A/N: Well, I suppose that will teach me to say the story's finished already. Not even a comment, so sad. Oh well, I'll just keep posting this to the ether as I can and try to work on my other project. Got two more pieces to go up right now, mostly because chapter 3 is more of an interlude than a proper chapter, but it didn't really belong in this part, so I separated it out. Please enjoy.
Warnings: Violence, eventual slash and xenophilia. Cannibalism. Moderately gross chapter if you've not got the stomach for blood and guts.
Disclaimer: I do not own District 9, all characters are property of the respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.
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"He went from Graham's Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama's Country, and from Khama's Country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees." – Rudyard Kipling, Just So Stories
,.,
The river crawled before them, the waters thick and grey with sludge.
He paused on the bank to get his bearings. It was a dangerous place to be; the presence of water would attract others and the lap of the waves on the shore could mask a lurking enemy, but it was also the only true landmark he knew.
He retrieved the jar from the rucksack and squatted on the sand. He dipped up some water and held it up. Specks of sediment swirled and danced, spinning as though caught in a tiny storm.
He tipped the bottle and took a drink.
The taste of silt flooded his mouth and grit scraped against his throat, but the liquid lacked the foul flavor of fetid water. He extended the jar to the child.
The hatchling had to use both hands to support the jug as he sucked at the water. He finally pulled away, tiny mandibles working to collect the droplets which hung from his primary mouthparts, and handed the jar back.
He unlocked his legs and climbed to his feet, beckoning for the child to follow.
,.,
Four days out along the river they ran out of food.
He'd hoped they might find another hut, but the area they were passing through seemed mostly uninhabited. They drank from the river and continued on.
He considered opening the peaches and feeding them to the child, but it would be a pointless solution, filling an empty belly with something that could not nourish it.
Three days later they came across the carcass of a cow, stripped by humans or animals, the skeleton grey with dirt. He sifted among the bones, cracking open those that remained, too large and tough for whatever had killed the cow and offered the scraps of marrow not yet dried to the hatchling. He sat and rested, listening to the sound of the river and the scrape of small, bristled mandibles against the spongy internals of the bones.
"Father?" the question was hesitant.
"Yes?"
"Are we going to die?"
"No, we're not going to die."
"What if we don't find any food?"
"We'll find food."
"What if we don't though?"
"We have water, we can go a long way yet. We'll find something eventually."
"Father?"
"Yes?"
"How many moons does our planet have?"
"Seven."
"I want to see them."
"You will."
,.,
Hunger made him sleep more heavily, folded among the roots and brush at the base of a large tree and he was woken by the snap of a branch beneath a heavy foot.
He was instantly alert, hearts racing. Antennae waved, tasting the air: human scent, the crunch of leaves and sticks beneath many feet, the underlying stench of blood, his kind and theirs.
He glanced down at where the hatchling was nestled at his side. The little one was deathly still; the flutter of his breath almost unnoticeable, the glint of eyes the only sign of life in that instinctive rigor.
He gripped the arc gun more tightly and lay quiet.
The murmur of voices, speaking in a tongue he did not understand.
A raised utterance: anger.
Muttering.
The crack of a human weapon and a sharp cry.
The hatchling hid his face against his side.
More arguing.
His fingers were numb around the grip of the gun.
Wet, crunching sounds, an eternity of butchery, and then finally the tramping noise of their passage, footsteps fading into the distance.
He loosed one arm from his weapon, clasped the child to him and closed his eyes.
,.,
They'd left the head of the man they killed.
He stripped the muscle from the face and neck and wrapped it in a corner of the plastic tarp. Cracked the skull and scooped out the brains, which they ate immediately. Swallowed the eyeballs, which burst when eaten, filling their throats with liquid. Crunched and splintered the bones, sucking out every bit of marrow.
The sudden influx of sustenance was dizzying. He wanted to lie down and sleep, but they couldn't stay.
He closed the rucksack, tucking away the last precious scraps of meat "Let's go."
The hatchling didn't answer.
"Little one?"
The child was crouched; examining the stringy lump of hair and skin left when he'd ripped off the man's scalp and tossed it aside.
"Little one?"
"He looks a lot like the cows and goats we'd get back there. All in pieces."
"He's not though."
"I know."
"It's better not to eat humans."
"We ate him."
"The man was already dead, and we are starving."
"So it was okay to eat him?"
"Yes."
"If he was one of us, would we still eat him?"
He went still.
"Yes," he said finally. He knelt before the child, "I would do anything to protect you, to keep you alive. And if that means killing my own kind, eating them, then I will do it."
The hatchling met his eyes.
"Okay," he said.
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