Symbiosis

Rating: T - M (Rating my increase in later chapters).

Disclaimer: I don't own this, but I so wish I did. The Yautja are probably the coolest alien species I've run into.

Summary:She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was trying to gain honor and prestige. But life had other plans. Now, bound together, they must survive as a single unit. Easier said that done, considering that she's human and he's an alien. Oh, and there's the small matter of government experimentation. . .

Warnings: None, really. A small spattering of some language, and a small amount of disturbing images/ a little bit of gore.

Author's Notes: Hello, and welcome to this. . . Well, I don't really know what the hell it is, really. It's a fanfiction, but I don't really know where it's going. I don't have an end for it. But let's get through this first arc together, and when that happens, we'll probably figure it out! But anyway. I was inspired after reading a few fics on this site, and I thought, hey, I might as well bring my own fic to the table.

Updates will be slow, anticipate that. But I hope I'll bring something new to the whole "girl gets tangled up with the Yautja." Also, summary subject to change.

And hey, a little government experimentation never hurt, right? Let's get onto the prologue!

I am so sorry. One of my other files bled into this one. I fixed it!

"When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Do you see the real you, or what you have been conditioned to believe is you? The two are so, so different."
-David Icke

Drugs, she mused, were really fucking trippy.

Her head lolled to the side, the room leaving fuzzy trails in her vision as her eyes lazily tracked from one side of it to the other. It was hard to focus on much, but she tried. She knew that so long as she tried to concentrate on a single thing, she was able to do it. . . usually. It depended on how much crap they decided to shove into her veins that day. . .

That day.

Her thoughts stopped there, hitting against a mental barrier as they tried to tumble over themselves.

Just how long have I been here, anyway?

In the back of her mind, a voice tried to respond, growling in anger, but she tuned it out. She didn't want an answer. . . She was scared to know it. She'd lost count a long, long time ago - but had she ever really kept track, though? It was so hard to ell when it was night, when it was day. . . All she knew was that she slept, or she was awake. She had two modes of existence: on and off.

She heard a rustle, and it piqued her interest. She turned her head, fighting against the heavy lead weights that tried to make her chin drop onto her chest. It was a very enticing option, though, and it took nearly everything she had in her to resist it. It would be utterly amazing to fall asleep, though. To just let her head fall down, allow her eyes to shut, her mind to drift off. . . She found her strength slipping away, and her head started to dip, her chin hitting her chest. Inwardly, she screamed, fighting it, trying to ward off sleep, but it was quickly becoming a futile effort.

Discordant bits of sound ran through her mind, and rapid-fire images assaulted her, reminding her of times and places before, of a life without florescent lights and the overwhelming smell of sterile bleach. . .

The rustle sounded again, somehow giving her the strength to open her eyes. She remembered now - she had something to do. She had to focus on something. . . The sound! Yes, the sound. It was her objective. God, they must really be laying it on me pretty thick today. . . I almost fell asleep. Normally she lasted a minute or five, not just a few seconds. The sound continued, but she identified it as papers shuffling together.

Through a monumental effort, she finally managed to lift her head. For a long moment, she tried to place exactly what she was looking at, but she was having difficulty doing it. The shapes kept blurring together, forming amorphous masses. But by concentrating, and staring, eventually, the picture began to clear. And she jumped (albeit very, very sluggishly), as a strangled, half-dead mewl floated into the air, startling her.

. . . And she felt a lance of anguish spear through her as she realized the noise was coming from her.

And it was very easy to see why.

She looked like a sci-fi science experiment come to life. Half of her head had been shaved clean, wires and ports and tubes sticking out of angry, red skin. More tubes and pipes and hoses were hooked into her arms and legs, covering practically everything else. The rest of her looked like a walking, diseased skeleton. Her skin was pulled tight over her bones, and horrible, ugly bruises spanned the entirety of her, making her look like a damn leper. Her naked body was only covered by a hospital gown that tied in the back, but it rode up her thighs, revealing more of her than she would have ever liked to show. In another time, another life, she supposed she might have felt a measure of modesty. As it were, she could only manage to drop her eyes, avoiding her reflection. So long as she didn't see herself, then she couldn't feel bad about it. . . right?

"Good, you're awake." A voice said.

She knew it well. It belong to a man, a man that questioned her relentlessly over and over. She was wary of this voice, for it had pried and picked her brain apart until it had been nothing. And then he pressed on, dissecting her until nothing remained.

Against her will, she lifted her eyes up again, looking at her reflection. Lank, brown hair hung down her left shoulder, looking dead and limp. She frowned. There had been a time, she was certain, that it had been glossy, when it had caught the sun's rays and bounced, healthy and full of life.

She frowned, trying to look past the mirror, to the other side of the glass, where the main waited, she was positive. He was looking her now - the Man Behind the Glass.

One day she'd see him. She'd commit his face to memory, she was sure.

"Did you sleep well?"

The voice in the back of her head snarled, furious as a caged animal, tired of being ignored, but she continued to push it aside, not wanting to acknowledge it. She didn't want to think about the voice, or the consequences of trying to talk to it. In any case, the question was rhetorical. He asked her that every time. Instead of answering, she looked over the features of the room - and found none. It was a blank, white room. Florescent lighting buzzed overhead, beginning to irritate her.

"Anyway, let's move on. How are you feeling?"

It wasn't a question of sincerity. It was a scientific one.

It had been a hard, hard lesson, but she'd found out that as a person, they really didn't give a rat's ass about her.

"M'tired." She mumbled. It was much easier to be honest than it was to lie. She'd also learned that earlier. Lying caused a great deal of pain. Telling the truth was met with less pain.

"Yes, I can see that. Well, don't worry. We'll keep our conversation short today. You'll be sleeping again soon."

That's good. Sleep sounds good.

"We only have three questions for you today. Three very simple questions. Are you ready?"

Silence.

Oh, they were expecting an answer.

"Okay." She said warily, forcing her sluggish tongue to cooperate. The drugs racing through her system were wicked that day, apparently. Normally, she was sure she wasn't this low.

"Good. Question one. . . do you remember your name?"

She looked at herself in the mirror, and she caught her breath. In the reflective surface, she looked. . . She looked terrified. Her eyes were a little wide, too wide, and her mouth was open, breathing in air in shallow, short little pants. She closed it, trying to force herself to calm down, but it didn't work.

"My. . . my name?" She rasped, staring at her reflection.

"Yes. Your name. The designation you were given at birth. Do you remember it?"

"I. . . I can't-" She stuttered, her tongue unwilling to form the words.

What was her name? What was that thing that people had called her? She could remember friends and family, turning to her, speaking to her, calling her something. It was important that she remember it, she knew. But the drugs were just. . . shit, she couldn't think. She couldn't remember anything past the last ten minutes. In the back of her mind, the voice stirred, offering a quiet answer.

It didn't feel right, it wasn't her, but it was all she had.

"R. . . Rhet. Ree-jeet. My name is. . . is Riejet."

"Close." The Man Behind the Glass urged. "Try again."

The voice barked at her, snapping out the word like the crack of a whip, and she understod.

"Rjet." She answered, proud to have remembered.

There was a beat of silence, and the voice neither praised nor berated her. Finally, however, he responded.

"Can you not remember your name?"

But I. . . I just said. . .

"It's Rjet." She said. "It's got to be. . ."

A stinging wetness burned her eyes as tears built there, threatening to fall.

"No reason to get upset. Can you not remember your name?"

She gave a tiny shake of her head, all she could manage. "R-Rject." She murmured, trying again.

"Another time. I'm sure you'll remember it another time. Let's move onto the next question, then. Do you remember what happened to you?"

At that, the raging voice in the back of her head fell silent.

For a moment, however, the room flashed, and she smelled the earthy, pleasant aroma of dirt, felt a biting cold in her skin, and something black glistened in the dark. . . But that was it.

"No." She replied. The images and scents were gone as quickly as they'd come, much to her unexpected relief.

"I see. . . Now, last question. Have you been talking?"

Her heart leaped up into her throat, and she struggled, shaking her head. She knew better than to try and act out, to disobey the voices. It meant pain. Endless amounts of pain, agony, and blood, but she didn't want to answer this question. She felt her stomach drop as the seconds ticked on, and she hiccuped, shifting around, fear racing through her veins. She didn't want to say the answer.

"Please," She begged, tears sliding down her cheeks, "Please, don't. . ."

"So you haven't." There was no anger or disappointment in his tone, and that made her still in horror.

"Please," She tried again, "Please, I swear, stop, don't-"

"We expected so much more of you," The voice continued, ignoring her teary appeals, "So much more."

She knew what that meant. Above the buzz of the lights, she began to hear another kind of humming noise, one that made her blood freeze in her veins. She cried, even though she knew it was useless, and she tried to thrash in her restraints, attempting to break free, but that was unsuccessful. And finally, as the humming grew louder, she slumped over and gave in completely, sobbing, ehr chest heaving.

When the electricity hit her, it took her by surprise, as it had millions of times before.

Her back arched, and all of her muscles contracted at once, seizing painfully under her skin. And then she was lost to torture, her mind detaching from her body, as it always did after. She'd lost track of exactly how many instances they had shocked her, sending volts of electricity into her veins, making her convulse. The shock seemed to last for an eternity as she suffered, but then it ended, and she slumped over, head lolling forward.

As unconsciousness began to engulf her in slow, lazy spirals, she felt. . . She felt something.

A small, tiny spot of resistance. Though it was minuscule, it glared with a core of tenacity so bright, she couldn't help but be affected by it. She blindly latched onto it, absorbing what she could, and from what she could siphon, she had enough strength to feel defiant, to glare absolute murder at the mirror, at the men in white coats who were probably staring at hr.

She thought of reaching through the glass, shattering it, taking the shards and digging them into tender skin, of reaching in and tearing out the Man Behind the Glass's tongue and heart out of his chest with her bare hands.

"Fuck you." She seethed.

Somewhere, in the back of her head, she heard a dark, barking laugh. A glow of agreement prickled over her skin, and other images settled into her vision. She could see her hands digging into a spine and viciously tearing it out, blood and gore dripping from her black talons.

Pauk de.**

For a moment, silence reigned. But then the speakers crackled to life, and she swore she heard him smiling.

"Very good. Very, very good. . ."

And with that, her head dropped onto her chest, and reality faded.

Pauk de == Fuck you.