Title: Metamorphosis

Author: E.E Kelley

Summary: Left on earth for the next 3 Years, will Wikus be able to survive on his own or will the group of Poleepkwa who have already opened their arms be able to help...and will he even let them?

Genre: Primarily Angst with a dash of H/C and Drama thrown on into the mix for a touch of flavour.

Warnings: Strong Language, Sexual Themes

A/N: Looking for a Beta reader if anyone is interested. Otherwise, I apologize for minor spelling and continuity errors within this piece. This will be a longer fic, and I will be attempting to put chapters out relatively fast, so bear with me as far as errors are concerned.

Chapter One: Alone in the Dark

It was a strange thing, becoming something else. It was a fucking horrible thing. Wikus lay on the ground of his small hovel. The mob of prawns had led him into the bowls, the darkness of an underground room, of a hut and merely left him alone among the stink that overwhelmed everything but pounding in his skull. Wikus writhed on his back, arching it so that sharp spines which had freshly pushed through skin didn't press too hard against the dirt floor. Every time they did shards of hurt shot up in spine. Still, it was not as though he could roll over onto his belly anytime soon.

There was a tearing of flesh, and Wikus felt as though something had been freed, as though something was unfurling. It was a strange sensation, but not an unpleasant one. It was similar to when a leg fell asleep, the limb remote and distant.

Craning his head down -- for even the smallest movement was a labor now -- he saw something that stopped his heart. The skin around his chest appeared to have been torn open, ripped from the centre as though clawed through from the inside. And that's exactly what it was. Two small appendages quivered amiss the red and black, gleaming in startling contrast.

Wikus almost gasped, but another wave hit him and he was arching up, craning to keep his torso lifted above the dirt. It was as though his spine were growing, stretching everything in him like putty. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry out in horror and pain, but that was useless. It would only bring the MNU soldiers to his little hole faster. He bit his lip and tried to convince himself the pain that those government bastards were having wet dreams about inflicting on him was far worse than this. At least that's what Wikus told himself; at least that's what Wikus hoped. He just wanted it all to end, wanted it all to fade away and be one bad dream. But as another wave washed over him, Wikus knew that the worst was just beginning.

From his daze, Wikus thought he could see dark water running in little rivers with his skin like great canyons for the stuff to flow in. Then, there was another tear, and the canyons crashed in one trembling earthquake. A sound like tearing meat, like steak being ripped apart by hungry man, met his ears but there was no white hot pain associated with that. There was only the sick feeling in his throat as Wikus watched strips of what was once his muscle and flesh fall from his arms.

And yet, there was a single blessing. The area betwen shoulder blades and the small of his back grew wonderfully numb There was still an itch all through his skull and along where his human legs jointed up to meet still human hips, but after the mind-numbing pain that had gone through his back and chest, these felt like little more than tickles to Wikus. Gingerly, almost hesitating, Wikus reached back with his mostly-human arm to survey the damage that had been done through touch only.

There was no trace of humanity left on Wikus back, only the smooth, cool shell of a prawn reaching from the tip-top of his spines vertebrae (if he even still had those, weren't these aliens invertebrate...lower on the food chain than anything but the bottom feeders of Earth who shared the same structural state) down to his hips. The smooth shell was plated in several areas along his back, but reached up mostly unmarred from lower back to spine and all along his right arm and shoulder. He could feel it creeping further too, knew by the amber eye in his skull that this wasn't the last of it. There was a smooth sort of elegance about the...bone, for a lack of a better 'human' word...that had replaced his own. Wikus found himself absently stroking the new shell with his prawn hand (as it had a longer span of reach), marveling how thick it was and the protection it offered, but still how he had alwasy associated the prawns in District 9 to Christmas Eve Dinner with Tanias folks: Lobsters, boiled alive and eaten right out of their shells.

Wikus dropped his head, focusing on the tattered pants that clung to him and the blood and the grime patching his broken body. He didn't want this, never asked for this. If it weren't for that one goddamn alien -- one fucking mistake, he would be waking up next to Tania, slowly coercing himself to leave her the bedroom and go to work, knowing she would always be there when he returned. This time he didn't return.

Puling out a scrap of paper from his wallet, Wikus realized he could still shed tears. The photo was of him and his wife on their wedding day. Not opting for a traditional, gaudy reception, Tania had convinced her betrothed-to-be that the only type of ceremony for them was one out in the wilderness, out in mountains. The had pledged their vows next to a flowering saguaro and kissed deeply so that the twenty odd people and entirety of the The Blyde River Canyon could be witness.

Wikus kissed the photograph and tucked it back into his wallet. Arranging himself on the hard mattress so 'graciously' set aside for him, Wikus curled into a fetal position and just held himself. Not caring what parts were what race, he clung to the idea of himself above everything. They could take it all away: his love, his land, his life, but they would never stop him from being Wikus Van De Merwe. Still, how could he continue to believe that?

---

Wikus had welcomed the darkness, let himself black out in a flurry of white stars and shadows with no caster. He could feel the residual soreness in his body, but as he lay perfectly still on the dirty mat, there was no new pain. So he did that: forced himself into the impression of a statue, not even daring to blink. 'I must be one piss ugly gargoyle!' he thought to himself, catching a chuckle before it slipped free and ruined his persona.

What could he do, though? Just lay down and die in silence, too afraid to face the pain to even sit up and take a sip of water. He glanced at the pitcher across the room he had been neglecting since the prawn with an unseemly orange shell brought it hours before.

Sighing, Wikus wiggled himself into a sitting position, pushed against the dirty wall but trying with a sort of impossible hope to keep keep from putting any type of pressure on his new shell. He didn't want to feel it, didn't want to know it was even there. As far as Wikus was concerned, this could all just be another of his fucked up dreams. He might just wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking on a leisurely Sunday morning. A smile pecked at his lips, involuntarily bringing a few tears along with it. Who was he kidding? He would never see Tania again! She would never want to see him again! Not him as this fucking creature, this goddamn medical experiment half-breed that's only purpose was to be sliced and diced on her fathers lab table?

Wikus buried his head in his hands once more, closing his eyes and trying to get used to the strange feeling of his Alien arm against the cool skin of his face. It was just so unfair. He should have been on that ship when Christopher took off! 'That prawn wouldn't even have gotten half as far as he did without me fighting to the end of my goddamn life in that mechanical hell-suit!' Wikus huffed, not wanting to draw on his life anymore. It wasn't his anymore because he wasn't Wikus Van De Merwe. He was just some stinking alien who wasn't even welcome on this planet, who was taking up already scarce resource and increasing crime! He wasn't wanted anywhere!

Sighing, Wikus forwent the pitcher and let himself sink so that his head rested on knees, willing the world away with sleep.

---

Wikus woke, screaming, clenching fists so tightly that the nails and claws dug half-moon welts into his palms; blood flowed freely as tears. It was excruciating and even after raising himself from the dirty hunch he had slept in, all Wikus could think of was finding the cause of his suffering. It felt as though a knife had been plunged into the soft of his neck and, with desperation, Wikus groped for an invisible hilt. That wasn't the answer, and another white streak brought screaming sobs until his voice was horse and choked with desperate need. Still, nobody came to see if he was alright and the pain in his head only grew worse, like a tide drawn up higher and higher, until sea surpassed the shore itself. For some reason this ethereal moon wanted to put more strain on Wikus body then he could possibly take. That pain spread like ivy, pushing into every crevice with coiled vengeance. It was too much, he couldn't do this any longer. WIkus understood oh to well why none of the other experimented humans had gotten it past stage one. They were all keeping themselves safe from this personal hell.

Wikus couldn't cry anymore, and just lay there on the hard bed with dry tears marking a dirty face. The pain wouldn't stop and wound like the Nile through twisted pain wouldn't stop and tracked down his face in dirty tributaries. It was growing, spreading as though alive, pushing all the way from the base of spine to temples to forehead.

And it suddenly stopped.

As if over, there was on moment of glorious numb, and then that silence was broken sound of breaking bone, shifting bone. He screamed again, a blood-curtling moan from deep in his throat sounding more animal then man. He screamed and screamed as loud and as long as he could, screamed out to whoever would listen to his pleas. But nobody came and when his voice began to turn to nothing more than a harsh rasp, Wikus held on to his mantra still, whispering "Help me; Help me; Oh christ, please help me..."

Pain paused again. It was as though whatever was plaguing WIkus was a living thing, talking long, labored breaths subsiding as it made a time-out for the invisible parasite's heart to beat. But it never lasted long. Wikus tried to pick himself up and prop himself against the wall before it began anew, but nausea only grew as he looked down to where he had been laying. Green and black sludge coated the tiny cot he huddled in the centre of. If you looked closer, you could see reds and whites as well -- muscle and flesh fallen away.

With one swell, Wikus' stomach threw itself into his mouth. Gagging, he poor man almost didn't realize the pain had returned to skull as well. Nothing Wikus could do would free the sticky vomit from between his lips. Trying hard, beginning to hyperventilate more than he already had been, a desperation to find some source of air before the blackness came again was all that raced in the mans mind. At the thought, he almost let it, almost let the pain pull him into calm darkness, but if he were to do that would he ever be able to crawl his way up from that hell pit to see his beloved Tiania again? He had to make it to Christopher's three-year mark--

Wikus tired to yell out once more, to throw his torment in another direction. But, he couldn't yell anymore. It was as that black blood had clotted his mouth completely and as if his nose wasn't even upon his face. Gasping, Wikus tried hard to drink in the air, but found it not a necessary. He wasn't suffocating, wasn't dying like before and he sure as hell wasn't breathing!

Not thinking, Wikus reached his still human hand -- one of the only parts of him which still resembled anything homo-sapian -- to push away whatever was clogging his airway. The skin of his finger pressed roughly against a mandible, brushing over it so lightly that Wikus wanted to pretend he didn't feel it. But there was no way to deny that, no way to pretend anymore. He lowered his hand and decied to just lay there and try to pretend even if that was impossible. Christ, he just wanted this all to be some fucked up dream.

Wikus cried himself to sleep.