nod. "Here Desmond."
Theo was handed off to him. He returned the child back down at his previous spot in the nest. The child crawled up to his legs, looked up and chirped.
Desmond frowned, pausing for a moment. "Hm?"
Theo giggled, stood on his legs and lunged at him. Desmond startled, squeaking as he pulled back.
"Hell… was that?"
His frown deepened as the buggy giggled its head off against his abdomen. The energetic boy tried climbing up his chest. Desmond pulled him off and sat him down on the ground. He gave the kid a few awkward pats on the head and shook his head.
Someone snorted at him, his gaze fell on Christopher.
"What?"
"He wants his father to hold him."
Desmond narrowed his eyes.
"I know…"
Christopher's gaze wouldn't leave.
"They only love bite."
Oliver stopped to watch.
Theo warbled in discontent, short rolls and tight vocalizations as he fought to snuggle up to his father.
"There," Desmond responded. Slowly taking the toddler and holding him in his arms. His tiny little antennae fluttered across his mouth pieces. It made Christopher smile, a very small smile; it might have made Desmond feel better. But not nearly enough.
For all his anticipation of having a child one day, this was not how he had ever imagined it. Hard to perceive with this spawn; this demon child, hard to imagine that came out of him.
The other children were spindly things, but they appeared natural.
Theo was slightly bigger than the other children of his age. He was also… slower. Not, 'up to par'. He should be speaking more often but he only vocalized sounds. Only sound; and the stupid thing was always happy.
"Here, take him." His voice came out sounding more frantic than he'd thought.
Without thinking he pried Theo from his chest and handed him over to Christopher; resisting the subtle shake in his hands.
Theo made a huff, a whine bubbled out into the open.
Christopher took him, cooing quietly. But it kept staring at him.
Desmond quickly shifted to the nest, and turned his back to the small group.
"Wikus." Oliver's voice quietly prodded the air. His hand gently on his shoulder; Desmond hissed.
"That is not my… -name." He tensed.
"Please, leave me be."
He could just close his eyes. For a few hours the world would cease to exist.
He sensed Oliver's hesitation before he left.
Desmond couldn't see Christopher, and although it was silent; he understood the fellow parent was most likely angry with him. His anger reminded him of coals; hidden and quiet, steady.
Theo started crying. Without tears; it was only by sound the way that prawns cried. The children sounded like they were chirping, little hiccup chirps and razor-like screeches. The odd, bubbling trill – clipped and uncoordinated.
The coos from Christopher changed nothing. For a moment Desmond would have snapped, but with a thankful pause the child thrummed quietly into the chest he was cradled against. The coos were sung into the air, it relaxed Desmond too. Quickly, he found rest as he fell asleep.
... to be continued.
