[OPEN] June Catch-All - Ch-ch-changes

[onthehalfshell]

who: Wikus and YOU
what: Wikus gets his metamorphosis over with, bit by bit.
when: Month of June
where: Various (Floor 8 Community Housing, Bar, Hospital, wherever)
warnings: Transformation body-horror, possible talk about dicks (or lack thereof), gender essentialist talk?

i. My Body Is A Cage

Wikus does his best to settle into a routine - he's sleeping regularly now, he's got a job, his checkups at the hospital are scheduled - but it's hard to really feel settled when his body keeps shaking things up and making normal tasks difficult.

Eating, for one, is a pain in the ass when you have no teeth. And without being able to breathe through his nose he isn't about to try and swallow bites whole like he'd seen Prawns do. That seemed like a good way to choke to death. So now every mealtime he slurps down a not-especially-appetizing-looking, specially prescribed, nutrient slurry. It tastes a lot better than it looks.

Getting dressed was awkward as well. He's got barbs that keep catching on his clothing, and sometimes his antenna seem to be deliberately getting in his way… He's starting to see the logic behind Christopher Johnson's improvised vest.

His manual dexterity only gets worse when his four mostly-human fingers start fusing together into two, and soon he's fumbling everything. It really doesn't help that he has only one thumb (he really regrets chopping off his left one).

Next to go is his ability to walk. It's not surprising that his legs started shifting out of sync, but being lopsided definitely​ does a number on your mobility. He tries out crutches first, but it's not long before he can't walk more than a few meters before his legs start burning and his joints throb. The doctors try to explain it as something to do with the stresses of intermediate forms between digitigrade and plantigrade legs, but all it really means to him is that until his legs finish growing out, he'll be stuck in a wheelchair.

Physically, it's easier than he expected. There's a strength in his alien arms that he's never had as a human. As far as actually navigating the chair goes… that he needs practice with. In the meantime, door frames and unguarded toes need to watch out.


ii. Pour One Out

Losing body parts wasn't easy on the psyche. He got used to losing teeth after the first several dropped out. Peeling away his earlobes left him sick and shook both times. He wasn't able to look himself in the mirror straight after the fleshy remainder of his nose came off (the underlying structures long gone).

But it's only the loss of a particular, ahem, set of body parts that has Wikus skipping out on work to snivel pathetically in a bar, surrounded by a growing forest of empty beer bottles.


iii. Breathless

Even going uphill, Wikus rarely finds himself out of breath from rolling around in his hospital-loaned wheelchair. So why, going at a leisurely pace as he is now, is he panting like he just finished a jog.

Stopping to rest, he can't seem to catch his breath, and he feels a thread of panic. If anything, the feeling gets worse, going from panting to outright gasping. He sucks in as deep a breath as he can and then… nothing. He can't exhale. He can't inhale. He can't breathe.

Clutching at his throat and chest, his diaphragm heaves uselessly and he can't even get out a choking noise. Yes, he is definitely panicking now.


iv. Impatient Inpatient

After the harrowing incident when Wikus's breathing switched from trachea to gills, he and the hospital staff decide it’s best for him to stay at the hospital for awhile. It isn't his favorite decision - he still has flashbacks​ sometimes to being strapped to a dissection table - but it’s better to have doctors immediately on hand in case any of his other major organs decide to fail during the transition.

The transformation is largely complete now, most of the remaining changes being internal. His mouth parts are growing in, but for awhile he's completely mute. Even once they do grow in, it's still a struggle to figure out how to speak with them. Human phonemes are completely unpronounceable now, and understanding the Prawn language is a lot different than speaking it.

Fairly often he can be found practicing speech in a mirror, trying to figure out how to make the various sounds he remembers learning. Other times he's wandering the hospital grounds, either in his chair or wobbling unsteadily on nearly-transformed legs. Sometimes he's up in his assigned room, either lounging in bed watching TV or doing his job remotely from the small desk.

All in all, the last days of his transformation are pretty damn boring. He could use some company.


v. Beautiful Butterfly

It's a relief when he's finally discharged from the hospital. All the tests show that his body has reached its new equilibrium. It's not the body he wants, but being all one thing feels better than being a jumble of mismatched pieces.

He's taken Christopher's example to heart, and taken to wearing vests with comfortably wide arm holes. He likes them baggy, hanging down to bunch over the pronounced crests of his hips. Tops meant to be tight on humans just look odd on his Prawn body, snug around the chest then drooping listlessly, unable to sit close to his incredibly thin abdomen.

Bottoms are a bigger problem. Pants are right out. He does his best with baggy shorts with elastic waists or draw strings, but he has to admit they look odd, stretched over his hips but with waistbands too wide to sit snug on his belly. It's better than being naked, though. He can work on it.

The first place he goes on being set free is the nearest park. He stands in the grass for a long time, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of it under his bare - though tough-shelled - toes. His antennae waves in the soft breeze, tasting the air. His gills ripple gently, breathing softly. He feels… strangely peaceful. Light. Not nearly as out of place in his own skin (shell?) as he should. His stomach still churns sometimes at the stranger in the mirror, and glimpses of his hands sometimes startle him, but… just being here, just feeling his body, living in it… that's pretty okay.

Opening his eyes - both alien now, but one gold and one strangely still blue - he jogs a few tentative steps, a little unsteady. His new legs are strong. Maybe he's weak for a Prawn, he doesn't know, but compared to his normal legs, they're downright powerful. Gradually, he breaks into an all-out run.

Comments

II

[ragnarsson]

Ivar is blowing off steam after a mid-shift with the Perimeter Guard. He rolls into the bar and orders a beer, chugging back about a third of it before he looks around the room for who else is here tonight. His eyes spot Wikus sitting over in the corner almost immediately. It's kind of hard to miss when he looks more and more like a giant bug and less like a human being these days. His eyes take in the wheelchair too and he wonders what happened to the bug-man's legs.

And boy, does he look different. Ivar wheels over and openly stares for a moment, every inch the rude Viking Wikus thinks he is. "Looks like those other three antennae came in." Ivar plunks his beer down on the table next to him. Yep, Wikus now has a drinking companion, whether he wants him or not.

[onthehalfshell]

Ivar's arrival is met with a squinty look and uncoordinated twitching of said antennae, followed by Wikus tilting his head back to finish off his current bottle of beer - drinking is getting awkward as the transformation moves into his lips - before he finally greets him with, "Oh, it's you."

Try not to sound so enthused about it, Wikus.

Rubbing a hand over his scalp just behind his antennae he adds, "They have. Still can't touch 'em, man"

There's a slur to his speech, but whether from the changes to his mouth or alcohol, it's hard to say. Most likely it's both.

[ragnarsson]

Wikus can sulk and be surly all he wants. Ivar has a talent for being exactly where he's not wanted by people who are less than impressed with his presence. Trust him, even his own brothers tolerate him more than actually like him to be around. "That's a shame. I'm still curious."

He waves the bartender over so that they can get a refresh on their beers. "So what happened here?" He gestures to the wheelchair Wikus is sitting in. "Did like your bones change shape or something?" He'll get around to mentioning the beer bottles in a minute. For now, he wants to get his curiosity about Wikus' physical state satiated before anything else.

[onthehalfshell]

Wikus gives a bit of a grunt, sliding his hand forward to flatten the bases of his antennae against his head.

"My legs're fokked," he says, lifting his left leg and flexing his lengthening foot and toes. No shoe on that one, only an awkwardly stretched sock. It doesn't fit shoes anymore. His other leg looks relatively normal, its changes still able to be hidden under his clothes. "They don't even have the decency to be fokked the same way at the same time."

He takes a swig from his beer, then notices Ivar's. "...you even old enough to drink that, man?"

[ragnarsson]

"Cheer up. At least it's just a temporary problem." He gives Wikus a meaningful look. Seriously, come talk to him when you're permanently stuck in a wheelchair and maybe then he'll have more sympathy.

He looks surprised at the question. Wikus is actually the first one to point that out. His roommates don't care if he stocks the fridge with beer."I've been drinking since I was twelve." It was the standard as far as most Vikings went. Twelve was old enough to be considered an adult, thirty was middle-aged, and if you reached fifty, you were an old man. Such was life in the Dark Ages. "Heard someone at one of the festivals say they have an age limit here of fourteen." So he was good to destroy his liver as much as he wanted to.

[onthehalfshell]

"Temporary doesn't make it any fokken easier. Especially if it's not reversible." He's talking less about the wheelchair and more about the transformation in general. He's reminded of why he's here, and he leans heavily on the table with a miserable groan.

"That's awful young, man," he mumbles, possibly referring to when Ivar started drinking, possibly about the legal drinking age. Both. True either way. He doesn't care that much anyway, he's not the police and Ivar isn't his kid. Instead he raises his beer a little.

"To alcohol." Now it's time to drain the rest of the bottle.

[ragnarsson]

Ivar just sort of shrugs and manages to look a little concerned. He's trying to care, really he is, but hey, what can he do? It's not like he can reverse the process.

"Considering I'll be lucky to live past twenty-five, might as well get in as much as I can while I can." A bit of a fatalistic view, but Ivar would much prefer to go out in some great battle while he's still in his prime as opposed to dying of old age like some pathetic sap.

"What're we drinking to forget?" There's really only two reasons to drink, to either celebrate, or mourn something, and Wikus is way too down right now to be happy about anything. Granted, turning into a giant bug man can't be a picnic.

[onthehalfshell]

On a sober day, Wikus would comment on Ivar's depressing life prediction. Maybe say something about kidney disease. As it is, he just stares at the kid, looking generally disturbed, and in the time it takes him to come up with a response the subject has already been changed.

With another loud groan, he lets his forehead thunk against the table - which is much less painful when you have a protective layer of chitin - and covers his head with his hands.

"This fokken transformation, man! I thought I was starting to, I don't know, deal with it..."

[ragnarsson]

Vikings were fatalistic at the best of time. Everything in life was already preordained, which meant they both were incredibly reckless, believing they'd only die when they were destined to, and pessimistic, believing they couldn't fight their destiny, at the same time.

Ivar leans over and awkwardly pats Wikus on the shoulder. He's really not the best person to look to sympathy for, but hey, he's trying. "What happened now?" He tries not to sound too incredibly curious, but really, either something has come in like the antennae, or something fell off like his ears.

iv.

[dancingmd]

The most alarming part of Wikus' transformation is over, it appears, yet this does little to alleviate Beverly's concerns. Even with all her long years serving in Starfleet, she has never had a case quite like this. And of course, without knowing much about Prawn physiology, it's harder to gauge his health. Still, she is one of the few doctors with any knowledge of insectoids so he'll be seeing a lot of her - and her tricorder. Not hospital issue or standard Riverview technology, clearly.

This particular morning when she's making her rounds, she finds him at the mirror struggling to speak. Unsure of whether or not this should be a private moment, she clears her throat, so as not to startle him. "Mr. Van Der Merwe? May I come in?"

[onthehalfshell]

Wikus's antennae twitch towards Beverly before he pulls his concentration away from the mirror and turns to face her. He lets out a series of incomprehensible clicking noises, pauses to furrow his brow, followed by another set of inhuman sounds out of which 'go in' is translatable, but still not the 'Certainly, come right in' he was aiming for.

Antennae drooping irritably, he throws up his hands and settles for a simple, "Yes."

'Yes' and 'no' were the first words he made sure he could pronounce.

He's only limping a little as he moves from the mirror to sit on the hospital bed. His legs are mostly finished developing, but the right is still a bit shorter than the left.

[dancingmd]

"Thank you." Her eyes soften with sympathy, as she takes out her tricorder. She can only begin to imagine how frustrating the language barrier must be for him. Though... she taps the tricorder thoughtfully against her palm and doesn't yet start the usual medical scans.

"You know, this has a universal translator equipped. I haven't had to use it here yet but if you wanted to give it a shot...?"

[onthehalfshell]

Wikus's mouthparts flex and twitch as he considers whether or not he can say what he wants. Shaking his head, he holds up one tentacle-like finger in a silent 'just a moment'.

Fetching his phone, he types as quickly as a guy with only one remaining thumb can. Then with a final tap he holds the device up and it begins to speak in a computerized voice that's almost-but-not-quite convincingly human.

"Can it translate gibberish?"

He knows there's some sort of translation... thing around Riverview. It was part of the orientation for his new job, seeing as he'd be dealing with many new arrivals. Unfortunately, it only seems to work when you say something comprehensible in a language. Many of his clumsy attempts at speaking the Prawn language just don't cut it.

This must be how toddlers feel when they're still figuring out speech.

[dancingmd]

"Perhaps. I admit I don't entirely know how it works. Neither programming nor linguistics are my strong suit." She lets out a soft sigh. "i only want to try to make this easier on you, if I can."

[onthehalfshell]

"I-" He considers sounding out the Prawn word for 'appreciate' very slowly, but decides against it. But he does manage another he's mostly mastered while his thumb taps at his phone. "Thank-you."

A moment later, the device in his hand echos, "I appreciate it."

[dancingmd]

"You're welcome. It's what I'm here for. So if you do decide it's something you want to try, please let me know."

[onthehalfshell]

No sound other than his finger tapping on the screen as he prepares a response.

"Can't hurt to try. If that thing knows-" He pauses in his typing a this point, realizing that he doesn't actually know what this language is called. Or even what Prawns call themselves. He never thought to ask. "-Prawn-speak, then maybe it can teach me."

v.

[franciscoramon]

[ This particular park is not too far from Cisco's workshop. It's also fairly quiet, outside big holidays and festivals, and he's taken to coming here sometimes, when he needs a change of scenery and some fresh air. On this particular afternoon, though, he is not alone. There is a rather crustacean looking alien nearby, who it looks like is meditating, or maybe just enjoying the sunshine and the light breeze.

Cisco doesn't watch him in a creepy way, but he definitely looks over when the guy starts to run - slowly at first, and then faster. There's something something childlike or experimental about it.

When the alien comes to a halt not too far off, Cisco calls: ]

Nice day, isn't it?

[ Perhaps he ought to recognize a similarity, at least in the hands, to the nice guy from Johannesburg that he'd met during that lantern festival. But the truth is that, although Cisco remembers most of the details of the conversation very well, he doesn't recognize any part of Wikus in this person. ]

[onthehalfshell]

[Wikus is pretty sure this is the fastest he's ever run in his life, and yet he's still barely out of breath when he finally slows to a halt, gills flutterinb along his neck.

He's also pretty sure he can go even faster, if he puts in the effort. The thought is a little dizzying.

Further experimentation can wait, someone's calling to him. Lifting a hand, he waves at Cisco. It takes him a moment to place him as the man he met at the lantern festival - it was fairly dark, after all - but he jogs a few steps closer when he does.]

Yes. Nice.

[Under normal circumstances, he'd say more, but it turns out that just starting to speak a language tends to make you concise. Between the pronunciation and the patchy vocabulary, longer sentences are a pain.]

[franciscoramon]

[ Coming from another human, Cisco might interpret an answer that short as an attempted brush-off, and he would respect it. But the fact is he knows so little about how translation actually happens, here, between people from different worlds speaking different languages. Maybe short-but-sweet is just how this particular race of alien communicates. So he persists, holding up a hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he says: ]

Y'know there's a pretty good track over at the university. For running. I see people there all the time, I'm pretty sure you don't need to be a student or whatever.

[ Cisco thinks about how much it would've absolutely freaked him out, if he'd run into someone who looked like this at a park back home. Now, it's not exactly passé, but it's nothing earth-shattering, either. And he kind of likes that. ]

You been here long?

[ It couldn't be clearer that Cisco doesn't recognize him at all from the last time they met, that he's treating Wikus as a total stranger. ]

[onthehalfshell]

[Wikus rubs awkwardly at his neck at the suggestion of running on an actual track. It's not any more or less public than the park but... It seems too official somehow. Probably just unpleasant memories of childhood track and field catching up to him.

He takes his words slow and careful, though Cisco has no way of knowing it's out of the norm. Translated or not, clicks and pops tend to just sound like clicks and pops to someone not familiar with the language.]

Just. Trying. Fresh legs.

[Fresh isn't the word he wants, but he can't recall the word for 'new' right now. Why is having a working understanding of a language so much easier than speaking it.

Cisco's question has him squinting in amusement. He has no idea who Wikus is, does he? Well, he did still look a lot more human the previous month...]

We meet- meet- met. Before.

[Ugh, variations in tense!]

[franciscoramon]

[ It's strange; if Cisco didn't know any better, that gesture of rubbing his hand (pincer... thing) across the back of his neck is a very human gesture of discomfort. Could it mean the same thing, for a creature so different? He can't expect himself to be able to interpret tone or gesture, in this case. Which is difficult, because the guy is communicating cryptically, too. Fresh legs? Does he just mean well-rested? Had they been healed? Cisco knows some people arrive to this place wounded and are miraculously healed by the medical science in this place. Maybe they WERE transplanted legs, or very convincing prosthetics, or... ]

We- we did?!

[ Cisco can't imagine why this dude would lie, but at the same time... well, that's not a face he could forget, is it? Not even a little bit. He tries to think back. Sure he's gotten a little tipsy a couple nights in the months he's been here, but never so blackout drunk he could have met an alien and not remembered it. Had he? Or is this some kind of awful new side effect of his powers he's just learning about now - amnesia, or sleepwalking, or who knows what... ]

When was that?

[onthehalfshell]

[Wikus can't really laugh anymore, not like a human, but his amusement at Cisco's unfiltered surprised has a clicking vibration rising from somewhere in his throat. At least there are some things his body knows how to do without making him learn it.]

It's me- [He pauses, realizing that he... can't actually pronounce his own name anymore. There's no translation for 'Wikus van der Merwe' in Prawn-speak. It's a sobering thought that has his clicking not-laughter cutting off.]

I- we meet- [He really hates that word!] -met. At- gathering? With... small... lights...

[He palms his face, antennae drooping. This is ridiculous. He really needs to sit down and really try to remember every Prawn word he knows and practice his vocabulary from that. For now, he gives up and pulls out his phone to access the text-to-voice app he'd acquired. He's silent as he taps something out, then finally a computerized voice speaks.]

I'm Wikus van der Merwe, remember? [Yes, that's much better. Only the program ends up pronouncing his name 'Wih-kuss van der Mer-wuh' instead of 'VEE-kuss van der Mer-vuh'. This time his palm collides with his face with an audible smack.]

[franciscoramon]

[ It becomes clear, gradually, that this isn't a case of Cisco just having trouble understanding someone who is communicating freely in the way they're used to. Whoever this person is, they are clearly struggling to get words out, with tenses and with remembering vocabulary. Which is odd, really, but Cisco rolls with it, listening for any clues that will answer his unasked questions.

The gathering with the small lights... that must be the lantern holiday that happened a while back. Only, that had lasted a whole week, and Cisco had actually met quite a few people.

Then, Wikus pulls out his phone and types something in. When the program reads off his name, even with the mispronunciation (which clearly irks him), Cisco recognizes it. His mouth forms a perfect 'O' of surprise and his eyebrows climb high, but he gets it. Now, at last, he sees the similarity between this guy- between Wikus' hands now and the one hand, before. He struggles for a moment to figure out what to say, and then opts for a joke to ease the tension: ]

Wow! Totally didn't recognize you, dude. You get a haircut or something?

[ Obviously, he wants to know just what the hell happened, but he's also not really sure it's his place to ask. Wikus, he remembers, had been really nice to him when he was feeling really shitty and vulnerable, and it had meant a lot. So he spares the more probing questions and merely asks: ]

How you been?

[onthehalfshell]

[Cisco's expression is one of such perfectly stereotypical surprise and realization that Wikus can practically see the lightbulb blinking on over his head. It has that strange laughter buzzing in his throat again.

It's weird to laugh. He thinks he should probably be a lot more remose, having gone full alien and everything. But, honestly, being all of one thing again, even if it's not what he's supposed to be, is kind of a relief.

Enough that he feels free to joke about it, and not just bitterly.]

Only. A little. Off of. The top. [He manages to click that out with only a little bit of stuttering while he runs his hand over his bald, armored scalp.

Then he gives a bit of a shrug.]

I been. Changes. Less than bad as- Not as bad as. You. Maybe. Think.

[He looks less than impressed by his final sentence but... Eh. It'll do for now? Practising is kind of embarrassing, but also the only way to wean off using text-to-speech forever.

Plus, Cisco doesn't seem like the kind of guy to belittle someone over their terrible speaking skills.]