Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with the movie District 9, simply this plot, along with any original characters.

Warnings: strong language, violence, disappointing periods of time between updates

PART II

XIII. (day three; day)
Where were they, Christopher and his son? How many light years away from Earth… How did they travel so far, so fast? He thought about the ship, the eerie atmosphere that clouded around it, and wished he could have been there when the humans had sawed their way through, making first contact with the aliens. Perhaps then he would have formed an understanding; he would have come to terms with something rumbling inside his being. Maybe then he would not be here, in this place in his life.

Hiding behind dumpsters, on the third day after the ship had left Earth, alone.

Though scientists had marvelled at it and studied it for nearly thirty years, they still did not understand how the ship had remained hovering above Johannesburg with no one operating it. Wikus had once come upon two physicists discussing something about applied forces, a subject that was above his head. He had made a joke about Star Wars (the Force was strong with the mothership), but now he did wonder how it had stayed there, when everything that humans knew about physics dictated that it should have dropped. Now, sitting with his back against a filthy dumpster, wearing a dirty and ripped shirt-poncho, with two empty cans of cat food beside him, Wikus van der Merwe prayed that he too could defy the forces working against him. He prayed that he had the ship's science within him.

In a hazy, dehydrated dream, he imaged Tania as Luke Skywalker and her raving cunt of a father, Piet, as Darth Vader. Wikus wasn't entirely sure where he was throughout the illusion. Perhaps Luke's lightsaber.

Rifling through the dumpsters when no one was about, he found several more cans of cat food, along with cans of leftover soup, ravioli, pear, tomato sauce, and remnants of uneaten meals. After he stuffed it all into his cramping stomach, he found a brutally ripped apart pillow that had last year's second place soccer team logo printed on it. Kept that, it would come in handy. He found a blank CD, held on to it as well.

Using his claws, he slit a line into the blanket he wore over his head and torso, and dug a pocket out of it. It spanned from one side to the other, making enough room to store his newfound pillow, CD, and cat food cans. He was not entirely sure why he wanted to keep the tin cans, but it might have been because of the remaining scent that radiated from them. He felt pathetic.

Fuck, he was really turning into a Prawn.

Wikus wept silently with his shirt-poncho pulled over his face for several minutes, wallowing deep in self-pity. He wanted desperately to see his wife again, but how could he ever look upon her again? He was a monster, a hideous beast. He didn't belong to this planet anymore, for Christ's sake! He was worthless. They had ruined his golden life, those goddamn, mother fucking, ass licking Prawns. All of the world's military forces should have blown the mothership to smithereens as soon as it had broken through the Earth's atmosphere. Fuck humanitarian aid; Wikus was losing his humanity every hour at an increasing rate – why should the rest of the world pretend to have any? Wikus had experienced humanity finely in the MNU biotechnology lab, when he had been drenched in mind-numbingly freezing water, hooked up to electrodes, examined like an intriguing specimen. They had motioned to rip his heart out of his chest without the decency of killing him first. They had him strapped down to a metal table and spoke to each other as though he couldn't understand them, as though he were a newborn Prawn child.

Yes, humanity seemed promising.

Living as a Prawn even less so.

What he would not give to be a chunk of cat food. Or ravioli.

After the tears dried and it became too stifling under the blanket, Wikus emerged from his dug out pit and stared up at the bright blue sky. He envisioned the mothership and Christopher sitting inside it with Christopher Junior, and he remembered that not all aliens were bad. None were really inheritably ill wishing; some were obviously more prone to succumbing to hating the humans, but so were many humans vulnerable to being brain washed into degrading the aliens. Every human worked with what they were given, and some mistook opportunities for signs and justifications. Some Prawns grew up in District 9 and saw weapons in human hands and adjusted accordingly. Some humans were born beside District 9 and witnessed poverty and weapons in Prawn hands and adjusted accordingly. Both saw violence brimming on every new day's horizon, held in the palms of friends and enemies. They adapted to survive. They adapted differently, but as a result of the events around them nonetheless.

There were aliens like Christopher Johnson and there were humans like Tania. Wikus tried to place himself in one of the groups and failed to do so. He had a past of ignorance and prejudice to account for, but also a growing understanding and acceptance. Staring down at his arms, though, he knew that he still had a long struggle ahead of him.

He breathed deeply and stared again up at the sky, which was now clustered with gray clouds.

But for Tania, he would continue trying.

XIV. (day three; night)
He should move. He told himself to get up and crouch close to the ground and get out from behind the degrading goddamn dumpster. To his own surprise he followed his own initiative.

It was quite clear as soon as he got up off the ground that his legs had transformed some more. His body was so accustomed to the constant straining and stinging of the transformation that he barely noticed when something new took place. He contemplated that for a moment; wondered what was wrong with him (aside from the obvious). Briefly he glared down at a patch of shrubbery and he telepathically asked a twig when his luck had gone so sour. Then he shook his head and walked away from the shrub, muttering about crazy people who speak to sticks. Although it was an interesting shade of murky green.

There were two small pinpricks of pressure on his scalp, right at his hairline. He knew without touching them that two of his antennae were sprouting up. He hoped that they would at least wait for the rest of his alien head, lest he look supremely ridiculous.

Where should he go now? It was dark out again, approaching the dawn of the fourth day without Christopher and Oliver. He wished Matthew and the little tyke were still with him; without them he was utterly alone, a hunted species roaming around the city. An easy target. He understood that wearing a dirty hooded poncho did not offer him the level of subtlety that he desired at the moment; however, not wearing it would make him even more of an eye sore. As he slowly walked down the alley, his pants slipped down and he had to take a moment to tie the rope around his waist tighter. His lower torso was diminishing into small spikes and meaty exoskeleton, and his chest and back were nearing completion as well.

He passed several homeless people, mostly lost, haggard men. Most were asleep and the ones who weren't simply ignored him, although one did make drunken sounds at him as he passed by. Keeping his gaze away from the people, he steadily stared straight ahead and ignored the fact that his Prawn feet were visible. His lower legs were, too – because of the second joint placed in the middle of his shin, his pants no longer fit correctly, and he had had to roll them up.

An adolescent appeared out of the shadows. "Daga, daga," he kept muttering, following after him. "No, I – I do not have any illegal marijuana for you!" Wikus said and quickly turned down an alley. The kid did not follow him.

He spied a leaking pipe exiting a wall and spent nearly thirty minutes sitting under it, catching the droplets on his tongue. The dry, humid South African weather was taking a terrible toll on his hungry, thirsty body, although it appeared that his new form conserved water more efficiently than his human body had.

It was pure luck, or perhaps pure subconscious instinct, that landed him behind old Ms. Volschenk's house. Feeling as though his surroundings were familiar, Wikus looked to the right and barely stopped himself from crying out with joy. There, with faded pink siding and a structure that leaned slightly to the left, stood the square house of his old teacher. Ms. Volschenk was an absentminded, occasionally bitter woman, but when Wikus had been in her grade two class she'd been a decent teacher. She was awkward when it came to handling distressed children, though. When Wikus had fallen and split open his elbow, she had worried her lip, patted his sobbing head, and told him it would be in his best interest to find somebody else to help him.

What he would not give to go to her front door at that moment, and hug her. It would give her a heart attack, most likely – she was dangerously overweight and in her late eighties, by now – but he was so relieved to see anything emotionally comforting that it wouldn't matter. He had felt safe and secure in the second grade, with Ms. Volschenk around, and that memory trickled into the present in his time of panic.

Finding his old teacher's house was great for one other, much larger, reason, however.

It meant that Tania was just two blocks away.

XV. (day nine)
His parents drove up to his and Tania's house early in the morning. Though Wikus could not see them, he recognized the car as it pulled up in the driveway, and it tore at his Prawn heartstrings. Movement was visible inside the house, through the open windows; Tania always had them open for fresh air, opting out of air conditioning systems. It had driven Wikus mad for several months before he'd begrudgingly admitted that it wasn't so bad.

"And better for the environment," she would remind him. Again.

"Yes, that too, baby."

Day nine. Wikus had not changed his location for five days now, and while it was terrible being so close to his lovely angel all the time, it also somehow made the struggle worth it. He asked himself several times a day – normally after wondering about Christopher and Oliver – if he could possibly stake it out there for three years. Many times he said no, it would be impossible. He believed he was already going crazy, staying in this small place for less than a week. He lost hope when he realized it would be too hard.

And then she would make an appearance, later in the day, sometimes in the middle of his train of thought. She enjoyed sitting on their back porch, perched in a chair, reading, or sitting at the patio table playing cards. Other times she simply paced the perimeter of their backyard. It made him nervous, scared that she would see him, but she never did. Then he would think to himself, Of course I can wait here for three years, for my Tania. She was waiting for him, it seemed.

She looked exhausted, and helpless. He wanted desperately to hold her again and stroke her fine hair, tell her all would be well soon. It was a deep gnawing at his insides. He was supposed to protect her, make her feel safe, keep her happy. It was his duty to make her smile, and love her, and show her that marrying him was not a mistake. Several times he had stood up when he saw her exit the house. Every time he'd caught sight of his changed body and sat heavily back down again.

But his parents were there, now, in his house. His mother looked terribly small, holding a shawl around her shoulders, with his father's arm wrapped around her waist. Every time Wikus caught a glimpse of them inside the house, his parents were glued to each other. It made Tania look utterly alone.

XVI. (day three; night)
It only took minutes to make his way to Tania from Ms. Volschenk's house. He was perhaps less cautious than he should have been, moving around so quickly, passing under lamps when crossing the street. Nobody saw him, though, or if they did then they chucked it up to a trick of their eyes or lacked the motivation to call the police. Robots blinked red, yellow and green for the few vehicles that traversed the roads this late.

He crept up the front lawn on shaking limbs. He was back home, finally! Only a door separated him from his beautiful Tania; soon, so very soon, he would see his angel once again, and life would begin to settle again. With her at his side, he could wait for centuries for a cure, as long as she supported him, as he knew she would.

At his front door, his hand rose to turn the doorknob to step inside, and the kitchen light flicked on. It was then that he noticed that the outside light above the door was beaming down on him as well; he was plainly visible for anyone to see. Cursing, he moved around to the back. Christ, he was an idiot.

Crouching behind the patio deck, which was directly outside the kitchen, he saw Tania for the first time in a week. He smiled wider than he ever had before and leaned his forehead against the edge of the deck. He was home, with his baby again. Tilting his head to the side to see her again, he watched her submerge two glasses in water in the sink, and then wipe her hands on the hand towel that hung on the oven door.

Why was she up so late? The digital clock on the microwave read past two in the morning. Why wasn't Tania sleeping, dreaming?

Fundiswa Mhlanga stepped into the room and stood beside the table, his hand resting on one of the chairs. Wikus' smile faltered. The main, glass door was open, with just the screen separating them.

"Tania, I am sorry," said Fundiswa in a quiet voice. Tania's back was to him, her hands holding her weight against the counter. She stared out the window above the sink and remained silent. "Nobody is talking except about the lies that MNU is spreading."

"It wasn't septicaemia," she said firmly.

"I know it wasn't. I was there when he was sprayed. I think that had something to do with it, Tania, I am positive of it. He was sick after that."

"Yes," she said quietly. Standing up straight, she traced patterns on the countertop with her finger. "He would never have sex with the aliens, I know that now. He would never betray me like that." She turned around and stared sadly at Fundiswa. "I just don't want to betray him either."

"You won't. You're doing the right thing. We are doing the right thing here, even if we might get caught."

Wikus turned his gaze down to the thin, yellowing grass, trying his hardest not to think. A night breeze played in the air but it did nothing to make him feel at peace. Tania would not do this to him, to their marriage. She loved him; he knew she did. The still-sane half of his brain vouched for her; he was simply misreading the context of their conversation. However, that did not change the fact that his wife and friend seemed to have a connection now that they certainly did not have before Wikus had gotten sick.

"You are good with computers," Tania said.

"Yes."

A long, wretched minute of silence where they stared into each other's eyes and seemed to communicate something to each other. The first flames of jealousy were forged in Wikus' stomach. Speaking through gazes had been a task he thought only he could accomplish with Tania.

They hugged for longer than Wikus thought was necessary, and then Fundiswa walked home.

Wikus asked himself if this was the right moment to make his presence known. Putting Fundiswa's appearance out of his mind, he yearned to be close to his wife now. But he found himself paralyzed, unable to stand up and close the small distance between them. She held her head in her hands, rubbing her forehead, and tears flowed silently down her cheeks. She sobbed once into the back of one hand before she stood up tall, took a deep breath, and exited the kitchen, closing the light as she left.

Left in the dark, Wikus rested his head against the deck once more and sighed heavily to himself. He couldn't go inside, not like this. Not as a monster. His head was throbbing and the two points of discomfort on his forehead were disrupting his thoughts.

He crawled to the shed, following the extension cord that wound its way across the backyard and disappeared through the door. He crawled so as not to be seen, and also because he doubted his legs would support him anymore. He needed to pass out and sleep for three years.

The shed was a good size, and while a lock hung from the door, it was never actually closed. There was nothing of value to steal from inside, anyway, though at the moment it looked like the perfect place to settle for the night. He wondered briefly if he would open the door to find some lost soul also camping out in his shed. But alas, when he pulled it open, no living creature stared back at him…only pieces of art projects layered with abandonment.

It was his work place, where he made his arts and crafts for Tania, or just for fun. It looked the exact same it had the night before he'd begun the evictions. The cat food cans hanging in his poncho pocket shifted together as he moved about. After a moment's contemplation he pulled out his collected belongings and set the cans and CD on the worktable, and threw the ripped pillow on the ground. He used his poncho, some construction paper and newspaper, and the torn pillow as his bed. Curled up in his shed, his wife in their bedroom, Wikus slept and did not dream.

XVII. (day four)
When he awoke the next morning, his bladder was fighting for room beneath his stomach, which, in a hostile manner, was trying to eat the rest of his insides for nutrients. Unfortunately he had no food on him anymore, as he had devoured the cat food on site of finding them. He made the decision to quit the habit immediately, as it was disgusting (except to eat) and he was unable to possess any more (unless he stole it from his own house). Several minutes later he revised his decision; from now on he would eat one can a day only. He would not have any today, since he had had five the day before and those should count for one day (he didn't think he could last five). He would find some more when it was dark again.

He had a disastrous headache. It disabled him from moving about too quickly, and even from standing. When he attempted to sit up, the blood rush to his head was powerful enough to blind him and knock him sideways. Breathing heavily and clutching his imploding skull, Wikus curled into the fetal position and prayed it to stop soon.

It was an odd sensation, feeling the blood flow to his antennae stubs. He was too scared to reach up and feel them, though, to see how long they had grown overnight. He chuckled at that; he could brave living with the alien limbs and torso, but not the head. That would involve his skull transforming…his face…his brain… He was terrified; his heart raced just at the thought of it. Moreover, the end of the transformation was approaching, which meant all that was left was his head and neck. The rest of his body was at least eighty percent finished, save for his lower abdomen and pelvic region.

He stayed in the shed throughout the day. The heat was brutal; the sun's rays sizzled on the roof and radiated through the cracks and open window (there was no glass; it was simply a square hole cut in the wall). Dehydration, thirst, and hunger all battled against him. His body was losing the fight, and without the means of attaining any necessities to fix it, he lay in the shadowed corner of the shed on his bed.

Closing his eyes, he found a rhythmic lullaby in the throbs of blood travelling to his skull, preparing for the transformation.

He passed out for the rest of the day.

XVIII. (day four)
Had Wikus been awake, he would have seen Mrs. Smit leave his house in the morning, leaving Tania alone again. His day would have become infinitely worse upon Piet Smit's arrival in the late afternoon, as he may have possibly blown his cover and attempted to attack the man. Maybe bite his head off, or at least his ears. Instead he remained unconscious, and was oblivious to the resulting intense argument between father and daughter. Wikus awoke to a car door slamming loudly, the echoes travelling through the relatively quiet neighbourhood, and listened to a car driving away. He assumed it was Tania's mother.

He lay on his back for several minutes, revelling in the dream he had had. Tania had been there with him, beside him, accepting of his situation. She still loved him. Closing his eyes, Wikus felt hope and relief settle around him, blanketing his torn up body. The shirt-poncho was stained with blood where the exoskeleton had pierced through his skin. He was a mess, but she still loved him.

The backdoor slid open and Wikus scrambled to his knees, but was abruptly blinded by dark, flashing spots as blood pounded in his head. Grasping the windowsill for support, he blinked rapidly, and when the wave disappeared he stared out the window. She was standing on the patio, her arms wrapped loosely around her midsection, holding onto her elbows. Her face was marred with a frown and she was worriedly chewing her bottom lip, but she was still hopelessly beautiful. He narrowed his eyes. He hoped she wasn't losing weight; her shoulders were looking bonier. Her hair was lanky as well, as though it had not been washed in several days.

"Tania, baby," he whispered. Saying her name brought a level of calm over his muddled mind. He needed to see her, she was so close—

Her gaze swept over the backyard, over the shed, and he ducked hastily out of sight. Sitting against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes to fight the dizziness and the headache, Wikus sighed heavily. If he could not let her see him now, then there was no chance he could approach her and ask her to look past his alien body. He would have to wait, again.

The top of his forehead now sported four pressure points. Raising a hesitant hand, he probed the spots with a finger. His two long, flanking antennae were approximately a quarter of the way grown, but he was unable to move them and the antennae themselves procured no sensations at the touch; they were nerveless, or perhaps not yet wired to his brain. The two smaller antennae between the longer ones had not made an appearance yet, though judging by the discomfort, they would arrive soon enough.

Lifting the poncho, he observed the severe depletion of his abdomen; just another day, it seemed, and the transformation would be complete. He was waiting for his pelvis to change as well, though that seemed to be taking a while. He looked hideously mismatched, being alien legs and upper body but human in between. He lowered the poncho again to hide it.

In the corner of the shed there was a pack of white glue. He considered eating it, or perhaps sniffing it to quell the horrible aching in his stomach. His hunger did not help his headaches. In the end he was too lazy to try it.

In just a few hours, his hunger pains began to subside. He stopped thinking about steak, hamburgers, salads, fruits, tomatoes, chips, and Gunter's fast-food restaurant. The hunger was replaced by a terrible emptiness instead, as though the exoskeleton was encompassing nothing at all, and he was simply an empty tube. Even his thirst disappeared. At first he had thought it was because he was so dehydrated and starved, but when his insides began to ache and burn he understood that he was completing the transformation internally now. It was horribly uncomfortable as parts of him moved around to accommodate his shrinking abdomen. Since his entire body, including his organs, had been changing throughout the days, it was not a major alteration in their chemical structure per se, more just placement. He lay on his back and gripped the torn pillow, unfortunately abusing it even further in the process when he pulled at it in fear.

It was a relatively quick process, luckily, though it felt much longer. In the following hours, as the sun dipped out of sight and the crickets came to life, his hips and pelvis transformed. His abdomen ached terribly for quite a while, something he could not understand at first, until he realized that his reproductive system was altering itself. When the pain settled and there were no more human characteristics below his shoulders, he turned onto his side, crawled into a ball and mourned for Tania.

She settled down at the patio table, the beige umbrella protecting her from the sun. Wikus watched her silently as she read a novel. She had brought a notebook outside with her as well, and every couple of minutes she would jot down some lines. He wondered what she was writing. She was not a writer, though she had tried her hand at poetry several times over the years. Wikus had always encouraged her to work at it because her poems were beautiful, but she had felt she did not have it in her to be a poet, or an author; she was simply someone who appreciated the art of literature and the authors who designed it.

The outside light was on, bright enough to illuminate the pages of her book. He wished she would sleep, though. Her face was drawn and her skin pale; he wanted her to look after herself, to remain healthy. He felt relieved when she finally went back inside, and shut off all the lights, presumably to go to bed.

His jaw began to ache. When he swept his tongue through his mouth, his remaining teeth (all, except the molars) wiggled about. He closed his eyes and wondered how he would possibly pull out the teeth when his claws were so large and clumsy. The problem solved itself minutes later, when his jaw began to reform, causing his teeth to loosen enough so he could remove them with his tongue. He was terrified, with a handful of teeth in his fist. His head was transforming. It would all be over soon, but not before his face was gone, his skull was gone, and his brain was different. He would have tendrils coming out of the middle of his face where his nose used to be. He would breathe through gills on his neck and pick up sound through his antennae and the fine hairs on the back of his head and neck. He would no longer be human.

When the pain hit, and he felt his cheekbones change and his jaw lengthened and became more angular, and he felt his nose and ear cartilage liquefy and turn into something else, he stopped breathing. It was happening too fast. It shouldn't have been happening at all, this was full blown, cold insanity. His hands gripped his head, his face, and he tried to shout out for help, or just to yell to release his anger and fear and pain, but his voice was no longer working. One hand clutched his throat, which was also transforming. Holes formed on either side of his throat – slits for gills – and blood poured through his fingers, coating the poncho, his arm, and the floor. He was dying.

Air was no longer entering or exiting his body. He clawed at the gills, clawed at his nose, which was now nothing more than a bump on his face – no more nostrils; flattened, a gradually sloping hill in a valley. How did one breathe through the sides of the neck? He did not know, and he screamed soundlessly and thrashed around and fell backwards. His fight did not last long – his skull was incredibly thin, in the process of transferring into necessary tissues and chemicals, and so the small impact with the ground instantly knocked him unconscious.

He awoke relatively soon afterward to a new body and mind. His antennae padded the ground beside his head, and unnecessarily transferred the message to his brain that he was lying on flat wooden panels that were missing their bark. The in depth knowledge of something as mundane as plywood, the flash that lit up his retinas while he continued to view the outside world in front of him, was a shock, and enthralling.

"Whoa," he meant to say, but it did not happen. With an absence of the lips and cheek muscles required to form English words, and his altered voice box, all that came out of Wikus' mouth was a crackling vibration of sound. At least he still had a tongue, albeit it was wider, larger and pointier. He let it explore his mouth – his teeth were circular and had pointy edges, like molars. There were no teeth at the front of his mouth; the tendrils nearest to his mouth, which were clawed, would serve as biting incisors. In place of human incisors he now had flat, rounded, beak-like bones at the front of his upper and lower jaw. He knew that since the clawed tendrils acted as initial biting and tearing mechanisms, the flat bones were mainly used with the tongue to sound out words.

He gave it a try. His human voice, midway between deep and soft, was now non-existent in terms of making human sounds. Instead, his clicks, whirls, growls, and other such alien noises were simply at a slightly higher octave than a 'low' alien voice (such as Christopher's), but much deeper than that of a child (such as Oliver's). The subtle differences in alien voices made it difficult to distinguish between them; they also had to rely on familiarity and speech patterns.

While Wikus did not make actual words with his new vocal cords and mouth, he did make some interesting sounds. He had to admit that it was entertaining. He explored his new ability to click, which was not a sound made by his tongue and the roof of his mouth, as he had expected, but instead by a mechanism in his throat. Perhaps he should have listened to the lessons preached by the MNU scientists ("How and What to Look for in a Prawn" Thursday March 3, 2001 at precisely 1:00 PM, second floor auditorium), or read the textbooks (The Complete Physical Dynamic Equilibrium: the Chemistry of the Prawn by Arthur Dawkins, Ph.D., or Meaty Mysteries: the Alien Insects by Jacques Lefevre, primary school teacher). Instead he had amused himself by drawing doodles; half the time he had never even made it to the lectures, being sidetracked on the way. He knew the basics of the alien anatomy, but he had never had to inspect the finer workings of one. All the more fun now, really.

He sat up, still moving his tongue and throat around to make noise. Because he was no longer encased in skin, fine hairs, about an inch long each, did the feeling for him. The muscle tissue in between the exoskeleton plating acted as skin, with nerves, but very little of it was visible; therefore, the little hairs came in handy. As he'd been transforming, before the hairs had made an appearance, he had been worried by the lack of sensation he felt; all that the plating could tell him was whether a surface was hard or soft. Now, though, it almost felt as though he had more nerves than he had had as a human – the hairs were incredibly sensitive, and like the antennae, communicated vast amounts of information in just a millisecond without overwhelming him.

His hands came up to investigate above his shoulders. It was odd, having such a thick neck, and gills. He realized that he had been breathing the entire time he was awake, without even thinking about it. He supposed his new alien brain would have figured it out quickly, in order for him not to asphyxiate.

He crossed his eyes to try to get a view of the feelers on his face. They curled about with only the slightest provocation from his mind; at first, when he wanted them to move, he thought quite hard on it and they went flying in every direction, some even sticking straight out for a moment. The sharp movements scared the Hell out of him and he learned to keep his thoughts quiet, lest the tentacles take over his face.

Still slightly sad and uncomfortable about losing what had made him a man (and of service to Tania), Wikus kept his mind distracted as he cut up his pants, making them into modified Prawn shorts.

Voila. He was a Prawn.

The thought was quickly losing its appeal. While it was fun to have a new body that was not bleeding, and shifting, and changing, it also meant that he was no longer human. He stilled his movements and stared out the window, at his and Tania's dark, quiet house. How was it possible to be so close to her, but separated by an infinite distance?

You're not a Prawn, he reminded himself, as he began looking at himself differently. At least before, there had been a semblance of humanity; now, there was none. Nothing to remind himself that he was still Wikus van der Merwe.

Except for Tania. Breathing in deeply, he convinced himself that that was enough.

Many thanks to Quinn, Nina Modaffari, ObscureWriter, and Kyuubigod for reviewing. Your kind and encouraging words are very appreciated! Feel free to leave your comments, my fellow readers! :) Thanks for reading!

Sincerely,
LBS