Disclaimer: I do not own D9 or its characters; I do not make money off of this.
Rue: I did not think this chapter would be up so quickly... But here it is! I hope the transitions here are working well? Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think! I have lots of things in store that are about to take place in the next following chapters.
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A chill ran through Desmond from an invisible draft.
A whimper broke free from the back of his throat. He was covered in a thick, pinkish slime. The smell of blood that accompanied the gel aroused his hunger.
Disturbed, he fought back from gagging. Crying out as he ripped off the pale, off-white mesh from his legs. Its residue clung to him in wisps. He fumbled getting away from the remains of the pod. Unable to pull himself up to stand, he crawled across the floor to the nearest wall.
Desmond's rasping breaths heaved through his gills, wet and coated with the film. It was all he could hear in the small space.
For now he lied against his belly, his face pressed against the grey floor. Muscles, too weak and tired for Desmond to sit up.
The voices just wouldn't leave his head. They had grown, alive and untempered without his focus. He was losing it, too many things happening all at once. The cell, the unknown observers, fears of dissection, of being torn to little bits, the unknown whereabouts of Christopher and Oliver, Theo; what would they do to Theo?
Desmond's mind quickly became a mess, and sure enough he became lost in its whirlwind. Overwhelmed by the sheer flood of panic, he started to cry. This was the end game. He was done for; this was what he got for giving up so easily. He clenched his fists and hit the ground as hard as he could, as often as he could, until he could no longer sense his body. The sense of losing this control slowed Desmond's perception. The world was spinning a second or two behind.
His breath was not his breath. His body functioned without him. Before he could consciously take in that surreal feeling, as its realization was about to strike him, his eyes rolled back as he disembarked. Driven below into an unconscious state, unawares of the door to his cell opening. Or the white suits, hefting his limp body up and carrying him out.
Awakening was not easy.
He wasn't sure if what had happened was real. It seemed to parallel with his nightmare's; sometimes he would die in that underground lab unit. Or the jackal-faced Koobus would make an appearance, and take pleasure torturing his hideous body. While Pietre - his father-in-law - watched impassively as Koobus had his way with him.
Feeling hung-over and dizzy, Desmond started with his eyes. As heavy as they felt now, at least he could force them open.
He was on a mattress; a rather large mattress, shaped in a fairly large circle framed by some sort of hard material. His fingers twitched, this made him hum happily. Slowly he began to see how far he could shift or move his limbs. That's when he noticed that he no longer held those vestibule arms above the abdomen. Taking a deep breath, he took note of the new pair of arms molded below the first set.
Cursing, Desmond attempted to move them. When they did not respond at first, he panicked. What was he going to do with a set of limp, useless appendages at his side? He gave up after several minutes of trying.
Despite having done so very little, he became fatigued. He didn't have a choice in the matter as he started to doze off. He could barely lift his arm, let alone gain some form of speech.
He awoke again, to the pleasant smell of meat. He could tell it was a juicy one too from the amount of iron wafting in the air.
Fresh perhaps?
Desmond smacked his jaws and sat in a wobbly, up right position. His breathe hitched, black shadows threatened to flood his peripheral. He was fighting through it. There was a fresh steak out there for him, and nothing would get in his way.
A gurgle erupted from his throat. A low rumbling, guttural roll as he pulled himself closer to the source of sweetness in the air. He fumbled like a young pup, clumsy and awkward. But his determination rewarded him with the sight of a juicy meat slab just beyond the bed itself. He fell as he rolled out, hitting the hard floor with a smack, and dragging his body after it.
It was all worth the effort. He dug his clawed hands into the flesh, and greedily ripped at the flesh with his mouth. Tearing off a sizeable piece as his mandibles held it in place, and began the arduous task of masticating food. Pausing now and then, to lap at the blood running down his forearms.
With a satisfied belch, Desmond rested on the floor. Everything still fuzzy, unclear, despite the automatic functions of his body and the strong wills of his instincts running the show.
A door opened into the room behind him with the hiss of air. Footsteps clunked against the ground, until they stopped a few feet away.
"That was good, yes?"
It was a man's voice.
Desmond responded with a grunt and some more gurgling. He couldn't quite get his voice to work just yet, besides the hums and sub vocalizations. Aspects of the prawn that tended to give off physical warnings and signs.
"Having trouble speaking?" The man paused. "Seems like the transition hit you harder than we predicted." He seemed to mull over this, because some time went by before he moved over to the side into Desmond's field of vision. He crouched down. A light smile marked his features.
"You can call me John. It's a pleasure to be working with you, Desmond."
There was something eerie about this man's gaze. A foreshadowing perhaps, as Desmond found a small relief that they had not used his real name.
"Is it alright if I call you Des? It's not like you really use Desmond, anyways… Well. Des. I wouldn't want to spoil you too much. We work for a living, yeah?"
Desmond frowned.
"I hope we're off to a good start Des. So you keep that in mind, okay?"
"Y… y-es." Desmond stuttered in the prawn language; alarm urging him to respond suddenly.
"Good. That's very good. Enjoy your water Des. I'll give you two days to get that body in working order, and then we'll go from there. Okay?" He stood up, and quickly left the room.
Desmond's antenna drooped.
Two days?
He crawled himself back in bed, and propped himself up on the few pillows present. He nudged one of the extra arms, jumping slightly from the feeling of it. He'd never felt anything like that before. Carefully he brought it up to examine, cradling it close.
Was he supposed to 'will' it to move? Taking a deep breath, he attempted to clench the hand itself. With relief the fingers and thumb twitched.
The meat was starting to make his surroundings less dizzy. His fatigue waned, and for a while he was content to work on moving his extra limbs. It had given him something to focus on. Something to disarm any other prodding questions. Desmond did not want to find out what sorts of consequences would befall him, should he not comply with John.
This wasn't like before in the lab. Without any real idea where he was, the chances of escaping were moot.
Unless, unless…
Desmond hissed at himself. Focus, he ground out in his head.
He continued to work on each limb one at a time. And after that became monotonous and boring, he switched to his legs, then his primary arms, and then repeated starting with his new arms.
When his new found energy seemed to disperse, and in came the fatigue, he lied there in defeat. What would happen to Christopher and his son? Where was Theo?
He let out a pitiful cry, and tried to wrap himself in a hug. Who was he? What kind of man abandoned his child in self-pity? He should have paid more attention to him. Theo was already so young, and yet his heart had not hardened in their desolate environment. Desmond owed it to Christopher for everything.
He was stupid. Had been so, so stupid to walk into that resource facility.
The door hissed open, startling Desmond with a croak. Pushing aside his emotions, he regarded the stranger carefully. They wore a pale-blue suit, similar to the suits he'd remembered down in the lab. They nodded to him with a tray full of meat, and a jug of water and juice. Replacing it with the previous tray containing the meat. Facing Desmond, and keeping their eyes on him they left.
Releasing the tension in a breath, he pursued the meal on a proper crawl with all fours. The second pair of arms dragged along side him.
Quickly, he went to work gorging on the food. Satisfying his need to eat and drink. Pushing away at his thoughts, he took pleasure in the feeling of a full belly.
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The couple lay together. The woman's light blonde hair sprawled about his chest as she rested. The man's hand rested atop her head, before stroking down along her shoulder and arm.
"What would you call him?"
The man smiled, "Him? You think it's a boy?"
"I just know it. Call it woman's intuition."
He snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Hey! I know what I'm talking about. My mom knew I would be a girl. It runs in the family." She poked his side for good measure. The man grunted.
"I have no idea," he admitted. It hadn't even been a full month.
"Okay, okay… what about Richard?"
"Eh… Richard van de Merwe? Richard… Sounds like a name your father would pick," he laughed at this.
"What makes you so certain he would?"
"Sounds presumptuous, too bold. Something Pieter would find great approval in."
"Oh shut it, you…" She hummed as she adjusted slightly against him.
"Michael?"
"Too Catholic. Everyone knows a Michael."
"Your mother's Catholic though. And Michael's a nice, strong name."
"You've really thought about this, haven't you?"
She giggles and places a kiss on his cheek. "You're too sweet to me love," he whispers.
The woman smiles sweetly.
"So… what about Theodore?"
Desmond's eyes fluttered open. Ignoring the ebbs of the long and distant memory away from him.
With a sigh he realized the lights had been dimmed. And wasn't sure for how much longer they would remain that way. Lazily, he moved one of his arms up to scratch at his back. Stopping, when he felt something attached to him move.
His hand trembled, hesitating before he reached further back. It was sensitive there, kind of like his vestibule arms when he'd had them. There was… some sort of flesh like joint before an appendage of some sort came off of it. He shivered as he trailed his fingers along its ridge, and swallowed as he realized – wings?
Fokking wings?!
He dropped his arm and stared numbly into the mattress.
The man, John, had mentioned some sort of transition. And considering what had been happening, he feared what he had become. Could it have possibly been a consequence of his prawn-human DNA? Did his human genes mess something up along the way, and now he was… he was, what? Some fokking Queen?
Prawns didn't have Queens, he reassured himself.
They had Alphas. That's what Christopher had said.
And apparently those things were massive. Desmond was anything but. And he couldn't have been a Beta; Beta's didn't have wings or two sets of arms either…
Desmond was at a loss, but for a moment he did not feel the usual fear sparking inside of him. A familiar presence warmed him. It was they; the prawns, the 'people' Christopher had called it. Previously, it had been a very faint feeling that he had begun to sense as a prawn, before this mess.
Christopher said something about 'the Link', or at least, the translation to a word far more complex than what his tongue was able to produce. In simple terms however, 'the Link' was what Christopher spoke about in the past.
It joined the people together as one, er , or something like that, Desmond thought. But there wasn't much more he could recall.
He could feel something at least, overriding his fear.
This invisible support set his heart at ease. And filled him with a pleased, content state. He began to close his eyes, and drifted off in its presence.
"Desmond?"
Desmond was staring off into the ground.
"Desmond," the voice snapped.
"Yes?" He was still getting used to the name.
"What do you want to call the child?"
'You mean the thing growing inside me?' He thought crudely.
He hesitated. They'd talked about this before approaching the Alien Affairs building at least ten times over. There was nothing new to the dialogue except for the one they'd practiced.
The woman gave him an irritated look from her desk. She hated them, he thought. She couldn't stand us.
"Ah…" He clicked, uncertain. Christopher tilted his head.
"Ah, ah… call it, I mean him… Let's call him Theodore." He said quickly.
This made the woman frown.
"Can you say that slowly for me?"
Desmond repeated. And when he'd done that a few more times, he spelled it out for her instead.
"Theodore." The woman made sure, and looked up for confirmation.
He nodded. It was going to be official. This was incredibly stupid of him, he thought, being rather short sighted at the moment. Either, he meant it as a bad omen in hopes that the carrying term would end poorly – a natural abortion – or… as a chance to redeem himself. Make amends.
Christopher watched him with an amused gaze.
Ignoring him, Desmond continued to provide information for the permit. After another wait that lasted another three hours, they finally headed home.
"What changed your mind?" The prawn asked him. His gaze out ahead, watching for anything suspicious along their path.
Desmond shrugged.
"I think… I like this one. The name, I mean. Not that it really matters." He tried to say indifferently.
"Names are important." The alien interjected. Desmond grunted.
"Did you name Oliver?"
"Yes. Since I registered him…" Desmond looked away, feeling bad about that first encounter. He glanced back at Christopher who seemed to be laughing at him with his eyes. Desmond seethed, "Quit it with that look, yeah?"
With a huff, Desmond gazed ahead.
"So… Oliver? Why Oliver?"
"For its blessings."
"And what are those?" His voice could still sound smug, despite the language barrier.
Christopher glanced briefly at him.
"Fruitfulness, beauty and dignity... Peace."
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(… to be continued!)