Chapter 4

It was morning now. Sunlight from the half-open window dappled the floor through the curtains and the shrubbery outside. The two occupants of the top bunk dozed restfully, enveloped by the smell of warm skin and blankets.

There wasn't any reason that Jumba could discern why he should be feeling so good right now. He just did. His toes, sticking out of the covers at the end of the bed, twitched jauntily to a tune that wafted up from a fading dream. Still half-mired in sweet slumber, Jumba yawned heavily and threw one hand over his belly to scratch his hip. Ah – Pleakley had climbed up to join him again. The Plorginarian was still stretched across his torso, warm and cozy against his bare skin.

Yep – that sure was a lot of bare skin. Jumba could feel it, underneath his hand at Pleakley's waist, up where Pleakley's head was stirring against his shoulder, and down. . .where. . .

Jumba opened his eyes.

"Pleakley?"

Pleakley's eye was wide open now too. His jaw hung limp and over the skin of his cheeks the dull red stain of embarrassment and shock was spreading.

Jumba was staring at Pleakley. Pleakley had half-lifted himself up was staring down between them to where they were still. . .stuck together.

Slowly, Jumba lifted his hand off of Pleakley's waist. He couldn't quite see over his belly to where Pleakley was staring, but he could feel it, and he was having a hard time believing what he felt. Dazedly he laid his head back down on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

Pleakley summoned his legs back into use and gingerly, awkwardly, began to lift himself off of Jumba. The red stain on his cheeks remained, but he'd regained control of his jaw and his lips were now drawn in a thin line across his face.

Jumba winced in sympathy and looked over to Pleakley. "You are not being. . .hurt?"

"Nope." Pleakley replied. His sober expression did nothing to convey whatever it was he might be feeling right now. Or rather, it did a good job of hiding those expressions overtly, but Jumba knew that he was storing up for a nice, loud hysterical fit. Considering the situation, it wasn't uncalled for.

Surprisingly, Pleakley remained calm. He slid himself off of the top bunk and began to pick though the mess of clothes at the foot of the bed for his nightgown.

Jumba sighed and brought one hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Slinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he looked around blearily for his own clothes, but there was nothing left on the top bunk except his blanket.

"Could you please be passing me my undershorts?" Asked Jumba.

Pleakley handed them to him wordlessly. They were torn. He'd only had one hand to take them off because at the time his other hand had been occupied with its fingers right up Pleakley's. . .

Jumba groaned and covered his face with his hand at the sudden, vivid memory.

"Pleakley. . ." He began, struck with the rare feeling that this was something that needed talking about. But Pleakley was already gone, having slipped into his nightgown, grabbed some new clothes and a towel from the dresser, and headed towards the shower.

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For the rest of the day, Jumba was constantly in the state of having just missed Pleakley. After he'd finally dragged himself out of bed and gotten dressed, he found Lilo and 626 at the breakfast table eating fresh pancakes that Pleakley had made, but after inquiring as to his friend's whereabouts learned that he'd just left to bring Nani the packed lunch she always forgot. To his question about whether Pleakley seemed to be acting odd – two shrugs, a 'no' and an 'ich'.

Nani, down at the scuba shack, said Pleakley had gone to the beach a few miles upshore to deliver the new set of goggles to David for her.

David told him that he'd said something about going to pick up some groceries from Mrs. Hasagawa – you could still see his distinctive footprints in the sand headed towards town. From their uneven gait it was clear he'd been walking a little funny.

The trail ended at Mrs. Hasagawa's.

"Beakey!? Well, I never! Didn't anyone ever teach you some manners, young man?" Jumba couldn't have guessed that Mrs. Hasagawa was deeply sensitive about her nose, stemming from an unfortunate childhood surrounded by very insensitive classmates (you know how cruel children can be). The old lady rarely got very riled anymore, but today was the exception and before he could explain himself further, Jumba got the hose.

Clothes sopping wet, Jumba decided to make a strategic retreat. He was worried for his friend – Pleakley wasn't usually the one in their relationship to avoid emotional confrontation like this. Maybe some time alone would help him sort his feelings out. And if by chance Pleakley didn't come around by the end of the day, well, Jumba would think of something.

When an evil genius is out to find you, you'll find that you won't be able to hide for very long.

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Phew.

It had been a long day for Pleakley. Without even having to look very hard, he'd found that he had a million things to do – all those little things you never get around to doing until you have some extra time. He did have all day to avoid Jumba, and his mother had always said that work would expand to fit the time allotted to it. So here he was, sitting in the garden shed at the end of the day, eating a sandwich and waiting for the sun to go down so he would be forced to gather his courage and go inside the house. Or call his mother to tell her the truth and say please come get me off this rock I'll plead with the council I'll live as an outlaw anything ANYTHING just please getmeoutofhere!!! Either way he would need some courage, and it didn't look forthcoming.

He stepped out the garden shed and looked towards the house. Slowly, he found his gaze being drawn away towards the garden, where thank goodness there was still one more task left to occupy him while put off the inevitable. Blessed, blessed weeds.

Pleakley got to his knees and tenderly began to pluck the stubborn plants from where they crowded his vegetables – perhaps, he decided, to be put in a pile and replanted somewhere else. Near the shrubs maybe, where they wouldn't bother anyone. Not only would it fill up twice as much time, but he was feeling grateful to the little things, and also suddenly sympathetic.

His sister Plixley could find him a good, expensive, discreet doctor somewhere offworld. This was a family matter now – none of them would want the shame of having produced the first case of plorg-morphosis in over half a millennium. Still, it would have to be reported to the Council if he wanted to be relieved of his mission. Which he did want.

He didn't belong here anymore. He didn't know where he would, now. He'd never really felt at home on Ploozark, or at the Academy, or on any of the ships upon which he'd served. Only here, on this little wet rock called Earth, with his 'ohana. But he couldn't stay here anymore, not after what he'd done – after what he'd become.

Though he was crouched carefully, that. . .spot between his legs that absurdly, impossibly, hadn't been there just a few weeks ago still ached over last night's exertion. Pleakley desperately tried to ignore it. He simply couldn't dwell on the new feelings, the new instincts and sensations that his body was developing.

It was like going through puberty again, though Plorginarian puberty had been worldsdifferent from this. For one thing, Plorginarians normally reproduced through a sort of spawning technique, involving copious amounts of liquid and very little actual physical contact, except for a sort of leg-caress motion that occurred while both parties circled one another in whatever pool they'd chosen. Most Plorginarian youth went through a long period of preoccupation with their knees.

Not so for Kweltikwaanians, apparently. The point of emphasis was a little. . .higher. All of the instincts that Pleakley once had previously were beginning to disappear, to be replaced with new ones that he found completely baffling. Why did the sight of a cucumber or a long squash have to excite him so? Why did he suddenly favour the texture of firm, hard rock over the softness yieldingness of say, a pillow or a curtain? He was just now beginning to understand why humans were so obsessed with images of trains, tunnels, towers and caves, but he still found it a little. . .disturbing. It was all so. . .primal and uncivilized, in a way that Plorginarian reproduction had never seemed to be.

And yet it was so good.

Last night. . .Pleakley could not think about last night. It had been like wasting away from thirst – no, of being burnt alive, without ever having known what water was. Wanting something so desperately you could die for lack of it, but without even knowing what it is that you want, what it is that you need. And then, suddenly, it's there. Oh Ploozark, yes, it's right there, surrounding you, drowning you, never quite extinguishing you because you still want more and soon you're completely overwhelmed, being carried away by wave upon wave upon wave. . .

Hell, yes, it had been good. If Jumba were here right now. . .well, Lilo had better not be at the window, because the gardening shack was too far away and it was probably too small anyways and the ground in the garden had a nice bounce to it because of the peat moss he'd added last month. . .

Except of course nothing like that would ever really happen. Pleakley would simply deliver the speech he'd been composing in his head all day: he was sorry about the whole mess, yes, he would look into finding a doctor, no, it wouldn't ever happen again because he'd be sleeping in the ship from now on and did he mention he was sorry sorry sorry sorry?

And sorry, no. . .he still wouldn't allow Jumba to perform the examination personally, despite his fevered resolution of last night. He didn't want Jumba to have to look at him again, to have to see the unnatural mess that were his new reproductive organs.

Jumba did love him. Of this Pleakley had always been sure. He'd been the truest friend Pleakley had ever had. Only a friend, but still.

Pleakley knew he was disgusting. He'd felt it, weeks ago, when this had all started. He'd seen it this morning, in Jumba's face. He was sure that when he told his family about it he'd see the same thing in their eyes. It hurt all the more to know that he could still be so disgusting to someone who loved him.

What could you say to that? There really was nothing left to say. He'd been hiding all day, trying to find the courage to face up to the fact that it was over. It was all over: his mission, his friendship, his happy 'ohana here on this pretty little planet.

He would go away, live out the rest of his life as a freak, caught between worlds. He could look into reversing the process, reverting himself back to normal Plorginarian physiology – but he knew he would never be the same as he was, and in fact he'd never been truly normal to begin with. He could also look into re-shaping his body into a more Kweltikwaanian form, through bio-engineering or limb replacement or a number of modern medical options. Still, he knew he could never attain the kind of beauty that would make Jumba want him the way he'd once wanted his ex-wife, and he sort of liked the shape of his body as it was now.

There was no help for it. He'd just have to leave. But not now. Now, at least, he was still in the garden, picking weeds, with the rest of his 'ohana waiting inside for him so they could start supper.

Pleakley hummed to himself while he worked. As he approached the middle of the garden, he noticed an odd patch of red on the ground behind one of the pepper trees.

"Well, hello there little fella! Who left you out here all alone?"

It was a wig. A good quality one, too. Monofilament production, with long, cherry cordial locks in an 'angelique' design, with a hand-tied front for maximum styling freedom and an ever-so-slight wave.

Pleakley picked it up carefully and dusted away the few twigs that had dared to mar its silky perfection. Glancing around to see if anyone was looking, he took off the sunhat that he'd decided on for the day and tried it on. It was a perfect fit.

"Well, I think I'm just going to have to take care of you from now on, cutie-pie. I have a feeling you and I are going to be the best of friends."

Only a few feet away, Pleakley happened to spy another wig, this one a lovely mahogany brown with just a hint of darker highlighting. And further on, another one, and then another, and yet another.

The trail just kept on getting better – blonde wigs, red wigs, brown wigs, in every style and texture imaginable. There was one with a high-top retro 60's look, a green one for parties or just for fun, and oh, look – he didn't have any long dreadlocks yet. Tickled pink, Pleakley ambled further and further behind the house, picking up another wig every few feet. He didn't even notice that he'd been led right to the base of the open spaceship hatch until suddenly the trail stopped, and there he was.

"Aha! I have you now!" With surprising speed, Jumba stepped out from behind a nearby clump of bushes, slung Pleakley over his shoulder, and carried him up into the ship. By the time Pleakley overcame his shock, the spaceship hatch was already closed and nobody in the house could hear him screaming bloody murder.