Disclaimer: I do not own D9 or its characters.

Rue: Thank-you so much for your reviews! I realize now that my dialogue has been iffy, so I'm working on going through all the chapters and changing them to be more clear… Thank-you all for pointing that out! I hope these next chapters are straight forward in terms of who's speaking.

Warnings: some violence, curse words

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Three years 7 months (April)

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From last night's council meeting, it had been determined that Aidan would be the 'face' of their people. Aidan was a relatively young prawn in the eyes of the elders, despite having lived since the alien's arrival on Earth.

About 38 human years.

He was born into the working caste, as the majority of the population appeared to be. Compared to most of the prawns though, he seemed to be able to think well on his own. He would be able to take the council's stances and give voice to them. Follow their prompts, and adhere to their warnings for which subjects he should steer clear from.

He intrigued Desmond. There was a will he had discovered in this individual that appeared rare among those of the working caste. For the briefest of moments, he had sensed Aidan's determination to serve the council. Despite what might lie ahead of him, because one of those possibilities had easily been the threat of death.

It was still early in the morning the night after. He and Christopher had been directed to sleep at a nearby tent for the night, and wait for the right time to leave. If they weren't careful, Christopher had reminded him, these meetings would eventually receive attention. After years of gathering the elders, and what was left of the 'old world', all hope would be lost should they lose these remnants of their past.

Desmond thought fleetingly of it.

He said little though after the meeting. He had become overwhelmed, and stood at a precipice. Wondering how he might even begin to process what he had heard, and how those consequences would affect him.

At the moment he was tired, and without thinking twice started to speak to Christopher who lied beside him.

"So… How long do you think this is going to work for?"

Christopher grunted, and shifted from his side to his back. Taking a moment before he responded, "You do not have faith that we will be successful?"

'Faith'. Desmond had not encountered this word in their tongue, so he did not recognize it. He frowned and tried to pronounce it, "F… f-ayy'th? What does that mean?"

"To trust in our efforts, to believe that we have a chance despite our odds." Christopher said slowly.

These words churned in Desmond's head, whirling for a moment.

"Aidan has this, yes?"

"Yes," Christopher responded plainly. "And so do I."

Desmond snorted at the thought. The fatigue crawling into his mind, his body and spirit made his words thoughtless.

"Things were never in your favor… From the moment you found us." Desmond sighed heavily through his gills; his breath seemed to have settled on his chest with a suffocating weight. This prompted his voice to continue on.

"That's all you have now, isn't it? Fa-ay'th… What about-," he paused. The word taking its time to form, "Hope?" Is that what willed Aidan? Was his determination a result of seeking a future he thought might one day exist?

Desmond turned his gaze onto the silent prawn next to him. He could no longer feel the dead weight against his chest. But the air around him seemed to change. From his periphery, Christopher's vestibule arms fidgeted in their pockets. There wasn't much he could see with his eyes, but the sudden drop of hospitality in the air was apparent enough. Surprisingly, it was a feeling Desmond recognized, because he had felt it often when thinking about Tania or Theo. But to have it so blatantly noticeable in the air, that scent…

"Chris?"

"Be quiet Wikus," he had snapped at him. Desmond could hear the hiss being held from his throat.

With that, the prawn shifted onto his side, facing away from him.

Desmond blinked. Uncertain of his guilt, and not entirely sure if he should let it get to him. Nonetheless, he lied there in silence alone. Mouthpieces floundering and shuffling without his will.

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"You know I'm sorry, Chris?"

Christopher nodded; he was ahead of Desmond as they made their way back to Oliver and Theo. Desmond could just see the motion from the back of his head.

"Fokk…" Desmond's voice cursed, tired, hardly a whisper. He didn't feel like walking or moving right now.

Christopher finally noticed and stopped.

"What's wrong?" Christopher's words were harsh.

Desmond shook his head.

"I don't know." He laughed; the action was still foreign to him.

"I don't like this. I really don't like this… Chris." His hand reached for his arm, squeezing hard as he stared up into Christopher's eyes – pleading.

Christopher's gaze bristled briefly, before they were filled with their softer version. His endless tolerance for Desmond's imperfections appeared to have won out, as his voice met the air with a neutral tone.

"Let's go home."

Christopher somehow tugged him back. The layers of Desmond's world just seemed to fall away from him. The prawn helped him into the nest. And before he realized, Christopher was back again, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me," the prawn encouraged. But it came out with the subtle demands of a command instead.

"This isn't my home, is it? With you? This… can't be my family."

"We are family, Desmond."

He shook his head.

"No. My family is human, I have a wife; I belong to her, with them."

He felt a great pain in his chest. News of the home world meant no going back, no cure. Here he was, trying to help these aliens fight against their oppressive hosts.

"You belong with us. The human world has abandoned you."

"My wife hasn't…"

He could feel his body and his mind fight against each other. The physical connection to those around him surrounded his thoughts. Surrounded his ideas of loneliness, of disconnect and a human singularity. He wanted to hold on to Tania, even if the memory of her face and features threatened to slip away entirely. Scrambling for the sound of her voice to only find bits and pieces of what it might have been. In truth, he could only recall in dreams; rare as they may be, they had proven something to him. Somewhere in his psyche, she was still there. Holding on to the pieces of her memory.

It might have been months, a year even, since he'd dreamt of Tania. Torn and sad by its reminder, he could feel its sting dig further in.

Desmond curled himself into a ball within the nest. Theo jumped from Oliver's grasp then, racing for him. But the child could sense his father's distress. Desmond's emotional anxiety broke into the air with a halting gesture from the child.

An attempt was made to comfort his father, tried to nuzzle up to him. Before he could, Desmond's calloused hiss visibly made his son shudder. Brief and aggressive, the compression of the sharp vocals confused Theo.

Christopher moved quickly to snatch him up.

Desmond could hear them. Christopher's attempt to distract the youngling with coos and purrs. They quickly faded into the background.

His son's eyes, disturbed and hurt, did not register within his thoughts.

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Desmond did not move very much for the rest of that week. Except to eat, drink and shit; he lied down often and rested his body against the hard materials of the nest. When the night fell upon him, he became paranoid and restless. The thoughts he had given power to in the day, would thrive in the night regardless of how tired he had become.

Theo's cries and protests failed to elicit a response.

Without recalling what had happened at all that day, he sat up and glanced at the trio curled up with one another. And with a horrible, nauseous feeling became overwhelmed with shame. His eyes transfixed on the child alone.

He picked himself up and slipped out of the tent's flimsy covers.

His senses prickled at the smell of fire. Some sort of chemical or other, toxic as its fumes spread.

Feeling far from alive, and ignoring the sensibility of staying inside during the night, he continued to walk in-between the tents. Further, and further out until he came across the field. Here he could spot a group around a large fire. They were far out however, and Desmond did not feel inclined to chat with the locals.

He found a spot to lie down on. Watched as the stars overhead twinkled.

And wondered, if there really was a God out there. That He could spare him this cruelty.

Perhaps he would dissolve into nothing, and things would be all right. Theo would have Christopher and Oliver to take care of him. He deserved so much more than the sort of mistreatment he caused the child. He was a horrible father, neglectful, and full of unresolved spite for the creature's existence.

It terrified him, again and again, that the creature Theo – his son – was technically the exact genetic copy of his person.

Clenching his hands, he took a sharp breath in and glared into the sky.

None of this was fair.

As the night went on, as Desmond's mind numbed and counted the satellites he could find; a mixture of several scents wafted in.

He didn't move, thinking that they might pass him by. But this was foolish thinking, and Desmond was met with three visitors.

"Ack! The Hybrid, can you smell that?" A voice hissed.

"Odd, isn't it?" This voice proceeded to crouch down, startling Desmond. He skirted away from them – stopped by the legs and body behind him. He clacked, and tried to stand, but a pair of hands pushed him back down to the ground.

"Why does he keep it?"

"P-please… don't hurt me!" Desmond pleaded, whimpering. He covered his face with his hands, expecting them to kick at his head.

"Fucking human." Someone had placed a foot against his chest. Desmond could feel the pressure building against the exoskeleton, and hoped that it wouldn't shatter all together. He grunted, and hissed as the pain spread from where the foot was placed, to the other segments of his body.

"I don't want to die!" Desmond suddenly regretted ever having called on God to kill him. He couldn't take it, or perhaps he would have preferred something less painful…

Desmond tried kicking at the one who was stepping on him. That started everything, the hitting and the punching with claws from every direction. They knew which parts hurt most, as he scrambled to his stomach in an attempt to protect himself. Beyond his own voice with its protests, his cries, they cursed at him and humanity.

A pain shot through his body when a foot collided with one of his antennae. He screamed, and curled in on himself when a jab to his abdomen brought him back to reality. Desmond's body shuddered, the pain brought bile to his mouth. He puked against the ground.

The group snickered with snarls and sharp, buzzing cackles.

Desmond braced for another onslaught, too shocked to try and crawl away.

Their chatter suddenly quieted though. One of them mumbled before a silence stretched on.

They had left.

"Desmond?" He didn't recognize the voice. He couldn't really hear, just a ringing and faint mumbling. He pressed his face into the soil and wretched. He felt soiled.

"Please-," Desmond croaked. "Please…" His mouth must have been partially swollen. His labrum was numb, making his speech muffled. He couldn't tell the difference though. Hugging himself, a warm hand had reached out for his shoulder. All he could do was hum; try to fight off the pain covering all over. The hand though, the hand was reassuring.

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Desmond was barely responsive for most of the morning. He wasn't really aware of the world around him. He merely understood that it hurt, it was painful to breath, and he was still awake. In and out, over and over.

He refused to move on his own accord. Though now and then, something would try to move his arms and legs. He hissed in protest and curled up instead. Someone, perhaps it was Christopher or Oliver, offered food him.

Refusing, Desmond finally dozed off as the night approached.

He awoke the next day, as the light peaked through the tent's entrance. He opened his eyes slowly, and found Theo staring back at him. Desmond could make out the growing smile from the little one; a whimper squeaked into the air from the child.

"Daddy," it hummed.

His body was stiff, petrified into place so that he couldn't move. His usual response would have been to flinch back, but all Desmond seemed capable of doing was to stare. Mouthpieces wiggling about, sore and tender.

Theo scooted himself closer. His little three-fingered hand reached out to his face.

"Daddy be okay… okay?"

Without a response from his father, Theo warbled in an uncertain voice. Finally, he pressed his labrum gently for a moment against Desmond's, and purred as he backed off. Content, as it seemed, to be there with him.

"Desmond!" Oliver called out, and crawled towards him. Happily chittering.

"We were so worried! You were… well, you're still in rough shape. You really scared us…" Desmond only saw a part of him. He didn't want to turn his head. Right now the pain was bearable.

"Father went to grab some water…" The adolescent prawn quieted.

This made Theo roll over to his other side, chirping, "Dad okay?"

"Yes, yes… dad's going to be okay," Oliver responded in a confident tone.

For now this appeased the child. He rolled over against his side with a huff.

Desmond sighed, holding back a groan when had inhaled too deeply.

"… how, bad?" Desmond closed his eyes. Although finally having clarity, he had never felt so fatigued before. Perhaps the only comparable situation had been the transformation.

Oliver clearly hesitated, and reluctantly spoke before Desmond was about to ask again.

"You… Dad wants you to see a doctor. No one has the supplies to make sure you'll be… good. You know? Stuff to clean the wounds, prevent infection… maybe… re-set some stuff."

Desmond rattled. "Where… are we, going to… find one?"

"The new resource area."

"There's no way," Desmond seethed. Frowning.

Oliver crawled closer, and cooed. It wasn't effective as Christopher's soothing thrums, but it had calmed him slightly.

"I know, I know… But there's no other options Desmond. No one has the supplies, and everything out here is dirty. We'll make sure no one will hurt you, I promise."

Theo chirped, "I pro-miss too!" He huffed.

This made Desmond snort. And then he thought on it. If he had been able to relocate under the name 'Desmond Stewart', perhaps then, they wouldn't know any better. They'd have no other way of knowing he was really Wikus.

And yet, there was always room for error and suspicion. Even if his bordered on paranoia.

"Fokk me…" Desmond sighed in defeat.

Theo tilted his head then, and looked to Oliver.

"Fffokk?"

Oliver squawked. "Desmond! I just got him to stop saying that!"

Theo giggled madly.

Desmond cracked a grin.

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… (to be continued!)