Dr Egg Cup

Sometimes those who look out of place are the heroes of the piece. A man wearing an orange kaftan over linen trousers or perhaps the woman passing him who walks an incensed chihuahua with a distinct flicker to its left eye. He supposed it was caused by a mental tick or an undoubted urge to maim.

She is entrenched in an Afghan coat, the woman, not the dog, undoubtedly created by a recently overstated designer. Long-necked, her skin has the sheen of someone not of the norm.

His clothes looked like he had purchased them at Oxfam and there was doubt whether that was the year the charity shop opened. Oxfam clothes amid a recycling generation are a blessing in both charity and thrift. But one now gets the impression that the man is a little worse off in life, especially regarding his fashion sense.

“Madam.”

He nods as the woman glances at him and lets out a loud huff. Swinging her lengthy and lustrous brunette ponytail in a dangerous manner.

“Well met.”

He says and frowns.

His teeth grind, creating white noise on either side of his eyes momentarily. In his years on earth, he could never understand why people were so uncool to each other. He could remember when people were mellow and never behaved in the ways he’d seen. He rarely emancipated 70s slang. They didn’t like it or care if it made him happy. Jade-tinted glasses reminded him that things rarely changed. In some ways, it was obvious that they had, but he liked to remain comfortable. He knew what he was. Living through times of progression, he was glad for it and had followed the changes with interest.

*

Tragedies happened. And sometimes, he wondered if they were sent to try him. To make him as unhappy as they were. And they were unhappy, mostly.

It’s twilight in the village, and northern accents can be heard in the local pubs if one listens, along with spoken blue and black bile from their mouths.

He is used to the dialect and speaks it. Born there or not, it is expected, and he prostrates himself to their way.

The low lights give way to a stunning sunset that might remind the man of past LSD trips if he knew how that felt. With all honesty, and not knowing this man, perhaps we might only be making assumptions at this point.

His medical bag swings in his hand. It’s paisley carpetry looking dull as he nods at others in the street. They avoid his gaze, and he ignores the whispers and odd glances with a grin as wide as a salamander. Should he say he’s used to them, or that each could be forgiven ignorance?

He knew he was far too chirpy for this part of town, and his whistling of all the young dudes was out of place. It was more likely because of the sound level, rather than its vintage tones.

Further from the better part of town, he’d left earlier, the grey seeped in as if he had moved from colour TV to black and white. From the present day to the late 19th century. He knew about that. He knew a lot of things that people didn’t think he knew.

As he found number 89 Snitch Street, a flash of colour came from an ailing, rather bent, amber-yellow miniature rose that had been discarded on the porch. The occupants had planted it, an indicator of who they were. He saw these primitive signals as rather badly thought out.

Pushing through a gate that had been thoroughly gnawed by woodworm and soaked by the recent storms, he brushed off his hands and looked around for a doorbell.

The window was open, a sash, with a hint of mould caressed by a lace curtain.

“He’s all I could get on a Sunday.”

A voice hissed.

“But baby, he’s, he’s. Oh, I don’t know. Have you seen what he wears?”

“Please, it’s too late for anything else. You need someone to look you over. Please, just to be safe. I don’t trust the hospital.”

The deeper voice pleaded.

He rapped on the door.

There was no doubt he’d been heard when they went silent and began to scrabble around.

But he waited.

A rush of colour filled his mind as their scent wafted through the window, his head tilting back until it ground against his upper back.

That scent.

That perfect scent.

He came back to himself after taking a chance to revel in it. Avoiding the fixation, he rapped on the door gently.

The door was opened by a young person with panicked eyes, and he found himself pushed through into the lounge with no proper greeting.

Entering the room, he tried to understand why his kind could not wish to help them. Their survival instinct itself was reason enough to admire them. They were afraid now, and that made him feel the same. Like he wasn’t welcome.

The basic room contained a mustard-coloured armchair and a ragged beige sofa. It was covered with a pink hand-knitted throw. He surmised this from a small basket containing knitting needles and half-constructed booties.

The room was a little demurer than some he had seen before, but something he could dig.

Basil Egg Cup could be considered a strange man. A retro gentleman dressed in shabby chic, as though he’d woken up 50 years after the 70s began. But there was much more to him than that.

“I won’t hurt you. I’m here at your request.”

He moved a few steps forward to observe the small person with a pregnant belly.

Inhaling, he found her to be around twenty years by the vintage.

“May I?”

His hand hovered towards the patient.

“Um, I’m Amy. Yes.”

Uttered to the one with-child.

Lifting his hand, he noted each stare, expecting him to look less human. The only differences were obsidian-like nails, rosy light lines along his fingers with palms that had the look of rife sepsis.

Star stood as close as possible. Their hand is on Amy’s, and both sets of eyes are on the Doctors.

“You know we only asked you because we were desperate?”

Amy’s partner said rather loudly, in fact, almost shouted. As if afraid they wouldn’t be heard if they didn’t.

Basil stood his ground. He had experienced many expectant parents over many years. The ripe emotion, and thrilling passions childbirth gave rise to, were a constant surprise.

“Star.”

Basil coaxed.

“It is Star, isn’t it?”

His lips narrowly caught on each ‘S.’

He had prided himself on learning Earth’s world languages, but on occasion, he almost slipped. He blamed it on his tongue. The process of hybridity left a few lasting imprints. Mainly the ability to regrow limbs but also his forked tongue.

“Yeah, I, um. Look.”

Star clenched their fist.

“I saw your ad. I’m not sure if we can trust you. I didn’t know what to do, but the others are running the hospitals.”

Star breathed heavily and stopped, remembering their only love was beside them and about to give birth to their child.

Their eyes rushed to Amy’s, and Basil observed something that passed between them he couldn’t pinpoint. Fear, perhaps love.

A screech occurred that almost made the fractured floorboards of the house rattle, and Basil felt the pain. It was something he had been privy to since he arrived. A spasm that rattled his being.

It began as a small, centred niggle in his fangs as they passed through the Earth’s atmosphere. They had been warned that they would experience human feelings and other symptoms, including the need to drain the hypothalamus of those on the host planet. Orders were that they would never take a human unless they were commanded to.

It had never been easy, and Basil knew why these people, who could be described in the simplest way as slaves, didn’t trust him.

He named himself once he was left alone to fuse with the inhabitants. Sitting in an Italian café upon his arrival, he was served boiled eggs and ciabatta soldiers with a sprinkling of basil. He knew this because he had asked what the meal consisted of and how it was served with curiosity. The large male who served him had been the hardest to resist in his time here. His neck reeked of health and the ease with which he could have taken him.

Now, he had learned better. Distancing himself from the invasion meant he could help the humans. He found them fascinating. Their lack of purpose, and their focus on making money while ignoring the privation suffered by much of their kind. They had no nest mentality, yet it was prevalent in many of the other creatures who cohabited the planet. It was profoundly obvious that the lack of concentrated colonies had been how they had been easily infiltrated. They were separate, with an illusion of oneness.

He had decided when he arrived that they had their own people who studied them. It left him feeling less bothered about doing that himself, supposing that humans knew more about themselves than the rogue slave traders who heralded some way from the ring galaxy. He had, however, immersed himself in their sciences and anthropology. He had wanted to learn.

“Doctor!”

The mother yelled.

Rooting around in his bag, Basil pulled out a large needle.

“Just a small injection to get your cells going.”

He held it in his hand, knowing it was something they had never experienced.

Star looked at the needle, and their eyes rolled.

“Hey!”

Doctor Egg Cup grabbed their arm, righting them.

“Your child will be born in minutes, now is not the time to faint.”

He urged.

Amy screamed again.

“Stick anything you like in me, honest. Just please help me!”

Basil covered a chuckle with the back of his hand, attempting not to smirk at the unbidden visual which popped into his mind.

She knew who he was. She knew, and yet she still spoke those words. He knew intense pain was the one thing that would make a human beg.

He found a beating vein near the crook of her arm and perforated it.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe. This will help.”

He had no way to deny it wouldn’t.

They’d found out about the hormone before they came here. The commanders would never say what it was. It had become clear that the humans craved it as much as they did. Then, they had become undecided about the mission. The humans could not be harvested if they were required as slaves. There would be other planets which could be used for that purpose.

Amy reached out and touched his face, momentarily tracing the lightest pallid scales of his cheek. Her breath came deeply.

“You look a bit like a snake but with the grin of an Axolotl. That’s what people say.”

She thanked him as she gasped with the latest contraction.

Leaning forward over her stomach as it was cramping, she panted. Releasing words, she could barely utter, she said.

“I know what you’ve done. I know what you want from us.”

He placed his hand on her forehead delicately.

“I know, but I promise I am not here for that. You can call me Basil if that helps?”

Between the moment of understanding and her next scream, a fleeting moment occurred.

Then they both looked between her legs.

Amber and black eyes met Amy’s light blue.

“Fuck!”

Star uttered as they found themselves on wobbly legs, relieved by sitting swiftly in a chair. They imagined a hefty tail that swept them swiftly in that direction but couldn’t be certain.

“It’s nothing more than you deserve. Amy, it’s a gift. The universe’s best.”

Basil covered his mouth to contain himself as he spoke. The tantalising odour was overpowering.

Amy got through her contractions and implored.

“I’m sorry we were unsure of you. They always said, the news online, that you alie—, P-p-people were here to hurt us. Oh God, please!”

She dropped her head back onto the pillows and bit her lips, struggling to cope with the next rush of pain.

The Doctor closed his eyes, and the hormones flooded her body.

“Promise I’ll be okay. Please.”

She yells.

It’s less lustrous now as the hormone fills her faster, lapping at her frontal cortex. It’s visible to him as her brow compresses.

“I am not them. They are not my people.”

Basil moves to whisper in her ear.

“You are my people.”

He moves his head toward hers.

Her eyes meet his as she inhales so deeply into her belly, he’s concerned she won’t take another breath.

“I don’t give a fuck about that now; my baby is coming!”

Rather a rude retort, he thought, but to be expected under the circumstances.

He runs to the end of the sofa, his arms wide.

Amy launches forward with a pleading look.

“Arrgh! Just get my baby here safe!”

Only visible to Basil, gold fluid crashed from the crown of the newborn as soon as it appeared. The scent of mother and child rushed like an all-binding wind, electrifying the muscles in the tail that remained hidden.

Placing the child in his mother’s arms, Basil silenced himself. Damping down the vibrations of the babe’s screams by reminding himself of his fundamental orders.

He stumbled to the window ledge, leaning on it heavily and providing himself with a moment of reprieve. His hands left bloody marks on the sill as he concentrated on looking at a man in the street who was about to mow his lawn. Another Indicator. This one was a collaborator.

Looking up at the hint of a moon that was about to descend, the sky seemed bright, perhaps too bright. He knew what that meant. It meant more were coming.

Basil feared for them. The more that came, the more this imperfect world would change.

These humans were as unneeded as the mass of rubbish strewn across their planet. One thing always certain on earth was their lack of care for their home.

Basil’s people did not know him, he imagined they had forgotten about him following his disappearance. They would never care about these precious ones. But he could if he remained under the radar. Being odd should have made him stand out, but all mostly ignored him.

Leaving the new family swiftly, he promised to come back to check on them tomorrow.

Whistling, he wandered along the road, wondering if he might visit the Italian Café once more. There was nothing wrong with taking in the waiter’s scent, just as long as he never touched.