Ngoc Chau does not own District 9.

Oh, do you guys want to hear something ironic and funny that could ever only happen to me?

On the 22nd, my mom and dad got me.... the District 9 dvd!
I was so excited and I wanted to watch it so badly, however I was to go to a get-together with my friends in just a few more hours and before that I would have to stop by my uncles' place. My dad told me to bring the dvd since he thought that we could all watch it at their house. I brought it over, but we spent most of the time talking and discussing books like Asimov's or East of Eden. Anyway, my mom suggested that I should let my uncles borrow the dvd so that they could watch it because I wouldn't have time anyway tonight to watch it (Incidently, I got back from the get together at around 11:30 pm).

I lent it to them and they said that they would swing on by tomorrow and return it to me.
They didn't.
The next day, they still didn't.
The day after that, they didn't.
In fact, they left for Toronto on Christmas Day.
So right on Boxing Day, my mom and I drove all the way to Kanata from Ottawa to get a single dvd. So it's ironic that my dad had said I shouldn't have opened the dvd from its packaging before Christmas, but I end up waiting until the day after Christmas day to watch it.

On a sadder note, Boxing Day had really crappy weather of which I secretly blame my uncles and my dad for but still my mother didn't like to see me sad without watching the dvd and always look at the calender, so she left in the morning to drive through freezing rain all the way in the countryside to get it for me. I cried because a mother's determination can be touching and scary at the same time. I was so scared that she would get hurt and I told her that it didn't matter to me as long as she was safe, I could wait another day or week. But she couldn't take my little depression so she left to go get it for me. I love my mother so much and each day, I'm thankful for her.

My sister on the other hand..... nice and all, but I wish she could be mute as Fumnanya; what a dream that would be.

To Toni America; what's a "Night Walker"? You mentionned it in a review for chapter 1.

The room is dusty almost, with faint circles on the ground that resembles something like foot-prints. The glass is gone from the windows, the montiors have been cracked and broken to pieces. There are only primitive instruments that are used for the most basics of math and sciences. All their technology that have been the most advanced are reduced to rubble and twisted cord. Stained metal of dark orange, greying black and dingey white decorate the top of the entire area. It is cold, almost metallic, a place where thoughts and ideas only existed and people were only there as puppets. But the light pours in from the window. The florescents above provide an eerie light glow to everything.

Chistopher Johnson, Vartickes-Trist 8-3 1001010010 as he's known on the Mother Planet, sits at a table, it's like an island in a sea of keyboards and dials around him. He actually writes -not type- his findings and musings on the scratchy material that they used as paper. The People, the Poleepkwa, have only been thriving for about the last decade after they were sure the Red Sickness had passed on and the chance of infection was lower.
Since his return, they are all trying to help him, to help themselves restore their once-great civilization. There are no Whole-beings for the time now. There are no scientists. There are no philosophers. There are no soldiers. There are only farmers and workers.
He misses the old days when their kind was striving for dominance and advancement.

He plans what he is to do. Perhaps an invasion is called to order. But if he does invade, would he take mankind as slaves as they did to his kind for almost 3 decades?
Would he instead just blow up the whole planet?
Maybe taking it over as another piece for their planet would be an option?
Now if he is to go for a rescue mission, how many ships would he need and would soldiers be neccessary? Perhaps robots?
He is unsure of that so far. He still wonders..... Many of them have been turned into savages to survive. Many of them are being experimented on. Could there be a chance of rehabilitation for them? Could he undo the barbaric treatments and bring them back into civilization that he himself is fortunate to still have after years of brutality?
He plans on how to bring the civilization back on its feet, standing taller than ever. It will not be easy, he realizes. It will be difficult to bring back the days of yore.

Suddenly, his ponderings are melted away like sand on the coast by his child's happy chirping like an Earthen bird.

He runs in, his pattering footsteps echoing in the enormous laboratory. "Father!" he trills out loud.

The large green Poleepkwa pushes away his work and backs up his chair, creating a pathway allowing acess for his young one to climb onto his lap. Oliver jumps up with enthusiasm and childish delight. He wears the formal sno and bright yellow robes that cover his shoulders and thin arms. He swings the long excess of fabric around like it is a net and the swooping noise fills the room.
Vartikes compliments, "You're looking very sharp this morning."

Oliver giggles with high growls and points with a tiny hand to the small patterning at the hems of the sleeves, "Look, the moons and the suns are on here!"

"Yes, yes. It's very nice." He looks closer at his son's hand and notices the browning ragged socks that he wore as gloves are still worn by him.

He supposes that although he is glad to have left Earth, he still misses the planet where he spent almost all his life on. He is sentimental just as he is, sporting the rags that marked them as slaves to the White Man on the blue and green planet. He pats his son's head lovingly and turns back to his work, still with Oliver sitting in his lap.
As he writes, the scribbling and scratching sound of the thin Thyngea wood strands brushing and glopping onto the paper, Oliver suddenly asks curiously, "Father, why did they call you that?"

He stops writing and sets the utensil down with a subtle tap on the wooden-like table.
"They call me what?" he asks. His son fidgets in his lap and positions himself that they are facing each other eye to eye. His long thin antennas tap against his father's brow and it tickles.

"I heard them call you 'Vartickes' and 'Trist'. What do those mean?"

He wonders why his son would ask such a question and remembers that during all their talks of their culture back on Earth, he had never once brought up the usage of names. "Well, 'Trist' is a rank that I earned a long time ago when I was here. It is an honorable rank that one would be proud to have and when you grow up, you shall have it from me. But 'Vartickes' is what I was called when I still lived here. It is my real name and it is...." he hesitates trying to recall the fact that he did indeed have a father a very long long time ago, "and it is your grandfather's name, and his father's name and so on. For as much as I know, I have carried on the name of my fore-fathers."

His baby-blues widen even more, "Grandfather?"
Vartickes cocks his head, his thick plates neck cracking as he does so. Of course, he has never known a thing about earlier generations other than parents. His mother had no relations to be called grandmother, grandfather and so on. As for him, he offered nothing of that sort other than friends and others who he could trust. He realizes the idea of someone older -literally someone who had given life to his father- is foreign to him and it had never crossed his mind until today.
Oliver continues asking, "Where is he now? Will I meet him today?"

He does not know how to tell his son the unfortunate part of it with that adorable look boring into him. But he tries nonetheless, he does not really believe in lying, especially to one who trusts you so much. "Not today, Oliver. You won't meet him.... ever."

His eyes -if possible- grows wider and he chirps sadly, "Why is that?"

Vartickes takes in a deep breath and prepares to give a thorough enough answer, "Young one, do you remember when your sister left us?"

He nods, "Yes, I remember."

"Well.... do you still recall the reason why she left?"

"She found a mate and he wanted her to live with him."

That is half the reason, but he does not want to tell his son just that. He wants to tell him everything, "Yes, that was part of the reason. But the main reason why she left us was because she was all grown up. It's tradition for a mature adult poleepkwa to leave the home of the parents and embark on their own lives. It's a traditional of our people called 'Cutting the Hnindai'."

"Was that why you told Sherry that she could never come back? You weren't angry with her for choosing that guy you didn't really like?"

"Yes, that was the real reason. But I couldn't oppose who her mate was to be, she was grown up and it was her own choice." he closes his eyes and thinks of his daughter that he never saw again after she left him that day on the hill of garbage and metal. He wonders if she is still strong and still alive. He regrets not trying to find her when they left to go on to the mother ship. He regrets not allowing her to join Pro-Forma when she wanted to, for fear that she would get hurt or killed. It is a strange thing to pretend that you have no child and try not to interfere in their lives or care when you so want to and you still love them very much.

Oliver's taps on his breathing chest cavity and asks, "How come Sherry and me weren't named 'Vartickes' like you, father? You were named after your father and he was named after his father; so.... wouldn't Sherry and me be named 'Vartickes' too?"

His attention goes back to the child that is still so small and helpless, "You would've been, at least you because I fathered you, Sherry would've been named.... Reol because her father was named that. But on Earth, remember, MNU assigned our names and if we spoke our tue names, they would've killed us."

Oliver nods and then asks him, "But why are you named after the person before you? Why not something different?"

He opens his mouthparts to answer, but realizes the answer is not in his mind. He doesn't know the reason why. He knows why a child must leave home when they are grown up and that it is usually custom that off-spring carry their parent(s) name in some way, but he does not really know the reason for carrying on a parent's name. "I don't know."

"You don't?"

"No."

It's quiet for the time being. Oliver asks for some paper to draw on and a writing utensil. His father relinquishes it to him without a moment of hesitation. As he continues writing and his son continues to draw on his lap, a small group of new adults walk in, some he can recognize from last night when they heard the first part of his story. He continues to write, finishing his final thought until he looks up to the crowd before him. "Hello, are you looking... for something?"

They stand before him and there is an awkward silence, filled by the scribblings and gloppings of the pen on paper by Oliver.
Finally, an adult pollepkwa with yellow spots and a mossy green body speaks up, "I... we..... would you tell us more about.... 'humans'?"

"You want to know more about humans?" he clicks out.

They all nod eagerly and Vartickes sits back in his chair, his arms instinctively wrapping around Oliver's little form and drawing him closer and stroking his back, "What is it you want to know about them exactly?"
He thinks that he has told them enough about the humans, but apperently that are not satisfied with it. They want to know about something that is unknown to them and perhaps that they will never see in their excelled lifetime. Perhaps it is better to live on in a world where space travel is possible, but completely useless.

A look of excitement sparks from a few of them and the bombardment of questions commences. "Were they really as savage as you told us?"

"Well, a lot of them were. The humans that hung around the slums were unbelievable not the most savage ones. The most savage ones were not the ones toting guns around, but the ones in black suits with the power in a pen and their signature." He recalls the MNU agents who had always walked around District 9 every few months or weeks to inspect that none were hiding weapons. He remembers the chills that he felt when he saw the cold icy gaze of the officials in thei white shirts and black slacks that were well tailored compared to the reflective black masks of the soldiers and mercenaries who stood amongst them. Perhaps he felt the mercenaries were actually safer because he could not see their faces and identify them as human or perhaps he liked to have imagined then that they were simply unfeeling robots who followed orders. Still, the thought that Brains had ruled all in MNU scares him still.

"Did they burn everybody? Alive?" There is a sound of doubt in the voice, as though this one does not believe that such inhumane things could be done to a living creature and being.

His eyes cast down sadly as he recalls the scenes of shacks of poleepkwa young being burned alive and the faces of the stricken poleepkwa parents crying and sobbing in agony. The room suddenly feels both light and heavy with his response. "Yes... they did."

The silence is almost unbearable but there is a sense of guilt with it. It is as though they pay their respects for these unknown pollepkwa who were not careful or lucky enough in life or who did not even have a chance in life.

Another speaks up, "These humans.... what they did they look like exactly?"

"Exactly?" he inquires.

"Yes." they all say at once.

His antennas and feelers twitch up and down and his pincers make quizical clicks on his mandibles and mouthparts, "Isn't it enough to use your imagination? What generation is this that you have to depend and rely on images to know?"

A few laugh at the joke of 'them young folk', but some seriously answer, "Your descriptions of the humans in your stories are well, but we want to see to know what exactly they resemble. They sound so strange in your tellings. Like... they did not have the pincers on their mouths?"

He shakes his head.

"Nor do they have the abdominal arms?"

He shakes his head once more.

"How do they even sense without the Quadaps-antennas?"

"They have noses." he answers very quickly.

"Noses?"

Of course they would now know about human anatomy like that. Even they lack noses and their pincers and antennas served as the human equivalence for them. Their mouth parts and hands were extra sensitive as well in lieu of the lack of nerves over their exoskeletons. All of a sudden, Oliver in his arms points to the table and paper that he had been working on. He trills with a delightful little sound that he finds his son more endearing if possible and his baby blues close in as the muscles and joints of his face spreads throughout his skull in what would seem as a Poleepkwan smile. But the thought of his son being infantile washes away like sands on beachy waters when he regards with great awe and almost fear at what his son had produced in mere moments.

It is a picture.

The picture looks more than a picture; a looks like a moment of life had been cut out and pasted right there for all to see. The figure is a woman. This woman has long straight hair that curls right at the very tips down her spine and almost carresses the flesh. She gazes up into the skies above with wet water dripping down her face and form. As far as he can tell, she is naked. Nude. Bare and shows all to everybody who can see it. Her face is at profile and she appears familiar to him. But he daren't name her. He does not believe that his son could remember her face, her body, her unmistakable thoughtless expression like that.
With an expression of pure relief and ease, a small smile is seen and her hands, palm up, are held out. The curve of her belly potrudes out and her buttocks almost sag with aging flesh although there are no wrinkles and her breasts are not too low. The strokes from the ink varies from full shadows to thin delicate lines. He can almost recognize this scene; he can by the background of shoddy looking shacks that have been almost illuminated by sweet rain water and dirtied by moss at the base.
He can swear that he's seen this woman in this state long ago, but he is unsure if it was a dream at that time or merely a hallucination. The picture is life like. His hearts almost beat faster and he wants to cry at seeing this fresh scene. His eyes follow from the slope of her thighs to the round bulbous forms of her ass and fleshy stomach -not too fat, but certainly not thin, her small breasts, to the long bow of her neck stretching upwards.

His hand reaches out to grasp the picture and he holds it up. He looks at his son who stares at him with those baby-blues. He directs it to the crowd of Poleepkwa. They all gasp and marvel at it. "Trist! Is... is that what a human looks like?"

He nods his head and they comment upon the piece that had unfortunately been drawn on aging stained paper.

Their voice mixes together, "......They're so strange....... Do they all look like that with all those curves and stumpy limbs?...... How can they have so many fingers like that? Doesn't it get in the way?........ They're so fat........ There's so many strands on their heads............ They're so hairy!........ Their eyes are small; can they see at all?.......... What tiny little mouths........... How can you defend yourself with a body like that?............ Do they walk around naked all the time?...... They look so barbaric...... They seem rather lascivious to be flaunting a deformed body like that..... Disgusting!......"
One reaches his ears and he delights in hearing it, "Actually he looks rather nice, beautiful almost."

He corrects, "It is a 'her'."

"Her?"

"A maternal figure." he puts in terms that they can relate to.
In their hermaphroditic nature of Poleepkwan beings, it is difficult to truly label one as male or female. All are male when they have not yet reached adulthood nor have attained a mate. All are female when they are in heat and are at the age to be able to produce young. Finally, they are given roles to how they affect their youngs' lives; paternal when they teach and maternal when they care. He has played both parts in his life so far. Maternal to his second child, and paternal for his first. He continues, "And yes.... she's beautiful."

He points at her breasts, "This is a human maternal being. This is where she feeds her young when they are born and one of the methods of how she attracts a mate in the first place." It is not entirely true with the over simplification of breasts, but it almost sums up human hormones.
He points to her lower region of her ass and vagina, "She will bear young and only she would be able to. Her mating partner will not be able to produce young himself, not carry it during incubation, and upon conceiving it, but he will aid in creating the life. Both partners are needed, none can produce off-spring themselves."

"How strange..... how do they do it?"

"Pardon." he chokes on his own tongue.

The young poleepkwa asks, "How do they do it? Reproduce -mate?"

"The same as us, with..." he looks down at his son who looks confused with the matters of sex and mating. "That is not something to speak of now. I can tell you what happens next in my story if you want."

The silence is awkward, almost feigning disappointment. But they all agree to have him continue the tale of his time on Earth.

She didn't show up the next day or the next week.

Again, it had been the next month that he saw her again.

He was in the district again and had been scavenging through the trash for his next meal when he heard a sort of whistle. It was not the whistles of the woman Abeni -Fumnanya, he kept reminding himself. Her whistles had been full and almost unhalting, while these whistles were high pitched and projected a kind of hollow tone. If anything, the sounds were more irritating than haunting. He wondered who could be whistling like that; it couldn't have been another mute person like Fumnanya. He continued digging for something remotely edible to his kind that had not been tainted with medical waste or any chemicals that often wound up in the trash. The most he had been able to find were banana peels, old empty cans with jagged ends, and the occasional greasy wrapper which he started growing accostumed to.

He continued hearing the whistles all through out the day that it both burned at his ears and beckoned to him. As he dug through the trash, he kept on the jacket that she had given to him. He didn't want it getting completely soiled in trash and sweat, but he couldn't risk it taking it off and having another Prawn steal it or even eat it. Besides, he thought if he wore it, she would've been able to recognize him with ease.
The second time when she had saw him, she had mistaken another prawn for him and even tried to communicate with it to ask it about him. He supposed that with the jacket as almost a red flag, she wouldn't be put in that predictment for the next time and could come straight to him.

From the morning he had dug through the trash for his first meal then he had dug through for his scavenging of remnents of the Alien Spacecraft that MNU had by miraculous chance overlooked and contained some concentrate fuel. On and off for most of the day he would hear that whistling sound carrying something of a broken tune. It was not particularily the greatest thing he ever heard, nor was it starting to be very pleasant. Christopher soon wondered where and how a noise could be found in District 9 where even all the radio offered to them was static. His curiosity urged for him to just take a minute or 2 out of his time and find out what could be the source of it.
The little voice goaded him that perhaps it could be something worthwhile and he would only slap himself later for not taking that chance to seek it out.
On the other hand, his logic and fidelity to the task at hand warned him if he did go off to try and find it and see that it was nothing, it would be moments that could never be earned back.

When the sun was high in the sky and everything turned golden in the yellow rays, he got fed up; not by his curiosity, but by how much louder the noise was growing and more discordant the notes and tunes were becoming. He placed the objects that he had found to keep and to go through later in his bucket and made sure that they were well secured inside with no risk of anything falling out. He carefully listened to where more of the harsh and flat notes that made him wince was coming from. Through the crowds of gambling Prawns and humans, the huts that were occupied by loitering gang members of a new Non-Human movement that called themselves Pro-Forma, and the bustling busy Prawns that sold their trash along with the humans that sold their rotting meat and cans of cat food; he found the source.

Right next to an oversized man whose eyebrows were bushy and covering most of his eyes and worked cutting raw cows apart with selling canned cat food on the side of his business sat Abeni.... Fumnanya, actually.

She wore greying blue jeans that appeared old and well-worn. Over the close-fitting jeans was a red and black t-shirt with a small insignia over the left breast, the sleeves covered her arms to her elbows and the collar folded outwards, though it was bent at all the wrong places and made it look like she had simply thrown the shirt into a closet or a drawer and then pulled it out without straightening it. All in all, it looked like the sort of bowling shirt that he saw the other humans in the District wear and hanging up on the clotheslines in town. Her long hair was pulled back into a bun that pulled on all strands on the side of her head, making it look rounder, and the bun itself weaved and bobbed into each other that it was difficult to tell where it began and where it ended. It seemed like she didn't know he was standing right in front of her.

Almost by pure instinct and a sort of urging that came to him, he quickly took off his jacket; rolling it up into a crumpled heap and stuffing it into the buckeet in his other hand.
'See? Wasn't it worth it?" a little voice asked him inside his cranium.
He wanted to run to her and ask her where had she been for the last month. At the same time, he was shamefully embarrassed to go up to her and ask and expect an answer that would stroke his ego. Christopher immediately tried to destroy the little fantasy act that went on in his head about what she would say to him -rather, what she would write to him. He was stuck motionless in front of her as both prawns and humans passed between the 2 of them. He wondered if he should make the first move and approach her while he imagined perhaps she would feel more comfortable to decide whether or not to acknowledge him instead of talk to him out of obligating thanks for the first time he had saved her.

Not wanting to be in anyone's way and having the chance of starting a fight that he would definitely not want to finish or be a part of, he went off into the sidelines and watched her from a close distance that if she did in fact spot him, he could immediately jump into a pose that would have almost anyone believe he had simple been around and the meeting itself was coincidental. He watched her as she pointed to a newspaper that she had clenched in her hand. She laughed her silent laugh at something as the burly butcher next to her mumbled something close to her ear.
She yawned. Frequently. He counted that she had yawned a total of 16 times. He didn't know how long indeed he had stood every so often for like an idiot watching her, but he did indeed stay there and wait in hope that she would look up and wave to him.

He sat in mounds of broken wood and watched her. Like a young adult watching prey or a likely mate.
The big black butcher next to her with the widening gut leaned over to her and kissed her slobberly on her forehead all of a sudden, where her hairline started and rose. He stepped forward and his foot moved slightly back after. What was he thinking? What reason did he have to suddenly step in and ask just what it was she was doing?
He studied the butcher.
The butcher definitely wasn't handsome by either non-human or human standards. He looked rather old as well, perhaps nearing his 50s than being close to his own 40s and big puffy bags appeared evidently under his petit eyes. The scruffy beard around his pink fish lips was stained with grey hair and bits of spit and drool. His clothes as well -that weren't covered by the bulletproof vest he was wearing- looked stained and 6 sizes too big for him. From a distance, he could hear the brash loudness in the man's voice and speech and smell the scent of aging alchohol and nicotine off of him. In all bare honesty, he couldn't see or imagine what reason as to why Ab.... why she would be interested in an old man such as him.

He felt something in him tear up and he couldn't decide to just stay still in debris where he felt that he suddenly belonged or to go back to the edges of the District to look for more Concentrate Fuel. It was just as he stood up that he heard the strange whistling again. Not being able to resist, he turned around to see what in fact had been its source. His eyes turned to where he thought it had came from but his golden eyes were locked with her mixed green and brown ones.

She spotted him.

He stood still from where he was, the bucket clenched in his hands and his knees together like someone embarrassed or shy. He felt all the more naked with her eyes boring into him like he was a bug under a microscope. He had since abandonned the rags that covered his upper torso when she gave him that red jacket and was still looking for something he could wear that would be equivalent to pants. Taking off the red jacket swiftly felt like the dumbest idea he had thought of and he wondered why exactly in the first place he had been possessed to do it.
She waved to him eagerly with a wide smile as her full lips peeled back to show pink gums and white teeth. With slipping feet, she stumbled getting up from her sitting position that she had stayed next to the butcher and headed towards him. However, just before she left him, she kissed him with bunched lips on the hill of his cheek.

He wasn't sure what the feeling he had evolved into. At first, he found himself literally in the dumps at seeing her with the butcher, then an almost shy relief when she noticed him and smiled with such amity, finally there was the nauseous confusion in his gut when she headed for him but not before kissing the butcher first. Even with her lips in a round O, he could see the edges of her mouth curve up into a sort of smile.
She whistled "Hello." to him.

He greeted back with stuttering clicks that were long and paused, "Hi..... N-Nice day, isn't it?"

She asked him what he had been up to.

He replied that he had been working as usual with the mines.

Her cat eyes moved up and down his body, almost scouring him with strange intimidation. She whistled, "Where is it?"

He growled out a response, "Where's what?"

She pointed to her chest, then to his upper torso. He still didn't understand what it was she had been asking him.

"What do you mean?" he demanded.

"Jacket." she verified simply.

His head jumped back slightly, his neck cracking like dried bread and he held the bucket up feebly. The red jacket was a crumpled mess and already it was stained with smearings of dirt and dust. She looked in with widening eyes and whistled a quizzical tweeet.

She clicked almost anxiously against the roof of her mouth, the tone was angry and irritated, "Why? Don't like it?"

He shook his head, his antennas bouncing in all directions and he lied, "I didn't want to get it dirty while I scavenged for food and clothes-"

"Foshbits?" she interrupted with slipping and jumbled clicks and whistles.

He was silent for a second and then came a deep gurgling laugh. "Excuse me? What? What was that?" he asked with laughter clear on his face and joints. She pouted her lips and desperately tried to click out what she had meant, but then it came back as something close to gibberish. "What are you trying to say?"
She hit him on the hand in mock anger, though at the same time he could see the caution in her gaze as her eyes directed to his feet and hands. "I'm sorry.... Why.... why don't you try to write it down."

Just like magic, she reached behind her back and produced the same worn out notebook he recognized from before. On the metal coil spine, she had conveniently attached a string with a pen. With pouring ink that spilled too fast and too much, she dragged the black puddles against the chafing paper and it brushed into each other creating something like seashells in the words.

Clothes?

He figured that was what she was trying to say. But it had been too tempting to laugh since he hadn't had an excuse to laugh for a very long time.
"Well, I ripped my pants a few weeks ago and I've been looking for a pair that could cover me or at least stay on me."

She touched him.

He flinched at her touching him.

Her hand gripped his thigh tight... almost like it was hers to do whatever she wanted and she didn't care if he knew it or not. She traced the length with her palm as though she believed that touching him would suddenly tell her everything she wanted to know about him. He suddenly felt all his appendages getting weighed down by some unseen force that he couldn't explain. He had never felt such a strange sensation; a fear that something would be seen and frighten the girl, a shy giddiness at having contact, a shamefulness that he had openly allowed her to stroke his thighs and a lewd sense that he was glad she had simply done it and not asked him -for someone to touch him so. Her hand was like a shadow on his leg, so dark compared to his leaf green and so flat as opposed to the round cylindrical mould of the limb.
To him, she seemed to be one who never thought ahead and tended to rush almost too often; running into the District with an armful of catfood, coming to see him after, and now treating him as though he were no different from a cat or dog. No human he knew would've dared to place a single finger on his so openly.
Now that he thought about it, it had certainly been a long time since he had contact with another being aside from being struck at mercilessly just because he was more weaker than them and preferred to sit down instead of run. Even his doctor had been quite hesitant about touching him when he and his kind first came down to Earth.

He debated on placing a hand on her as well, to make contact, to show that it was okay to touch him. But then he realized that if he were to touch her back for no particular reason, she would see it as offense and run back to the butcher perhaps. He stayed motionless and allowed her to touch him like he very well could've been her pet. It was strange to see the hand that moved like water and lightning all at once suddenly move so sensually and slowly that it was agonizing. She looked down at her own hand and back at him, he could see the disbelief in her own expression that she had touched him so quickly without hesitation. She stopped at least and removed her hand, but not before her fingertips brush lightly over his skin as she peeled her hand away.

He felt chills on his thighs move upwards to his back and resting deep into the base of his skull. He felt his pits grow hot with ire and his tongue completely useless. Christopher wondered indeed if this woman was not some seductress who found pleasure in trapping prawns for her own perverse tastes. But with such a serious look that was doubting, he dismissed the idea and thought back that this was a woman who had been attacked and he had been there to save her, nothing more. It was mere obligation that she saw him, he supposed. There was no way she would come willingly to just see him.
He would not allow himself to be built up so high only to crumble into pieces that couldn't be picked up again later.

She told him, "I'll get you pants."

He was quick to retort, "No, no! It's just fine! I can find something for myself!"
'Or I can steal it.' he added in mentally.

She waved her hand in front of her as though she was literally brushing away what he had said.

"Wouldn't your family suspect something if they saw you buying men's clothing?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Yours?" she whistled in her almost strangelike code to him.

"What do you mean?"

"Have a...?" she had only started to talk when there was a blank look on her face.
She stutted over her lips for a few moments until Christopher decided to grant her mercy and finished for her, "Family? No, I live by myself."

"Lonely?" she inquired.

He shook his head, "I know a few non-humans here. It's quite hard to be lonely here." He omitted telling her of the prostitutes that walked around the District here. "Why? Do you?"

She breathed through her nose; he could hear the out take of air leave through her nostrils. She whistled in what he could tell as a sad tune or perhaps he thought of it as sad. He couldn't exactly do. It could've been, Of course. It could've been that she indeed got lonely sometimes. Christopher assumed it was a melancholy answer, it was easy to leave it at that.
Still, he wasn't exactly sure what her answer to his question was.

"Heard this?" she asked him as she handed him the newspaper she had held in her hand.

He didn't even read the headline, "You wanted to show me this?"

She nodded her head, "Neat story." she clicked and mumbled slightly.
Fumnanya miraculously found a large concrete block that served as a makeshift bench and she sat right on the edge of it, patting the spot next to her as an obvious invitation for him to sit next to her. But he didn't want to sit too close to her and risk knocking her right off the seat and being rude like that. He joined her indeed, but sat a few feet away on the other end of the concrete block. She moved closer to him, though there were still a significant space apart. The newspaper was dated June 25th 1996. It told of bombers and a terrorist attack somewhere in a place called Saudi Arabia. She asked him what he thought about it; the idea of someone actually trying to wipe out militants (she had read it before him, she explained, while waiting to see him in the District) by bombing a place where they lived.

He looked over it for a few moments and read it to understand what it was about. It wasn't long before he slipped up and started reading it aloud to both himself and her. It was easier for him to just read the human language when he heard it spoken outloud. Every so often when he was done reading a short paragraph or a couple of lines, he would stop and ask her if he was right or some question relating to what the text had printed. She nodded and pointed to a line in response, her notebook at her side under one of her thighs and her mouth zipped shut. When he was done reading, he asked her her opinion on it, she would cock her head or gesture with her hands and he would go on discussing and repeating his own thoughts outloud for the both of them. She would still sit and nod. After a while, he thought it was an interesting aactivity to do with her, but shortly after, it got boring; fast. He stopped speaking and slowly turned his head to look at her. She looked up at him with the same liquid tilt of her head.

They were silent for a few second until Christopher broke the silence by poiting out, "It would be interesting to have you say something too besides just nodding or cocking your head to whatever I say."

She was quick to grab her marker and start writing on a fresh page a simple line right at the top taking about half of the space of the bars that divided the page so evenly. He watched as the words suddenly grew from the lines like plants sprouting from cool waters as it rushed to where the currents were pushing them.

It's hard, Christopher

He spoke back, his words a little bit more heated about her reason of not wanting to talk or make any effort at all to talk like she did before. "It cannot be that hard. If you think about it, this would be a perfect time to practice our speaking; you would be even better than some of the MNU agents who come here. Very few of them can speak non-human, let alone write it as well."

Her eyebrows cocked up and her mouth opened in what would be a silent gasp. Though it could've passed for a signature look of insult and outrage. She scribbled harder onto the paper, the strokes starting to become messy and her hand slipping every so often. He could sense it inside her; a sort of string that was getting stretched by the second to be even longer and threatening ot break.

FYI - Isn't understanding you good enough for you?

He had seen the 'FYI' before. And he didn't really like it or how urgently she had wrote it for him.
"Wouldn't you like to be able to reply to the conversations you always tend to start?"

Writing is pretty good. I can't handle very much.
It's very difficult to try and speak like you.

"You've done well so far. Why not try to improve." he both complimented her and critisized her.

It's good enough for me. You should put yourself in my shoes and understand where I'm coming from.
You're sounding very mean right now asking a lot for me when I know I can't do it.

He wasn't being mean! How was he being mean if he wanted to help her a bit? If anything, she was starting to sound very lazy at relying now on the pen when at first she had started to be very.... very good in trying to speak with him.
"If you can understand me, I don't see how hard it would be for you to imitate the language. You don't even need a voice box, really."

Then you speak English, Christopher.

The little minx was quick to counter. He didn't even think of something like that. She was good, but then he would have to be better and counter her more down straight to the very basics where not even it could be argued against like why the sun shines, "I haven't the tongue or jaws for it."

She smirked and leaned against her elbow. He watched the words now turning more bold and jagged, like the ends of a blade. Her words were now starting to come out as a way to cut him and end it with a swift slice.

I don't have what I need to speak like you.
Besides, I try as much as I can and I don't know very much words.
When I speak, I can just imagine the others here staring at me and thinking of me as a silly human who sounds stupid.

So she had an image problem. Well, he knew the words that he read in the literal trash of books that he found in the trash, "Who cares if you would look stupid. It doesn't matter."

Says you because you don't have anything that makes you feel or seem stupid to others.

There was honestly no pleasing her. He got tired of it and simply said the first thing that came to his mind about this problem. "Never. People who never try usually never do and are wimps." he jabbed at her, though he didn't mean to hurt her intentionally. He was actually happy to have a human speaking to him instead of trying to kill him or avoid him. But he only wanted what was best for her, helping her learn to speak was the best he could do for her in his current situation.

Luckily she took this in mock and smirked while playfully pouting away and crossing her arms over her chest. Then she yawned, her hand covering her mouth as she did so. Yet this time her hand lingered there longer and her eyes drooped tiredly.

"Are you okay?" he asked as he gazed into those dimming eyes of hers. She nodded as she took in a second yawn, her hand waving in front of her stretching mouth and her head tilting back as well. her lids dropped like reverse arches of bridges and life suddenly appeared to be melting from her like wax from the tip of a candle flame. She stumbled on her feet and fell forward. that is to say, she appeared to be falling forward before one of her legs abruptly bent forward and she saved herself from embarrassement. her arms stretched outwards in front of her and she suddenly looked like a dog about to leap heels over itself. He drew his arms back to his sides and wondered what indeed would've happened if he had reached out for her a few seconds quicker. The thought rooted itself in his head and he shook his head to dispel it away. She looked up at him, her lips peeling back to show white teeth and she laughed a silent chuckle.
"You don't seem to be." he continued. She tsked with her lips pursed forward and her brows furrowing together.

"Ever have tuna salad?" she asked him, her eyebrow quirking upwards like she had suddenly pointed out to him that she was making an effort to speak.. He was impressed. She knew how to say 'tuna salad' flawlessly, albeit the 2 words combined made a strange sound that left something to be desired and the first half was butchered enough for a non-human to never want to speak to her again.

He shook his head, tellin her that he had never tried to it. In the District, most of what he had was beef, goat, trash and the occasional catfood. He knew about tuna being a creature of Earth that was of water-marine life with a tubelike body, large lips, and thin paper limbs, but he had never seen one up close nor tasted the flesh of it.

She yawned while simuteneously scribbling something in the notebook next to her. she was quick with writing it as her wrist twitched and the joints of her fingers jumped up and down as though electricity swam though her hand. She ripped out the sheet and handed it to him. On the sheet were the same crossed messages that had been blanked out to forever erase and hide the meaning and demand of the notes. There were fading splotches on area of the sheet -he assumed that there were more crossed out messages in the back as well- and the one intact phrase that he supposed she wrote for him was way in the bottom practically squashed by the heavy content above it.

It's salty with real pieces of fish and mayo and it has onions in it too.
You'll like it.
I'll bring you some to try tomorrow when I come again. (:D)

He jumped and flipped on the inside. Not at the aspect of trying a new sort of human food, but at the middle of the note, the longest word there that virtually took up most of the space and his attention as well. Tomorrow.... Tomorrow. Tomorrow? Tomorrow..... She would be coming back again to the District tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be able to see her again. He held the message in front of him with all 6 of his tentacles on the sides of it. His antennas bounced upon it and he could smell a strange scent from it. it wasn't bad, nor did it smell like perfume he could remember from a long time ago. But the smell of the paper..... was comfortable. He observed that this was perhaps her plainest writing he had ever seen.
He observed once more that she had drawn an simple smiley face at the end of it. This was something new to the note.

All of a sudden, she whistled an alerting whistle to him. She was probably asking him, What's taking you so long to read it? or perhaps she was saying Hey!

Without even thinking, he suddenly smiled up at her when he was done filling his head with the thought that he would see her again tomorrow for the promised second day in a row. The small spaces at his mouth parts hitched up with the thin tendons underneathe straining along with it and his tentacles and pincers curled up to reveal more of the tube-like growths on his neck moving downwards like river streams to his chest cavity. He stopped an instant later when he realized that he had smiled directly at her.
He hated his smile.
Christopher had always found his smile to be the worst of the worst. He didn't exactly have the face formations as few prawns did for smiles and he remembered once smiling genuinely only to have someone ask why he was making a grimace. He hated how he looked with a smile. He hated how goofy he must have looked when he smiled and how especially he might seem to her.
He quickly unfurled his mouth parts and his hand leapt to cover his pincers. Christopher turned his head away, the exoskeleton cracking as he did so, and regarded her from the corner of his eyes.

She whistled a questioning smile.

"Nothing's wrong.... I... I just don't like to smile that often. It makes me look stupid." he explained to her nervously as he still kept his mouth parts covered with his three-tentacled hand.

Fumnanya leaned closer, but still far that he could see caution in her posture. Her hand hovered lightly over his shoulder, not touching him and the confidence that she had when she touched his leg suddenly seemed to be nowhere.
She broke into a big smile and clicked quietly, yet loudly enough that surely only he would be the one to hear the message. "No.... don't.... don't do that ever again...Christopher."

He squinted his brows at hearing break off hesitantly in the desperation for a long complete sentence. "Perhaps I'm not the only one to talk. I don't like to smile very often, so I can't ask or expect you to speak when you don't like to. Aren't you glad to have something now to defend yourself when you don't want to speak with me?"

She shook her head, her whistling wavering up and down.
"No... You.... you have a... really... nice ssm~ile...." she clicked and whistled with her mixed eyes rolling into the back of her head every so often. "It..... s'not.... stupe... dumb...."

He slowly lowered his hand and turned towards her again, his pincers bouncing off his mouthparts and tentacles. His neck creaked as he breathed so leisurely. He could discreetly see her hand trembling with the notebook like she was fighting the urge to write on the notebook and simply get what she wanted across in but a few moments. Her hand clenched around the binding of paper and linings of muscles twitched on the side of her thumb and the middle of her hand.

She was already so close. He could see her tongue just lapping inside her mouth as she clicked and reclicked over her mistakes.

"k...k... kh... klu.... smile..... I.... really like... your smile...." Her face was red and blue at the same time and he chuckled, smiling for her. "... I... I talk more...... when.... you smile..... more."

"You would want that?" he asked her almost too seriusly.

She nodded her head, but stopped the same as he did a moment after and desperately tried to click out though she did bite on her tongue a few times, "Yes."

"....I'm impressed." he said matter of factly. She had actually spoken 5 whole sentences that weren't mere fragments that she usually spoke as. True it had been practically butchered, but it was very good from her saying minute things to suddenly speaking in full sentences.
"That's pretty good. Let's try some more; What do you know about-" he stopped in mid sentence when he felt her hand on his thigh once more. She smiled back at him with her crescent smile and her hand darted for propping up the notebook against his knee and flipping the cap off the marker. Her hand was quick with the marker; he could see only circles and semi circles in her hand that he was sure she was writing nothing but circles as well.
But in the end, the note was presented with her lowercase 'e's and 'a's almost looking simial with small branches differing between them.

Okay, you don't have to smile anymore today.
No more talking please.
I'm really tired.

And then she yawned the biggest yawn he ever saw.

Please review.
I know this chap sort of sucked a little bit with nothing, but I don't want to rush too much into anything. I want this to be realistic and I want you guys to believe this actually could happen. The next chapter will be more tantalizing, I swear.