A/N: Hello again readers, here's a couple of longer chapters to hopefully make up for the wait. Thanks very much to those of you who left comments and Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate. Please enjoy, as everyone's favorite whiny bureaucrat joins the fray.

Warnings: Violence, eventual slash and xenophilia. Cannibalism. I've been told this chapter in particular is pretty squicky. Just a heads up.

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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"Every morning in Africa, a Gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a Lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest Gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are a Lion or a Gazelle... when the sun comes up, you'd better be running." – African Proverb

,.,

The man's head lasted them three days.

It might have been longer, but the child insisted they share the meager rations. Refused to touch his own food until he partook in the scraps of meat, slimy and dusty in the in the pocket of the tarp.

The woods bordering the river had sheltered them well, but now memory told him they must split away from the snaking stream and head south to the city.

He filled the jar with river water and sealed it. Urged the hatchling to drink one last time before they made for the open plains.

He hesitated on the border of the forest, looking beyond the skeletal remains of trees, and made to step from cover.

A tug on his ragged clothing stopped him.

"Father," the hatchling pointed to the southeast.

He looked.

Beyond the trees a man was running, two others in hot pursuit. Dark shapes, which he recognized as human tools, fitted and reshaped into weapons, were carried raised. Limbs jerked and flailed as the three men ran. One of the pursuers was faster than the other, creating a macabre parade as they raced across hillocks and ditches.

As he watched, the man stumbled, rolling over, raising clouds of ash as he slid to a halt. The swifter hunter was upon him in a moment. The tool-weapon lifted.

Small claws clenched in his clothing.

His heartbeats seemed far too loud.

The man cowered, hands raised.

The child tugged again.

"Father," high and anxious.

The arc gun came up.

His hands trembled and he missed the first one, though not completely. A human shriek of pain split the air as both lower limbs were vaporized. The man crashed to the ground, the weapon rolling away.

The other human turned while running, a wild jerking motion which almost tipped him over. Eyes twitched, focused, saw. Wide gash mouth opened; preparation for a cry.

His aim was true this time.

Blood and gristle rained upon the final man, still sprawled in the dust.

Silence.

He lowered the gun.

He broke from the trees and strode towards the men, antennae twitching as he scanned the area. No others appeared to have been alerted to their presence. The last man was frozen as he moved towards them.

As he approached a moan from the intact hunter indicated he still lived, though the blood pumping into the dust told him he would not be for long.

The sound seemed to bring the last human to life. Legs scrabbled, body lifted and lurched and the man tore away in the direction of the woods. Plunged into concealing brush and vanished.

"Wait!" the hatchling called, running after the human.

"Little one!" he lunged and snatched a tiny limb as the child made for the forest. "What are you doing?"

"I wanted to tell him that it's okay. That he's safe now."

"You cannot. He might hurt you."

"But we rescued him."

"It does not matter. He is not safe to approach."

Small antennae drooped, "Can I at least give him the peaches?" The clicked approximation was awkward in the child's mouth, but the foreign word didn't conceal the hope behind it.

He paused in his reflexive refusal at the strangeness of the request, "Why?"

"Because he looks hungry and scared too."

He could find no words.

Large eyes looked up at him without guile.

He sighed.

"Very well, but quickly. And be careful."

The hatchling clicked his acknowledgement and scampered towards the bushes where the human hid.

Keen eyes watched as the child placed the can down in the dust, a cautious distance away from the concealing brush.

"It's okay," the hatchling called, "we're not going to hurt you. These are for you."

"He can't understand you, little one."

"I know," the child hurried back to his side, small feet kicking up ash, "but maybe he understands what I mean."

"Perhaps, now come and help."

Life had drained from the wounded man as they spoke and he knelt beside the body. Reached out and ripped the scraps of clothing away, revealing skin stretched taut, ridges of ribs stark.

He ran a hand down the flat plane of the stomach, still and silent.

He had no need of human tools here.

Skin and muscle parted beneath his claws. He pulled the entrails away and reached for the internal organs. Peeled out the liver and offered it to the child.

The floppy reddish organ looked absurdly large in the hatchling's hands. The child hummed in contentment and bit into his prize.

Blood oozed sluggishly as he worked, no longer pushed along by the heart he could feel as he delved into the chest cavity. His claws severed veins, arteries. He pulled the pump from its resting place.

It filled the palm of his hand, still flush with blood.

He raised it to his face, bit. Liquid gushed into his throat. He swallowed.

As he continued to disassemble the man, slicing him into manageable pieces which were laid on the tarp, he came to an unsettling conclusion.

There was too much. They would need to dry the meat to prevent spoilage.

And the quickest way was also the riskiest.

He looked about the plain. They were still alone, no others come looking for the hunters or hunted. A low, small fire might be worth the risk.

"Little one, see if you can gather some brush."

The hatchling gulped the remains of the liver and chirped in agreement.

He finished butchering the man and set the meat aside. Digging into the ash with bloody claws, he scooped out a shallow depression for the fire pit. Dragged the tarp near the hole and raised part of it up over the hollow like a partial tent, to catch the smoke and heat.

The child returned with a small bundle of dry sticks. He dumped them into the hole and straightened, pointing "Father, look."

The human had crept from the bushes while he worked and had the can. Eyes jerked up, met with his and the man tensed, hunching over the metal cylinder. He held the stare for a moment longer, letting the human know that he was being observed, before dropping his gaze back to his work, though he continued to watch out of the corner of his eye.

"Little one, get the matches out of the pack."

After a moment the man returned his attention to the can, turning it over a few times, before reaching into his boot. A small, sharp bit of metal was produced.

The human wedged the can in the dust and stabbed the piece of metal down into the top, working it around the edge and peeling back the lid. Hands trembled as the can was lifted and tipped. Throat worked, gulping, the sucking sounds just audible to his sensitive ears.

A half-empty book of matches was slipped into his palm. With care he peeled out a frail paper stick, holding it between two fingers. He'd wasted a great many matches, snapped beneath fingers far too large to hold them, before he learned to do this properly. Bringing book and match down close to the dry brush, he struck.

Light flared as chemicals combusted, swelling into a tiny flame. He touched the match to the dried curl of a leaf and watched it catch, fire licking its way into the pile of kindling. Sat back and watched it smolder.

Dark was closing in, turning the nearby woods to an abstract black smear and the still seated man to a lighter smudge against them. He stirred the fire, fanning the thin smoke over the meat.

Sleepy and full from his meal, the child dozed by his side.

He turned the strips of meat, starting to crinkle and shrink.

The man remained in his position.

The fire was nothing more than glowing coals when he heard the scrape of boots against the ground.

The man, a shadow in the dim light of the fire, was creeping towards them.

He sat a bit straighter, hand resting on the arc gun, and watched.

The human scooted forward, half crouched to the ground like the simian ancestor it sprang from, inching into the circle of dim light cast by the fire. Crouched just inside the border and curled up, bringing its lower limbs in close to its chest.

He continued to watch.

The man peeked up for a moment and quickly dropped his gaze.

The fire crackled, a twig crumbling in a small shower of sparks.

The human stared at the fire.

"Did you like the peaches?"

The hatchling's voice startled them both; his hand clenched around the arc gun and the human twitched, a convulsive shudder which shook the entirety of his body. He opened his mouth to reiterate the futility of communication when the human spoke.

"Yeah, they were good. Thanks, kid."

He went still. Though over time his people and the humans who interacted with them had come to a mutual understanding of their respective languages, the chances of meeting such a person were still small.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, "How is it you can understand our language?"

The man flinched and fumbled, "Well, that is…"

His hand tightened around his weapon, lifted "MNU."

Eyes widened and the human began to scramble backwards, "Wait just a fokking minute, I—"

He rose to his knees, leveling the arc gun, "Go."

"I was a fokking pencil pusher, okay? Non-human relations, that's how I can understand your fokking language. I'm begging you man don't—"

"Father," the child's voice was pitched with distress.

"Leave, now. Go and you shall not be harmed."

"And go fokking where?" the human bellowed "Go back and be caught by the fokking blood gangs, stuffed into some larder and cut into pieces?" The man staggered to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, "Then just go ahead and fokking kill me now, 'cause that's what'll happen!"

He seemed to realize his threatening posture and tone and contracted in on himself, drawing his limbs in. His voice dropped, pleading "Please man, fokking help me."

"And what do you expect me to do?"

"I don't know. Let me go with you?"

"Impossible."

"Father…"

"Silence, little one."

"Please," the human cast about, desperate, "I'll help out, whatever you need. I owe you, you saved my life, gave me those peaches."

"A life debt?"

"You want to call it that, fine. Just please."

"You have no reason to trust or like my people. Why come to us?"

The man seemed to deflate. "You're the only people that gave a fokking damn," he said softly, shaking his head. It dropped towards his chest and a queer laugh erupted from him, "Not even people. Fokking prawns."

Silence hung between them for a long moment.

At last he spoke, "We have no extra food to share. You find your own."

The human glanced at the nearly dried meat by the fire and shuddered, "Agreed."

"Make one threatening motion towards myself or the child and I will not hesitate to kill you."

"Got it."

He settled back into his spot by the fire. After a few moments the man sank down, creeping closer to the dying flames. The hatchling tucked himself back in by his side.

"Do you have a name, human?"

The man looked startled for a moment before extending a hand, "Wikus Van de Merwe."

He stared at the limb as though it were some strange creature. He'd seen the humans greet each other in this manner, but no one had ever acknowledged him in this way.

He extended his hand slowly and wound it around the human's, graceless as too few fingers tried to clasp too many. Groped for the human designation they'd attached to him, mouth forming words he thought he'd left behind forever.

"My name is Christopher Johnson."

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