100 words of Feral Characters

[strange_natures]

The growl emanating from below the cot sounded like it belonged in the throat of some massive predator, not the tiny, fragile creature who'd taken shelter under there. Doctor Zhiva almost reconsidered getting down on the floor to take a look, but too many of his colleagues were watching for him to back out now. His professional pride was on the line - and the alien foundling they'd fished out of the battle-scarred, alien escape-pod in the river had weighed all of ten kilos soaking wet; how much damage could they possibly do?

He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the cot, provoking a violent crescendo in the growl. The child was pressed against the back wall, as far away from him as they could get, arching their misshapen spine and baring a half-set of baby teeth at him. They were mostly humanoid, but with unusual proportions, and physical features that interfered with their movements and seemed more like malformations than natural growth. Somewhere between three and four years old, if their species aged at the same rate as humans.

They growled again, pretty, pale-green eyes watching him warily from under an untidy mop of golden hair.

"Hey, little one," Zhiva murmured as the child hissed at him. "We're not going to hurt you."

The only response was another snarl, and the swipe of a sharp-clawed hand in his general direction. Sighing, he pulled himself to his feet and dusted his hands off.

"Here," Doctor Dawson said from the doorway. "I've run everything against the samples; we're going to have to add some supplements to their diet if their people don't come for them soon, but this lot should be safe enough for now."

He turned to find she was holding a tray of pastries, fruits, and meat: a selection for their small guest to choose from, along with a cup of water. Once she'd set it down they both made a strategic retreat. As soon as they were outside one of the techs, Petersen, asked, "Are we absolutely sure this is a kid?"

As if in response, a plaintive wail of, "Ahmmmmmmeh!" resonated throughout the room next door.

"Aside from the obvious call for their mummy, you mean?" Dawson muttered. She gestured at the viewing window. "The berths in the pod were ten times the kid's size, and there were signs of a struggle: blood and hair; the DNA is a partial match; I'm guessing a parent who didn't intend for their little one to travel alone." Sighing, she held up a baggie, and added, "And then there's this."

Inside the plastic was a battered, dirty bundle of fabric. The shape was unfamiliar, a blob with far too many limbs, but it was obvious what it was: a much-loved toy.

Zhiva went to take it from her, intending to return it to its rightful owner, but she pulled it away and said, "Not yet, I want to run some more tests."

"It could calm the poor little mite down," he replied, unable to keep the frustration out of his tone.

"Trust me."

He sighed but relented. When it came down to it, he did trust her.

*

"How does an itty bitty little thing like that make all that big noise," Judge said, not tearing his gaze away from the window. He'd been assigned as security after the results of Petersen foolishly attempting to drag the child out from under the bed, but his gruff, professional demeanor had melted roughly three seconds after getting a look at the 'threat'.

"I'd say their bark is worse than their bite," Zhiva replied, "but..."

"Pfft, it's not like Petersen's going to lose the fingers. Besides, the fuckwit deserved everything he got, scaring the poor kid like that." He gestured inside the room. "Have they eaten yet?"

Zhiva couldn't even begin to keep the concern out of his tone: "No." It had been a couple of days, and the amount of noise the child was making was beginning to falter in a worrying way. Still an endless, heartbreaking loop of growling, sobbing, and plaintive calls for 'Ammeh', but quieter and quieter.

"And that's a problem?"

Zhiva said, "Yes," even though the tone had made it clear that the question was rhetorical.

Judge nodded. He took a deep breath, and, before Zhiva could react, let himself into the room. The snarls from under the cot crescendoed again, albeit much weaker than when Petersen had made his doomed attempt at first contact, but Judge didn't approach: he sat down by the fresh tray of food, picked up a bala fruit, and took a bite, crunching it with a noise so appreciative it had to transcend the species boundary. Then he set the fruit down, picked up a vanilla pastry, and took a bite of that too. "This is really good," he told the child, cheerfully. "Shame you don't want any, huh?"

He kept going, keeping up a running commentary in a gentle tone that Zhiva wouldn't have previously credited him with, until he'd tried a bite of everything on the plates, then he took a sip of water before launching into a collection of stories. The kid obviously couldn't understand the words, but it seemed that they grasped the meaning, because the growls dimmed. They were still audible, but dialled down to a token gesture.

Roughly two hours after Judge had retreated from the room, the kid appeared at the edge of the cot. They split their wild-eyed attention between the food, the viewing window, and the door, but gradually became more and more focused on the food, until finally they began to emerge from their hiding place, crawling clumsily across the floor until they were close enough to reach out and grab the edge of the tray. Their retreat back under the bed with it was surprisingly rapid considering their shambolic gait, but it seemed the child could put on a turn of speed when they needed to.

A moment later the room filled with the unmistakable, noisy crunch of bala fruit being consumed.

"See," Judge said, sounding justifiably pleased with himself, "Itty Bitty just needed to be shown that it's food. Or that it's not poisoned - we don't know what level their mental developmental is at, right?"

"We're not calling them Itty Bitty," Zhiva said, very aware of how quickly a nickname could stick.

Judge shrugged and turned his gaze back through the viewing window. "How about 'Moses' then?"

Once people were made aware of the name's history it stuck firm.

*

Dawson returned with the toy a full week after she'd taken it, still in the plastic bag, carrying a spray bottle in her other hand. She had a blanket around her neck, and a second one over her arm.

"Finally," Zhiva muttered. "Do I even want to know what took you so long?"

"Rub this all over yourself," she said, tossing him the spare blanket.

"That's not an answer."

She pulled a face at him and brandished her spray bottle. "I've isolated what I think is the parent's scent and replicated it - I didn't want to use the material I collected from the pod in case there were distress hormones, but this..." She trailed off, not needing to complete the sentence. "I say we give little Moses their teddy bear back first, and let them settle before pushing our luck, but a blanket that smells like us and their mummy might help them accept that we're not big scary monsters who live above the bed."

Zhiva nodded appreciatively. That might actually work, and if it didn't then at least they'd tried. "I'll get another blanket," he told her. "For Judge. He's gotten, uh, attached."

"I had noticed," she replied with a grin. "Wish me luck."

She entered the room slowly, talking nonsense to the child in the soft, gentle tones that seemed to calm them. She got another crescendo of growls in return, but the noise stopped the moment she took the toy out of the baggie and held it out to show them. She crouched down to set it on the floor, but didn't get chance: Moses shot out from under the cot like a bullet and snatched it out of her grasp; they skidded and rolled, too clumsy and off balance to save themselves. Luckily their momentum ran out before they crashed into the wall, and they were able to get back up onto all fours, their toy tucked protectively underneath them, and hiss at her.

"It's okay, Moses; it's yours, I brought it back for you," Dawson said, gently. She didn't try to touch them or pick them up, just held her hands out to show them that she meant no harm, and slowly backed out of the room.

"Well, that's gratitude for you," Zhiva said as soon as she'd gotten her breathing back under control and rejoined him at the viewing window.

But inside the room Moses was still out in the open, clutching their toy to their chest and gazing thoughtfully up at the humans watching them: the first time they'd shown any interest beyond fear. After a moment they vanished back into the safety of their den, dragging the battered scrap of fabric with them.

The growls didn't start up again.

*

The next day they left the treated blankets next to the tray of food and water, and were gratified to see them hauled under the cot. The sense of progress didn't last: the sobs and heart-breaking calls for 'Ammeh' filled the room again, even louder than before.

*

A fourth week passed, and there was still no sign of the escape-pod's mothership. Naval Intelligence reported that it likely originated from the other side of the Xevallian Neutral Zone.

There was no way that the United Worlds were going to poke that hornet's nest for a single baby, no matter how distressed the poor little being was.

Zhiva sighed as he set the tray of food down. There was no sense in losing hope that Moses' people would come for them eventually, but the colony had to resign themselves to the fact that they might have a longterm addition to their number. He shrugged his bag off his shoulder and started to pull out the soft, colourful building blocks he'd brought with him. They'd started adding toys to the room in the hopes of keeping the little one occupied, and stimulated. Each of the blocks made a different noise, some crinkled or rattled, some played music, some lit up when held a certain way. A small thing, but maybe it would be a distraction from the misery of being all alone among strangers.

He turned to leave and froze: Moses was between him and the door. He licked his lower lip, his mind suddenly full of memories of the injuries dealt out to Petersen: deep scratches and bitten-off fingers. But the child hadn't shown any signs of aggression beyond self-defense; they'd only protected themselves from what must seem like attacks by monsters.

"Hey," he said, softly, "brought you some more toys to play with." He crouched down again to make himself seem smaller, picked up one of the bricks at random, and held it out. It was a light-up one, so he tilted it to make the bright pattern start to spin, while the speaker inside played a tune. Twinkle, twinkle little star, filled the room, very loud against the tension. How I wonder what you are.

Very appropriate.

Moses tilted their head, their gaze flicking between the toy and Zhiva's face, then crept forwards warily.

Zhiva didn't dare breathe as a tiny hand reached out. He concentrated on holding very still. The vicious claws on the child's fingers were retracted into neat sheathes, not out and ready to defend. That had to be a good sign, right? He kept his own fingers loose around the toy, not wanting to frighten Moses as they carefully took the offered building block and then sat back on their misshapen haunches to examine it out in the open, instead of immediately fleeing under the cot.

Moses experimentally squished the soft foam between their palms, and grinned in absolute delight when the music started up again. They looked up at Zhiva, clutched the new toy to their chest, and said, "Shu'ka," before finally vanishing into the safety of their den.

Zhiva waited until he was back outside the room before he collapsed to the ground and sat with his back against the wall, giving himself a moment to calm down before he started laughing in relief.

They'd added a second 'Mosian' word to their vocabulary: 'thank you'. The kid wanted to start interacting, even if it was going to be a slow and careful process.

They actually had a shot at being successful foster parents to their little mystery.

They just had to hold out until the family showed up.