Disclaimer: I do not own D9 or any of its characters. I do not make money from any of these writings.
Rue: Things start to get serious here. So be warned! I also upped the rating... Thank-you so much for your reviews! They give me so much determination and motivation to get these chapters done. I hope the development of Wikus'/Desmond's change is making sense. 8P
Warnings: sexual harassment (mild, not explicit), physical harassment, maltreatment, mentions of miscarriage
.
.
.
The lights had been turned on for what seemed like hours.
Desmond was not entirely certain. For most of that 'day' however, he worked furiously on his body trying to condition it. He didn't want any trouble from John, and perhaps he was foolish for thinking the stranger might be easy on him. But, he gave himself no other choice. Fueled by their frequent offerings of meat, juices and water, he surprised himself with his speedy progress.
He could stand without passing out. Walking became a bit of a shuffle. As for those secondary arms they were hard to handle. The pair of arms dangled when he wasn't directly thinking about them; they required his full attention to function a fraction of what they should.
As for the buzzing behind his eyes, the voices, they appeared at ease. The previous calm from the night before settled with him. It lay there, in his chest –he figured – filling him with an emotional stillness. It was a childish content, spurred on by that hypothetical connection of the other prawns. Despite the lack of physical contact with their pheromones, Desmond was beginning to wonder if their connection could span any and all distances.
After a round of clenching and relaxing his limbs, he shuffled into the cell's bathroom. He'd already relieved himself, and wondered briefly if the scientists would study his crap in the process. Humorous then, he was disgusted by the thought and wouldn't put it past them.
Desmond had other reasons that brought him back to the bathroom. His gaze fixated uneasily onto the mirror's edge. Had it been any old mirror found in the trash heaps, he would have quickly discarded it. But there it was, mounted above the simple sink. A glaring reminder of what he had been avoiding ever since his change in D9.
He was curious, despite the natural fear preventing him from stepping forward. With a determined exhale he shuffled towards it, stiffening when he saw strange prawn eyes gazing back. He could recognize none of it. There was absolutely nothing that could distinguish his past life as a human.
He held his hands, and moved them up his arms to hug himself. The constant motion of the labrum put him at unease, the shifting of mandibles, the flurry of antennae as they twitched. It was as if this outer shell conspired against him. Made him feel human again, trapped and disgusted for having these alien, insect parts crawling and inhabiting his person. Desmond shivered, and stifled a breathy whimper.
He felt nauseous. Refocusing his eyes on the floor, he dragged himself back into the bed to lie down. Curling against his side and giving way to doubts and fears, as was habit.
This brought him back to Theo. He had exhausted his arsenal of self-criticism and simply thought about the boy. What his cries sounded like when he was restless at night. Or when the boy would pry himself free from Christopher and Oliver's embrace to sleep with his father instead; brief moments that encouraged Desmond. Tugged at some distant ball of emotions, the desire to love in return.
Desmond pushed his face against the mattress. He wanted to know where he was, how he was.
Was he still alive?
Desmond flinched; a sound like pressurized air met him, as if his door had opened. He turned his head to the side to see a locked door, and no visitors. That's when the voices moved towards him; at first all together, and then as one. Its presence grew, and he feared he would be consumed by this entity pressing further into his head. As if sensing this it stopped, emitting concern between them.
Why are you so far away, child? It spoke not in words he could recognize. They flashed at first, before restraining itself into a flow. The sound was deep, and bottomless, and yet held substance as it carried all about him. He wanted to say something, but he suddenly became nothing in a vast void filled with too many things to concentrate on.
I see now. You are very young. Amusement rumbled forth. Desmond could feel himself recoil in frustration. Until, the entity pulsed a portion of itself near him with a 'warmth' he clearly recognized. It struck him at his core, comparing its likeness to the affections so often reserved for Tania. This was love, he thought. What surprised him was the genuine distinction of this emotion. Coursing in every direction, until he could feel himself pull his 'body' together in this headspace; unable to articulate the low thrum of pleasure exiting his maw, or the tiny pin-prick clicks of awe.
This change in 'substance' seemed to please the stranger. At least, it was so clearly and blatantly communicated between them, just as the warmth had been.
Desmond couldn't discern how long it had taken him to form coherent thoughts for the 'stranger'. At first his mind was jumbles, uncontrolled pieces that fluttered with each of his own thoughts and desires; whether they'd been a desire to simply be present and 'experience' this warmth, down to the need to feed soon. His voice, his sound, whatever the hell it was snapped into the air like tiny sparks; nowhere near the elegance or control of the being.
Who?
Where?
Know?
His questions unintentionally assaulted the space around them, without any true pattern or timing. When there was no response Desmond stopped, paused, and concentrated on one of his inquiries.
Who?
I. I am Viel'cah. The name resounded in the alien's tongue, vibrating through him with pointed precision.
Desmond could feel others, suddenly; flashing glances. He could not tolerate these intrusions in what he thought of as an intimate greeting. But he hardly any say as the warmth retreated.
Do not have fear, young one. I will return.
He could have compared it to taking a hit. Crashing as the presence faded; perhaps not as hard as he thought he would. The world came back with each sense; the sound of his breath as it passed his gills, the cold sterile touch and smell, the taste of meat lingering in his mouth and darkness. Snapping his eyes open, he had forgotten where he was, and it was all rushing back with his fears and his doubts.
Afraid? Because he wasn't normal, not himself.
Terror, passed momentarily. The humans, they wanted to control him, them, they wanted to study and learn, learn, learn…
And helpless; right where he'd left it with Theo, Chris and Oliver.
Before Desmond could ruminate all over again, the smell of flesh and iron piqued his interests. Another cache of food must have been disposed for him during his little adventure. He began to move, looking for its source and found it in the middle of the room on the floor. Without much thought he jerked up with a wobble and stumbled forward onto the floor.
His body was weak again and severely fatigued. He shook as he lifted his head from the ground, frowning.
"Eh?" Clacking irritably, he huffed and wheezed as he crawled closer to the food. With the odd occurrence pushed aside, he started to eat; satisfied with the base pleasure of being well fed and hydrated.
.
.
.
Rested from the night behind him, it was time to face 'John'. Despite his growing anticipation to meet the man a second time, he was sure he would be ready for him. He had to be. Otherwise, whatever awaited for him, with all its uncertainties and dooms, Desmond could at least fool himself with the hope that he could make it out alive. Or at least, grow in their favor.
If that really meant anything, Desmond seethed. Shaking the thought, he waited for the morning meal to arrive.
It never came. John entered the cell instead, accompanied by two security personnel on either side of a transport gurney. Something that had straps in excess for someone's limbs and torso.
Desmond immediately startled, stood and backed away from them in a frantic motion.
"What is this?" He spat.
The man, John, watched briefly and shrugged. "It's a precaution. Des, it would be best if you came willingly."
"You can't be serious! What are you going to do?!" He raised his shoulders in the process, while both his arms moved out, hands trembling mid air. At the same time those wings began to fan, despite their shortened status, flaring in response.
With an impatient sigh, John raised his arm in a gesture to 'stop'. "Des, Des… Let me explain. We are going to do a physical. Nothing invasive alright? And a few scans, pictures – you know?"
Desmond had no reason to trust them in light of that torture device on wheels they'd brought along. His eyes flicked between the two tall and burley security men. He could take them on.
He replied with a long hiss, "Don't come near me."
"Fine," John replied. "Have it your way Des."
Expecting the men to charge, one of them took out a long baton that clacked with electricity. His eyes widened, distracted, as the other guard pulled out a gun and took aim at him when he finally caught on. A sharp, pressurized spitting sound cracked through the air as it fired. Desmond grunted, feeling the force hit hard against his side. He instinctively cowered down, and brought his hands over to cover the area of impact. He quickly realized though that it hadn't punctured through his skin at all.
Another shot was fired. This one hit the exposed flesh between his neck and shoulder. It didn't take long for the sedative to set in and take him to the floor. The last thing he could hear was John's voice barking orders.
When Desmond finally came to, he was staring at grey concrete and light fixtures passing by. He tried to move, but every part of his body had been effectively trapped by the bindings holding him down. With a whimper, he could feel his head propped from behind with hard cushions that closed around the sides of his head, and a restraint placed across his forehead.
"Please," he gurgled out. "Let me go!"
He couldn't see much else besides the ceiling, and the pungent odor of anxiety wafting past his antennae. He continued to scream at them, but they would not listen. Desmond's voice finally tired as they stopped briefly, and moved into what must have been a room. The lights in the ceiling were different here; brighter and positioned at the center.
"How's the specimen?" Desmond frowned, this voice was… familiar to him.
"Clearly agitated," John snorted. "It's not easy keeping these things sedated. It took a few minutes for him to come to."
"Do you have an accurate time?" This voice brought a chill to his body. He didn't have a name for this man, but he could hardly forget his name and voice. The surgeon who'd personally joined Piet and his friends; the one who'd wanted to dice him into little pieces in that damned MNU lab.
"Four minutes, thirty four seconds." And besides the voice, several footsteps echoed the air space; the sound of typing followed after.
"Alright then, let's begin." A brief pause, Desmond held his breath unintentionally. "Subject 03, fourteen days from subject's cocooning. 3 days since emerging. Commencing initial physical exam."
He whimpered when he felt their gloves against his exoskeleton. He didn't realize his secondary arms had been strapped into place also. It appeared they prepped for everything. Desmond hoped they would not take long. But he fascinated them as they prodded and poked, making a thorough examination of his body. He was burdened by their insatiable curiosity; there was nowhere to run or escape to. Desmond could not retreat into his mind, assaulted by the gross mistreatment of everyone involved. Too roused by the impassivity of those around him.
They were willing to dissolve all and every boundary. They noted his sex and its characteristics with clinical accuracy, taking X-rays and prodding his genitals to open up. To Desmond's small relief his external plating did not budge. When at last the activity appeared to be slowing down, they drugged him a second time. Desmond awoke with his belly against the gurney, and his head held in place by a ring padded around his face.
Their attention switched to his wings. He was not expecting the enormous amount of discomfort flooding his body, as they touched the supple joints attached to his back. For a while they allowed them to flutter and shake on their own. Eventually they held them still and clamped them to something.
His breathing became erratic from a swelling of agitation. Crying out when something pierced underneath the tissue of the wing joint.
"Please…" He pleaded weakly.
"They're almost done Des. It will all be over very soon." John's voice was farther off. Desmond tried shifting in the restraints but they wouldn't budge. If he could he'd rip him apart, he'd kill them all.
His cries went unnoticed. All he could do was click rhythmically, short, rolled bursts; accelerated by their harsh handling.
.
.
.
He came home one evening. Usually he would walk in with dinner wafting in the air as he entered, or Tania's light voice greeting him from the kitchen. But the air was vacant, no sign of a dinner being made or his love's voice.
He placed his work bag down and threw his coat on the sofa.
"Tania?" He called out.
Wikus moved into their room, where he spotted Tania passed out in bed. He frowned.
"Tania? Tania honey, is everything okay?"
He moved onto the bed as she came to, stirring and rubbing her eyes. "Wikus?"
Her eyes were bloodshot. She had a hot water pad placed against her belly. She gave a weak smile as he leaned in to kiss her.
"Is everything alright? You feeling okay?" He fussed over her, placing a hand on her forehead, rolling her eyes.
"Yes Wikus. I'm fine." She looked away and stared at the bed sheets instead.
This made him snort. Clearly she was lying. "C'mon honey… is it leftover night today? I'm starving."
She clenched her jaw and shook her head, shrugging. "Sure."
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "You're kind of scaring me right now…"
Did the water pad mean anything?
"Is it the baby? Causing you heck, eh?"
She was putting on her brave face. Trying to distance herself with a steely gaze, and yet Wikus knew her too well to be deterred.
But this wasn't something Tania could easily hide. She pulled her hand away, just as she started to cry and hid her face with her hand instead.
"Honey?"
Dumbstruck, and feeling a little sick himself he wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her to him and just waited.
"He's… he's, gone." She shuddered as another bout assailed.
"… gone?" Stupid response, he would think afterwards.
"Yes!" She wasn't crying as much. A heavy silence evaporated Wikus' concern and muted any response.
Tania's voice cracked into the silence, monotone, "I… I told everyone. Mum, Dad, my brothers."
Another moment passed before Wikus gave her a squeeze and responded, "Why didn't you call me?"
She shrugged with a sniffle and laughed, "I didn't want to bother you." She sighed.
"It, it happens all the time. You know? Not like…"
"Tania." He kissed her on the head.
And kissed her again; she was putty in his arms. He would have dissolved away, with her, had he not felt obligated to show her how much he cared for her then.
He needed to be strong for her.
But he could feel the loss sapping away at this strength.
Desmond was curled up into a ball, lying in the bed of his cell. He cracked his eyes open, numbed to the memory. It had added to the long list of things that put him at odds with his father-in-law. He would like to think that the miscarriages only strengthened his relationship with Tania, but he was prone to think that she had grown weary over the years.
Having children only made the situation stressful. They'd become wary of celebrating too much when they finally got one, and slightly less disappointed as each one turned up the same way as the previous miscarriages.
Shoving the past away, he considered what the scientists had done to him. Taking samples, poking him with needles and cold, metallic instruments, documenting their rare find… He was to be a science experiment then, he thought. Why starve their only specimen?
Unless they had found more like him, and that thought made him quiver.
Before his fear could take hold, or allow the overwhelming anxiety possess him, Desmond shut his eyes and blocked out all of these thoughts. He reached to the connection and found comfort in the unknown. In the voices that seemed animated by his attention.
.
.
.
Another round. Hope he's in a better mood…
Got this, got this… ready for the fokker.
He stirred awake. Picking up voices, right as the door pressurized and John appeared with his cronies.
"Hello Des." Chipper as always, John stood behind the two security guards.
"Oh, don't give me that look… You didn't cooperate now, did yeah?"
Desmond wasn't in the mood. He turned his back to them instead.
"How about I make a promise to you Desmond? You participate in a few mental challenges, and… you'll get to spend some nice, quality time with your boy."
Desmond's eyes widened. He turned to glare and snarl at John.
"My… son?"
The man nodded. "He's here, you know…"
"What have you done to him?!" Desmond shook. But he felt too weak to sprint after John, especially as the two guards took out their batons, the sparks from their charges cautioning him.
"Nothing really. He's quite unremarkable Des."
Desmond shook his head, his frown dissolved, replaced by a saddened gaze. With a rare, renewed swell of rage he regarded John.
"How do I know you're not lying?" He narrowed his eyes.
"You'll have to take my word Des. You might find out soon enough though, if you won't cooperate with us."
"Cooperate with MNU?" He sneered.
John ignored the reply and shrugged. "Well? What's it going to be?"
.
.
.
(… to be continued!)