Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning sky shone a brilliant red, adorned with streaks of white and casting its ominous glow over the neighborhood. The sun beat down, idly beginning to warm the earth, and a small breeze accompanied the tranquility of the balmy spring day.

As always, the planet's inhabitants remained in a state of blissful ignorance. They went about their days and failed to recognize the oddities that lay right beneath their noses. One such oddity took the form of a bizarre teal house with even more bizarre occupants.

On this day, the streets outside the peculiar glowing abode were immersed in the peace of a quaint Saturday morning during the peak of April. People went about their morning routines, scuttling down the sidewalk, obliviously jogging and walking by with dogs and strollers in tow.

After a few moments, the quiet was interrupted by the faint sound of a television radiating from within the walls of the living room. Then, in a stunning feat of vocal amplification, "GIR! TURN OFF THAT FILTH!"

The demand pierced through the air, arousing vague interest from the various passerby as they glanced up at the source of the noise before continuing with their respective lives.

Inside the house, GIR muted the television dejectedly and wandered into the kitchen where Zim had emerged from his base, via toilet.

The Irken was distracted, pacing the floor of his mock living area, seemingly lost in his own reverie as he began searching for something. He rifled through drawers, checked between couch cushions, and glanced agitatedly around the room.

GIR watched on, momentarily curious, before lighting up and running into the kitchen. Though well-meaning, his 'advanced' brain had yet to focus on a single objective for longer than a few seconds before he was on to the next thing. He dashed back into the living room a few moments later, stopping just short of plowing headfirst into Zim's rear.

Though deep in thought, Zim sensed his SIR unit's presence and turned to face him, scrutinizing him up and down. He scowled, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

"Why on Irk are you covered in syrup, GIR?" he growled with clear irritation.

"I made French toast! For the trip! Whoooo!" GIR pumped his tiny fists in the air, obviously proud of this messy accomplishment. Syrup dripped down his arms and onto the floor as he did so.

"I told you to stay out of my way. I'm very busy," replied Zim in exasperation, turning away again. His vague answer indicated that he was already back in his own little world, returning to whatever he had been in the midst of doing.

"Where is it? Where is it? I can't leave this stinking planet without my, my… ugh!" Zim muttered angrily, pacing the floors and searching through various nooks and crannies.

GIR wandered in with a plate of French toast. "What you lookin' for?"

"My wig!" Zim spat, growing ever more frantic as he searched.

"It's on your head!" GIR squawked, accidentally spilling some syrup from his plate as he leaned forward, pointing directly at Zim's stunned face.

Zim swiftly felt his head, tearing off the black wig and revealing his two antennae, which sprang upwards as if spring-loaded. They slowly flattened back against his skull again as he sighed in relief. He straightened, composing himself once more.

"GIR, it's very important that we arrive to the convention well prepared. That means giving our insubordinates a lesson in what it TRULY means to be an invader." He shook the wig in GIR's face as he spoke. "We must demonstrate just how we have managed to SEAMLESSLY blend in with the humans."

It had been some time since The Great Assigning on planet Conventia—three putrid Earth years to be exact—and Zim had been formally invited to the progress convention for all Irken invaders assigned to planets in Operation Impending Doom II. All would meet amongst each other, presenting the progress made in their respective missions. They would discuss their tactics for blending in with the indigenous life, present notes taken on their weaknesses, and debate the best strategies for world conquest. As if this weren't unnerving enough, the Tallest would also be in attendance, listening and undoubtedly judging each invader on their advancements.

True to his style, in the final hour, Zim had masked his nervousness amply behind an extra layer of officiousness. He had been pacing around the base, yelling orders at GIR and frantically packing bags all morning.

GIR watched as he packed up his pathetic human disguise alongside GIR's green doggie suit in a very formal looking carrycase.

Zim turned to face the robot again, watching as he speared his fork into another syrupy slice of French toast. Zim stood perfectly erect with both hands clasped behind his back, ready to stream another tirade of demands and complaints.

"Now, it's very important that we remember to bring everything of value along with us. Even with the Voot in hyperdrive, this will still be a long trip. Three days, approximately. We can't afford to forget anything! And the base MUST be secured against that horrible DIB!" Zim inhaled sharply, revving himself up for another onslaught of words.

"Are you listening GIR? All defenses must be activated, all gnomes set to the highest security possible. Now where is my elite uniform? I must bring it! NO! I can't show myself without the proper attire! Gah! this is just awful! We can't—"

GIR had nonchalantly lifted his fork and popped the whole slice of French toast into Zim's mouth, cutting off his next sentence.

Zim's eyes widened in bewilderment as he promptly snapped out of his little outburst. Before he could respond properly, though, GIR darted away to finish packing his own trivial belongings.

Meanwhile, Earth's Sole Defender lay face-down across his desk in a small puddle of drool. Thought the sun attempted to peek in through his closed blinds, his room remained dark and stuffy.

Dib snored lightly, exhausted from watching video footage of Zim's front door all night.

Whether he liked to admit it or not, it was clear to see he had inherited several key traits of his father. While Professor Membrane devoted his life to science, however, Dib had spent every waking second of his young life immersed in the paranormal and unexplained. And like his father, he had unwittingly fallen into the limbo of a certified workaholic.

Dib had grown a head taller than his alien counterpart over the last few years, further exemplified by the continued gangliness of his limbs and awkward skip in his step. Just shy of sixteen years of age, he had become slightly milder mannered over time.

While he still harbored an unhealthy obsession with apprehending Zim, he had learned to hold his tongue among his peers. As to be expected, years of constant taunting had only fueled his angst and frustration towards the world, and while this was admittedly a staple in adolescence, Dib found himself metamorphizing into more and more of a misanthrope as each year passed him by. Since grade skool, he secluded himself from others aside from his family and focused almost entirely on his studies.

And though he fought desperately to maintain the same life he had always lived, a subconscious part of him could still feel the tension of impending adulthood bubbling beneath the surface and threatening to erupt into a full-blown identity crisis.

Dib muttered in his sleep and stirred. As he did so, his hand brushed lightly against a large notebook that was sitting precariously close to the edge of the desk. The movement caused it to tip off the edge and smack loudly onto the floor, pulling Dib unceremoniously out of his dreams and causing him to nearly jump out of his skin at the noise. His glasses were askew, and his scythe-like hairlock hung limply across his forehead.

"Wha?" He mumbled groggily as he lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. He glanced at the clock briefly, its glowing red numbers indicating that it was just past 7:00 a.m.

Grabbing his trench coat, which had been cast to the floor in a heap the night before, Dib slipped out of his chair and sprinted downstairs to the kitchen.

As to be expected, Professor Membrane had left long ago for the laboratory. Weekends held no meaning for someone without whom the Earth would fall into chaos. Dib's sister, Gaz, was likely still asleep, though there was no way to be certain. Her door remained shut and heavy silence emanated throughout the house.

Dib padded through the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of milk and pulling out a small voice recorder from his pocket. "After a night of observing Zim's base and listening in on conversations via the bug I planted in his main room, I can deduct that he is preparing for…something. The aerial surveillance system is fully functional, as is the camera I placed in the front view of his freakish little house. I will follow up with more as info becomes available."

Dib proudly set his device on the table, inexplicably satisfied with the few nuggets of unsubstantial information he'd gathered over several hours. As he moved about the kitchen, he simultaneously tinkered with a set of binoculars and prepared his breakfast.

His newest strategy of infiltration was the aerial surveillance camera. Which, of course was just a drone he had purchased with the sole intent of spying on Zim's house from above.

So far, the results were…well, nonexistent. Dib had hoped to catch footage of Zim's Voot Cruiser taking off, but so far, the alien had kept to himself and stayed indoors. No doubt plotting something despicable…

Gaz walked into the kitchen, absently taking the plate of toast Dib had left on the counter as he became immersed in packing his various gadgets and notepads into his backpack.

"Hey! That's mine," he complained, whipping around. Gaz ignored him and sat at the table. Small, tinny noises emanated from her Game Slave as she silently ate Dib's breakfast and battled her way through level 67 of Super Kicky Fighter.

Dib scowled and slung his bag over his shoulder. "Whatever! I'm going to go spy on Zim's base. Who knows what evil he's plotting? As the last line of defense from Earth's demise, I must be there to stop him!"

He walked past his sister, who was still engrossed in her game. She growled in response to his little spiel and turned away from him. After a few seconds, the front door slammed, and Gaz rolled her eyes.

As he approached his destination, Dib eyed the bush across the street from Zim's house with zeal. Over the years, he and this bush had grown well-acquainted, seeing that it served as the perfect lookout to spy on the alien and his demented minion. Dib settled in and produced the same earpiece he had used the night before to listen in on Zim and GIR.

"Now, GIR, prepare the Voot for our departure," Zim's nasally voice proclaimed.

Dib's eyes narrowed as he adjusted the volume on his earpiece to better hear his nemesis.

-x-

A day earlier, Dib had executed an elaborate plan to spy on Zim more effectively. He had faked a sick day, taking the opportunity to sneak into Zim's house while he was away at skool.

It began with him standing just outside the perimeter, looking up the walkway to Zim's house. Then, holding something invisible from sight tightly in his fist, he darted zigzaggedly across the lawn, narrowly avoiding the gnomes shooting lasers at him.

Once at the door, Dib smirked. The hard part was over. He knocked politely, summoning Zim's strange robot henchman. Revealing the small device, Dib easily convinced GIR to plant it within the base, telling him that it was a surprise for his master.

"Hide it somewhere safe! Zim can't find it until…uh…his birthday…" he had lied badly.

That's all he had to do, though. GIR had squealed enthusiastically and pranced back inside, in search of a place to hide the little recording device.

-x-

"Too easy," Dib said aloud from the bush, revisiting the memory.

He scribbled something into his notebook and continued to listen into the earpiece.

Zim rambled on incoherently until his voice slowly faded out. He had moved to another room. As Dib listened harder, he heard a different sound. A series of small metallic footfalls began quietly, then grew louder.

"Ooooh! Can't forget Master's birthday present!" Everything became muffled as GIR lifted the device and took the elevator upstairs where the Voot Cruiser resided. Dib could hear Zim's voice return as GIR and the recording device approached him.

"GIR! Where have you been? Get in the Voot at once!"

Before Dib could process what was happening, the roof of Zim's base opened and the undeniable sound of the spaceship powering up was heard.

Dib gasped and snatched his backpack from the ground beside him. His heart pounded violently against his ribcage as he shoved his arm into it, fumbling around for his camera.

Zim was going to fly his ship in broad daylight?

Dib was incredulous. He immediately thought back to his aerial surveillance camera and had to fight back a squeal of delight. He was finally going to get solid footage of Zim! In alien form! In his ship!

As he watched, though, nothing happened. The roar of the Voot's engine grew louder and louder. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the noise slowly faded, and the roof closed back up.

Dib lowered his camera. His face was plastered with confusion.

Suddenly, something dropped out of the sky, landing at his feet in a heap of twisted metal. He emerged from behind his bush and approached it warily. It was his aerial surveillance camera, mangled and destroyed.

Realization slowly spread throughout Dib in a crescendo of disappointment.

Zim had evidently cloaked the ship, rendering it invisible and allowing him the opportunity to make a seamless departure. In his haste, he had also plowed right through Dib's drone, destroying it beyond repair.

Dib hung his head in frustration and dismay. He turned back to the bush dejectedly, ready to head home and forget his latest failure.

He gathered up his belongings and was in the midst of yanking the headphones out of his ears, when, suddenly, a small voice spoke faintly into them. Dib's hand paused in midair.

"Are we there yet? When we gonna get there? You got any gummy worms?" It was GIR's voice from inside the Voot Runner.

"Shut up, GIR," Zim angrily retorted, his voice distant but audible.

Dib dropped his hand in astonishment. A sly smile crept onto his face and his eyes blazed with newfound fervor. The laugh that tumbled out of his mouth was barely controlled, piercing through the streets with an air of hope and just a hint of madness.

Dib would get his proof after all.

Zim's gloved claws gripped the controls tightly as the Voot Cruiser broke through Earth's atmosphere and into space. He looked down at the radar, and after ensuring he was headed in the correct direction, put the ship on autopilot and sat back in his chair.

He gazed aloofly at the galaxy before him. His eyes narrowed. Now that packing was finished and the ship was in route to Conventia, he had nothing left to do but wait, alone with his own thoughts. His own thoughts and GIR.

The tiny robot hummed quietly and stared out the window at the stars as they streaked by.

The hours ticked on, and Zim's stiff posture remained. He could feel his muscles tightening and his hands fidgeting restlessly in his lap. He felt slightly nauseated, though he attempted to reason this away with having eaten too much of GIR's French toast.

He would never admit to a single soul that he was nervous to report in among his fellow soldiers. In fact, he would never even admit it to himself. He would much rather dive into a conditioned state of denial. At the first hint his emotional state may be compromised, his outer defenses went up, stifling any inferior thoughts. And it helped. At any rate, it convinced him he still had the upper hand. In that way, his natural defense mechanisms were both a blessing and a curse.

Even so, he had been faced with a harsh reality that even someone of his thick-headedness couldn't ignore or contort into a more palatable thought.

-x-

The previous week, Zim had been in higher spirits, flitting around in his labs as he prepared for the convention. He was filled with elation, a smirk painted across his face as gathered schematics and years of notes. He swiveled in his chair and hummed to himself. Before long, his mind wandered to far off places.

He imagined himself being hailed as a god, the best invader the Irken military had ever seen. The Tallest would cry out in joy upon seeing his face, warmly regarding their most beloved soldier as he graciously taught the other invaders just how galactic conquest was done. The other soldiers would surely bow at the feet of the amazing Invader Zim, awed by his many accomplishments. He had successfully—

Zim paused, his smile beginning to pull down at the edges as he racked his brain.

He had destroyed—

No…

Zim thought harder. He started to sweat nervously as the events of the past few years rolled by in his mind.

He almost took control of—

Huh.

Well, his latest plan hadn't combusted in his lab…

Zim let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gazed blankly at his computer monitor.

Had he truly completed nothing?

Zim scoffed at the idea, but it remained in the back of his mind for the next week, festering as the date of his departure for Conventia approached. He grew ever more anxious, which unsurprisingly raised the suspicions of Dib.

Only a few days before he was set to leave, Zim was sitting alone at an empty lunch table at skool, picking at his food as usual. He was distracted and deep in thought, thinking hard about the trip before him. He imagined being surrounded by his own kind again, even if just for a short time. It had been so long since such a thing had occurred. The thought gave him mixed feelings.

Then, without even turn his head, he sensed Dib approaching him from behind. "Hey, space monster!"

Before he could respond, Dib had forcefully gripped the back of Zim's head with his hand and slammed his face into the plate of mashed potatoes in front of him. He then proceeded to laugh maniacally, waiting for Zim's reaction.

To Dib's clear surprise, though, Zim merely wiped the mess from his face and continued to gaze irately down at the table. Dib looked confused, stunned into silence as his typically overreactive enemy outright ignored him.

"What do you want, Dib-stink?" Zim asked eventually, sensing him still standing behind him. "Are you just here to be a nuisance? I'm very busy!"

He hopped out of his seat and walked past the boy, wiping off mashed potatoes as he marched outside to the quad.

Dib's eyes narrowed at Zim's departing form. "He's up to something, I just know it!" Even years later, the cliché phrase never phased Dib. His fervent attempts to stop Zim continued with the same dedication as when the two had first met.

That was what had planted the idea into Dib's head to pay special attention to Zim, including his use of the aerial surveillance camera. For the next three days, unbeknownst to Zim, Dib had been relentlessly spying on him as he prepared for his trip, leading up to his grand moment in the bushes as he took off for his convention.

-x-

With the Voot in hyperdrive, the trip was much shorter in comparison to Zim's initial six-month expedition to Earth. Even so, journeys through space were always long and very dull.

Zim focused on untensing his muscles and leaned back into his chair. After a bit of consideration, he closed his eyes, too.

Irkens seldom slept. Sick and injured ones sometimes went into coma-like states while their PAK focused on biological repairs, but otherwise, it was more of an optional affair. Zim often went weeks at a time without so much as resting his eyes. His work was never done, and he would rather devote his precious time to devising his plans instead of wasting it on such indulgences.

Now, though, there wasn't anything better to do. So Zim hung his head back and focused on taking deep breaths in the stuffy cockpit. Within moments, his chest was rising and falling rhythmically while GIR wandered around the confined space.

When he caught sight of Zim, he paused and smiled. Reaching into a compartment inside his head, he pulled out a blanket and a rubber piggy. He placed these over the sleeping Irken and admired his handy work.

"Aww," GIR crooned. He reached back into his head, pausing when he grabbed ahold of something foreign. He took out the small black recording device, sneaking a glance at Zim as he did so.

"Oooh. Gotta keep Master's present thingy safe."

GIR replaced the object and giggled. A moment later, he reached into another compartment in his abdomen and inexplicably produced a bottle of hot sauce. He dropped into the seat beside Zim's prone form and began to nonchalantly drink from the bottle and hum lightheartedly as the Voot shot onward towards their destination.

Chapter Text

As soon as Conventia materialized ahead, Zim regained full control of his ship.

GIR darted around him, overjoyed at the prospect of leaving the ship after being forced to sit in the tiny cabin for the better part of three days.

Zim approached the planet and prepared to land in the docking ring, eying row upon row of parked ships in search of an open spot. He clenched his jaw while GIR yammered on in his antenna, trying to focus.

Shortly after claiming Tak's ship and seeing firsthand the various feats of Irken engineering, Dib had made a mockery of Zim's own admittedly obsolete ship. He once compared the Voot Runner to Earth's automobiles. He likened it to the equivalent of an old, crappy hand-me-down Honda Civic. Dib had laughed so hard, tears sprung in his eyes and his glasses fogged over. Zim had been, and still was, unamused by this little comment. As it was, he only really had a loose understanding of his enemy's insults anyhow.

Be that as it may, the memory still jumped into Zim's mind as his eyes passed over the shiny new display of Spittle Runners, Shuvvers, and Ring Cutters.

He parked beside a rather sleek looking Shuvver and stood up from his chair, stretching his cramped limbs. GIR observed this for

a moment and began doing yoga poses beside him. Then, the two gathered their materials and headed towards the teleporters that would take them to the planet's surface.

It was only once they had made their way to the entrance of the designated building did Zim and GIR pause. Zim clutched the handle of his carrycase tightly in one hand. The case, emblazoned with the invader insignia, held his disguise, notes on the indigenous lifeforms of Earth, and holographic schematics for his latest plan at conquering it. In his other hand was the invitation he had received. Addressed to Irken Invader Zim, it read:

The Almighty Tallest have required the attendance of all invader-class Irken elites for the yearly progress convention, to be held in room 768B. There, all invaders will gather to discuss their findings regarding Operation Impending Doom II and report in to the Tallest in person. Failure to comply will result in incarceration and possible re-encoding.

Short, threatening, and curt. Much like the Irken race in general.

Taking inventory of these items, he walked inside.

Just past the x-rays and security kiosk, a large Irken guard approached him. He was much taller than Zim, and somewhat wider as well, though his girth was exacerbated by the sheer amount of armor he wore. His collar covered his mouth, leaving only narrowed amethyst eyes to emote with.

"Your SIR unit will be taken for routine maintenance. The conference room is down the hall on your left." He spat these words with disdain, as though he felt it was beneath him to be associating with Zim.

Zim was blithely unaware as usual, instead trying to wrestle GIR away from his leg. The robot had latched onto him firmly, apparently distraught at the idea of basic maintenance.

The beefy guard coldly reached out his claws and yanked GIR away by the antenna before turning away without another word down the hall.

GIR, in an abrupt change of heart, waved pleasantly to Zim as he was carted off.

Zim stared at them as they rounded the corner, mildly taken aback by GIR's sudden and unceremonious departure. Then, without another thought, he turned and headed in the direction the guard had pointed him towards.

-x-

A magenta, oval shaped table took up a majority of the vast conference room. Like most Irken décor, the room was abundant with various shades of mauves and pinks. The table was large, extending from the entrance to the back of the room. If someone were to speak from one end of it to another, they would nearly have to shout to be heard. Luckily, Irkens were quite adept in this skill.

The chairs filled up gradually with stoic looking invaders, their skeptical eyes acknowledging one another in silence. No longer the young, naïve Irken elites they had been three years ago at The Great Assigning, they liked to consider themselves hardened soldiers, capable of destroying worlds and faithfully serving their Almighty Tallest with efficiency and grace.

They wordlessly jockeyed for position, regarding one another with aloof contempt. All sat ramrod straight, pointing their chins in the air as their undeniable arrogance practically wafted from their crisp pink uniforms.

Zim paused outside of the door for a moment. He took in a long, deep breath. He was slightly woozy from the change in atmosphere, but he tried to ignore the feeling. Silently, he released the breath. Then, with a determined look on his face, he changed his posture so that he, too, stood ramrod straight with his chest jutting forward slightly and his head tilted back.

Without further ado, he marched assertively into the room, and coolly regarded his fellow ilk with a purposely uninterested glance in their general direction. For good measure, he scoffed exaggeratedly and sat down in an open seat.

The invaders rustled uneasily, some of them shooting Zim looks of disgust as he settled into his chair.

Invader Larb in particular, who had grown three centimeters over the past few years, smirked and scooted away from him.

Further down the table, two others, Grapa and Flobee, quietly took note of Zim.

In a barely audible whisper, Grapa muttered, "I thought he had been exiled. Did we really have to bring him here?"

Flobee glared daggers at him. "In order to carry out the plan successfully, he must be in attendance. You know that," he hissed back menacingly. The reply hung in the air between the two of them and Grapa sniffed and crossed his arms indignantly.

The remainder of the group continued in their silent standoff, occasionally sneaking glances at one another, then at Zim.

Said Irken exile kept his eyes pinned to the carrycase on the table in front of him, teeming with excitement over the thought of sharing its contents with the Tallest. Perhaps his fellow invaders could learn a thing or two from his obvious superiority…

This self-affirmation allowed a smidgen of lingering dread to melt away. He somehow managed to sit a little taller, with his PAK just barely brushing the back of the chair and his hands folded on the table in front of him.

A few more moments passed before the awkward silence was finally interrupted. Every light in the room abruptly shut off, leaving them all in darkness.

The Irkens began to shift and look around in confusion before whipping their heads collectively towards the other end of the room as a single light appeared.

They stared with awe as more and more stage lights joined it and smoke machines materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Lasers flickered past, illuminating the little stage area even further.

The audience took in this show with a mixture of bewilderment and uneasiness. As if the presentation couldn't possibly be more tacky or overdone, strange electronic music began to blast from the speakers, causing several to stiffen slightly in their seats.

Then, in a dramatic display of arrival true to their style, the Almighty Tallest very slowly rose up from a panel in the floor.

They watched their army keenly, striking poses as they rose up on the platform. Considering that the gather consisted of no more than twenty or so Irkens, the extravagance was comical at best and uncomfortable at worst.

As soon as the two rose all the way up and stood before their gathering, everything ceased as quickly as it had begun. The stage lights swiftly returned to their respective slot within the wall as did the fog machines, the lasers promptly disappeared, and the music cut out midway through.

The Irkens blinked as their eyes adjusted to the original lighting.

Each invader, excluding Zim, then lowered their heads and wiggled their antennae as a sign of respect.

Zim looked around at them in confusion before following suit. He had a stupid grin plastered on his face, positively overjoyed at seeing his Almighty Tallest in the flesh after so long. He fluttered his arms obnoxiously in the air to get their attention.

The pair continued to stare down at their legion of elite soldiers, the best the Irken military had to offer. Red wore a smug expression as he examined the group. Purple more or less did the same, but his face was covered in pink frosting, and he had half a cupcake midway to his mouth. Both casually overlooked Zim's little arms as he waved enthusiastically at them from the other end of the table.

"My Tallest! It's you! Hey! Look at me!" Zim chanted, pushing the invader next to him out of the way so that his leaders could see him better. The irate Irken, Skutch, sneered and recoiled from Zim as if he were harboring some revolting disease.

The Tallest gazed at Zim vacantly, before turning to the rest of the crowd.

"Welcome, all Irken invaders!" Red announced.

"Or should we say, all who are still alive!" Purple blurted, spitting crumbs as he spoke. "Am I right?" He guffawed and began to lick his fingers.

Red viciously backhanded him across the face before pleasantly returning his attention to the group.

"Anyway…" He glanced at Purple, who was rubbing his left temple with one hand and clinging to the edge of the podium with the other, "I'm sure you all know why you are gathered here."

The Irkens waited expectantly, never breaking their gaze.

"I figured we would start our little discussion by explaining just how you've managed to blend in with the indigenous life on your assigned planets."

The sound of rustling and shifting bodies broke the silence as the invaders began to gather the condensed evidence of their work.

And, with that, the conference began.

Meanwhile, GIR was escorted down the hall by his antenna, which was still being held tightly in the guard's iron grip. His little legs swung uselessly as he watched the passing scenery.

"Where we goin'?" he asked. The guard merely grunted in reply.

The tastefully decorated halls and corridors slowly melded into more industrial, bare walls and rooms with closed doors. The guard finally stopped at a large set of double doors and swiped a card, allowing him access.

The gargantuan room was sterile and cold. The vast amount of grey, metal machinery whirring away only gave it an almost-overwhelming air of gloom. This was only exacerbated by the droves of Vortian prisoners working steadily and begrudgingly on various Irken apparatuses.

They walked to another area, which served as a factory for repairs to damaged technology and basic maintenance. As they approached, an older looking male Irken with a furrowed brow and a long lab coat appeared and stood next to the guard. They spoke in hushed whispers for a brief moment. Then, GIR was deposited on a small conveyer belt and taken into a large machine for scanning.

The old Irken scientist then spoke to an engineer who stood nearby, recording the data transcribed from the invaders' Information Retrieval Units.

"Don't scan this one," he ordered.

The engineer paused and looked up in confusion.

"Dismantle it. The spare parts can be used for other SIR units." Offering no more context, the scientist ambled away, leaving the engineer no choice but to abide by his orders.

Inside the large machine, GIR eagerly looked around him. The interior of the machine contained a large cable that attached to ports hidden on the back of the SIR units' heads, scanning their memory banks for information. Any helpful data would then be transmitted to the Irken Armada to assist them with the Organic Sweep when the time came.

Elsewhere down the conveyer belt, infrared scanners checked each one for defects, alerting the engineer if any repairs were needed.

Finally, a sterilization chamber prepared each robot for their departure, newly shined and sanitized.

The whirring mechanism grinded to halt, though, as GIR continued to look around in wonder. Then, the conveyer belt he was sitting on began to lurch forward again, towards a light at the other end of the machine.

When the light of the room touched down on him again, he looked up to see three Vortian slaves surrounding him. In their hands, they held various tools used for the dismantling of faulty technology.

GIR, for all his poor judgement, was able to discern his current situation and was appropriately alarmed at the sight.

"AHHHH!" he wailed. He attempted to jump off the conveyer belt, but one of the Vortians grabbed him by the leg and slammed him onto a table beside it. The robot squirmed under his grip.

"Oh, no you don't," the Vortian mumbled huffily. The others held him down as well, awaiting the first to make his move to deactivate him.

A large Irken tool that slightly resembled a screwdriver emerged from one of the Vortian's pockets and dipped down towards GIR's head.

Before he could make contact, though, GIR activated the jets in his feet. The table lit up in an explosion of blue fire, and the Vortians jumped back in alarm

Breaking free from the arms that pinned him down, he frantically flew up, higher and higher, until he saw an opening among the rafters up above.

The ceiling rattled as GIR fled into the air ducts, causing every occupant of the room to raise their heads. The metallic knocking continued for several seconds, then ceased suddenly. A shroud of silence passed over them.

Then, "YOU LET IT ESCAPE?!"

The Vortians turned to see the Irken scientist, rage plastered across his wrinkled face. He held onto a long staff with an electric current ablaze on one end. He used this to savagely electrocute the closest Vortian, who dropped his screwdriver and fell to his knees in agony.

"Do you realize what this means? It could be anywhere! A malfunctioning SIR unit on the loose is one of the most unpredictable threats imaginable!"

Larb stood primly, clearing his throat and turning to face Red and Purple.

"With all due respect, My Tallest, I feel inclined to mention that most of us have already successfully completed our missions. It has been three years, after all."

Zim glared at him and began an overdramatized mockery of his words behind his back.

In the last hour of what was supposed to be productive reporting, the only thing the invaders had managed to do was passive aggressively one-up each other and kiss up to the Tallest in a fiercely competitive display of immaturity.

It was just as well, considering that Irkens were an inherently prideful and solitary race, preferring to work alone instead of collaborating in groups. It was only to be expected from their kind.

Larb's eyes flicked back to Zim's and he offered him a snarky smile before returning to the Tallest. "As the tallest and most accomplished invader present, I feel that we are wasting precious time away from our missions to discuss these trivial matters."

The Tallest stared at him for a moment. "Umm, thank you, Invader Larb, for sharing that. Now—"

"—Hey," interrupted another Irken, who Zim recognized from The Great Assigning as Invader Spleen. He pointed accusingly at Larb. "He's not the tallest invader! I have at least two millimeters of antennae length on him!"

As if a ticking time bomb had finally detonated, the previously stiff and well-mannered group of invaders dropped their facades. In an instant, they had broken off into little arguing matches amongst each other, comparing the length of their feelers and lamenting on their strenuous accomplishments in the name of the Irken Empire.

"BE QUIET!" Purple bellowed, spitting crumbs onto the floor.

At once, they ceased their petty squabble and stared at their leaders with a sort of stunned guilt plastered across their faces.

"Now then!" Red continued with vigor, "Let's move on to talk about…"

He unexpectedly fell silent, his last sentence trailing off. Some of the attendees snapped out of their ashamed stupors and looked up at him.

Red felt his antennae twitch involuntarily toward the air ducts.

The rest followed his gaze towards the ceiling, where a steadily growing clanging noise could be heard above them. The room went still as a wave of bewilderment drifted over them.

The sound grew louder and louder, and they collectively held their breath in anticipation. After another few seconds, one of the panels crashed onto the table, sending a silver, indistinct blur down with it.

A hollow thud sounded, and several bizarre items dislodged themselves from the canister in GIR's head. The invaders observed the strange sight, mouths agape. A few of the contents that had previously been stored within GIR now littered the floor and table amongst the rubble of the ruined panel.

"Mastah! I found you!" GIR stood up amid the mess he had created and dashed across the table to where Zim was sitting frozen in his seat. He jubilantly wrapped his arms around him a tight hug, but the stunned Irken did not reciprocate the gesture.

"GIR…" Zim sounded like the wind had been knocked out him.

He then turned to his leaders, horrified. "My Tallest! My sincerest apologies!"

Still at a loss, he shoved GIR off him with a grunt and tried desperately to regain his composure. "GIR! What are you doing? Get out of here immediately! We are very busy!"

"It's just as well, Zim," Red said with a hint of irritation.

Zim turned his head back in his direction, looking a bit deflated.

"We'll take this…opportunity…to dismiss the meeting for now. We'll break for foodening and return to our discussion afterwards."

Before the Zim could protest, both the Tallest hastily disappeared out a back door, no doubt to raid the cafeteria.

Zim rose from his seat shakily and tried to ignore the haughty display of zipper-shaped smiles that seemed to close in around him.

A voice piped up suddenly. "Nice SIR unit, Zim. Is that the advanced model?"

A smattering of cruel laughter burst out.

Zim kept his eyes furiously pinned to the ground in mortification. His arms hung numbly at his sides, and he felt his lip involuntarily lift into an infuriated snarl. Event as he shook with surmounting rage, he tried to remind himself that it would be uncouth to maim one of his fellow soldiers in the company of the Tallest.

"Ah, yes! I've been looking for one like that! I could really use a good failure," Tenn chimed in nasally, evoking a fresh wave of cackling.

Zim's diminutive quantity of patience could only stretch so far. He suddenly lifted his head and whipped around to face them, ruby eyes glaring daggers at the group.

"INSOLENT FOOLS! Only ZIM is capable enough to be assigned with a secret mission! Your brains couldn't possibly comprehend the level of technology the Tallest have entrusted ME with!"

As the words came out of his mouth, GIR ran headfirst into a wall, causing them to break into the loudest chorus of whooping laughter yet.

Zim's antennae stood straight up in rage as he turned and stormed out of the room with GIR in tow, leaving them all behind. Once out of their sight, he slowed a bit until he was stiffly stalking down the hallway, his face composed of stone.

With both hands, he shoved GIR forward with palpable anger and frustration while the latter hung his head guiltily. GIR's downcast eyes and drooping antenna were almost reminiscent of a reprimanded child who didn't quite know what he had done wrong.

The two wound their way down the labyrinth of corridors and conference rooms until they were outside again, the echo of laughter still following Zim even after he was well out of hearing range.

-x-

After a few moments, the last Irken had cleared out, and the conference room stood empty and quiet. Broken chunks of panel still sat on the table along with the object that had been in GIR's head. They littered the area, some half-hidden beneath the chairs. Among these were a paperclip, half a Poop candy bar, six gummy bears, and a little black recording device.

Chapter Text

Zim sullenly stomped into the teleporter, still pushing GIR ahead of him. After a second, they reappeared inside the docking ring and began to head towards the Voot. Once they reached it, Zim opened the hatch and gruffly shoved him inside.

"I'm sorry, Master." GIR sounded oddly sincere.

Zim climbed in after him and started rifling through the storage chamber. "Of all the stupid, moronic ways you could mess this up for me!" Zim scrounged for some form of distraction from the humiliation he had just endured. "And, UGH! In front of the Tallest! How could you, GIR?"

After failing to find what he was looking for, Zim turned to look back at GIR, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet throughout the verbal assault.

"Those bad guys were gonna hurt me…" he said finally in a meek, childlike voice.

Zim growled, fresh anger bubbling up in his chest. "Those 'guys' were just doing maintenance on your PATHETIC, malfunctioning AI chip! What a useless waste of Irken equipment! PAH! If I had any sense at all, I'd leave you here!"

GIR looked hurt. His eyes narrowed, and he hung his head in shame.

Zim looked down at him, arms crossed. Before he could allow himself to think too hard about his actions, though, he dropped his arms to his sides and turned away. Then, he climbed out of the Voot Runner and slammed the windshield down behind him.

With all the remaining strength his voice would allow, he yelled behind him without a passing glance. "GIR! Don't leave the ship for any reason! And stay out of my antennae until this stupid convention is over!"

Dib had spent an obscene amount of time trying to establish a connection between his location on Earth and the unknown whereabouts of his rival. The tiny recording device said rival had departed with morphed into his golden ticket for uncovering the reason behind Zim's elusive behavior over the last few weeks.

Now, at long last, Dib had picked up on the signal. He sat cross-legged on his bed with his laptop, muscles stiff from sitting in one position for so long. One hand rose to his face to stifle a yawn, then reached for a pair of headphones nearby.

He lowered them over his ears and listened, involuntarily holding his breath in concentration. For a time, he didn't hear anything, and he began to grow frustrated by the lack of audio. Eventually, though, the faint sound of mutters and muffled dialogue could be heard. He leaned forward and cocked his head to the side as he strained to hear.

Expecting to only hear GIR and Zim, he was puzzled by the multiple voices that came through the headset instead. He perked up as he heard a very familiar voice pipe up over the buzz of various conversations. Zim.

It struck him that, whoever this group was, they weren't speaking any language he had ever heard before. Dib listened to the terse, clipped speech and was immediately propelled back to when he'd first heard this language, just months before Zim had arrived.

It was the native dialect of the Irken race.

Just as it had then, something about the sound of it struck a chord of fear in Dib. Their language sounded so…so…alien, for lack of a better term.

He shuddered and continued to listen to the conversation, despite not understanding a word of it.

After a few moments, Zim could be heard screaming something in the language and Dib went from being unnerved to instinctively repressing a snicker at how utterly ridiculous his voice sounded speaking that rough language. More voices spoke, then something that sounded reminiscent to laughter broke out in a great wave.

If only I could understand what they were saying.

Dib's face hardened in concentration as he hopped off his bed and paced the room. He couldn't deny that he was unsettled. It only served to remind him that Zim was not the only one of these strange creatures to live among the stars, unbeknownst to humanity save for him and Gaz.

He stopped pacing after a moment and a smile dawned on his face as he remembered something. Years ago, he had been able to successfully decipher Zim's plan to remotely control the Massive by using Tak's ship to gain information. This included translating Irken text into English on his computer.

With a wave of newfound fervor, Dib hurried out of his room. He ran downstairs and burst outside into the windy April night. His quick, panting breaths appeared suspended in little clouds as he ran to the separated garage building. He threw up the hatch and immediately eyed the tarp-covered shape in the corner with zeal.

The ship had been an ongoing project for Dib for years as he continued to discover more and more about the mysteries of Irken engineering. While it was fully functional, Dib was still daunted by the prospect of taking it out solo. When he could successfully bribe her, Gaz would occasionally give him piloting tips and the two would take brief test runs out into space. Though she often griped or treated it like a chore, he still loved these little outings with his sister more than anything else in the world.

In fact, a map of the known galaxy was pinned to Dib's ceiling, right above his bed and often, when he couldn't sleep, he would gaze up at it and think about everything unknown and unexplored. Seeing that galaxy in person made the poster on his ceiling seem more like a crude caricature, for nothing could do it justice. The sheer vastness and beauty of space simply entranced him. If anything, he looked at the poster as a symbol of what little humanity knew and what he could discover on his own in his stolen spaceship, his gateway to the stars.

Upon flinging the tarp off, he unconsciously brushed one hand lightly over the exterior of the modified Spittle Runner before stepping inside.

In front of the control panel, he pressed the screen with his index finger. The light of it illuminated Dib's hopeful face in a brilliant shade of red. He quickly pulled up the speech translator and hesitantly put the headphones back on.

He arranged for the translator to pick up on the voices and automatically convert them into English. Then, he re-covered the ship with a tarp and headed back to his room to establish a connection between the ship and his computer. He preferred to view the conversation in his room, tucked out of view from any passerby that might walk by outside his garage, or God forbid, his father on his way home from a late night at work.

He needed to know what Zim was plotting with these other Irkens.

Back on Conventia, Zim reappeared in the conference room and made an attempt to pretend as though nothing had occurred. Nevertheless, he still looked rather disgruntled and kept his arms crossed over his chest.

Gradually, the other Irkens trickled in as well and returned to their previous seats. Then, once the Tallest had arrived, the meeting picked up where it had left off.

For the next couple of hours, the invaders went around and presented the findings of their missions to the Tallest and other fellow elites in a face-to-face evaluation. Doubly determined to regain their respect, Zim had drifted into something of a standoffish demeanor. As a result, his outbursts became somewhat limited and had the unintended side effect of giving the others less fuel for their own fires. Even so, it often still wasn't enough.

After reporting in to the Tallest and explaining his tactics to the rest of the group, Invader Skutch sat down, shooting the rest a smug look. Like the others, he had successfully conquered his planet long ago.

Zim squirmed beside him. He was just about to present the findings of his own mission when Tallest Purple piped up.

"That's just great… Okay, I think we're done here. Uh…good job!"

"Yes. We speak for all of you when we say, your presence today was no accident," Tallest Red chimed. Something about this statement seemed out of place. Some of the Irkens shot each other looks, then flicked their eyes towards Zim.

He was oblivious to their stares. Gripping his case in both claws, he looked up at his leaders, stricken. "But my Tallest, you have yet to evaluate me!"

Red's smile faded a bit and they both looked at him in mild annoyance. "Erm, well, okay, Zim. Make it quick."

Zim's face lit up anew as he prepared to launch into a detailed rundown of his mission's history; the very mission he had devoted his life and expertise to for the past few years. His notes and schematics were immaculate and taken with great care and attention to detail.

If any of the other Irkens had half his dedication, the entire galaxy would have been conquered long ago. Alas, the only things Zim lacked other than the respect of his peers was his own common sense. Combined with his lack of critical thinking and impulse control, it only made sense that Zim was regarded as he was. Not to mention his dangerous tendency to cause staggering destruction in the wake of his continued efforts.

Now was the more difficult part… presenting his latest plan for world conquest.

In the last several months, he'd hit something of a dry spell with his latest schemes, and it didn't help that every other invader had already successfully conquered their planets.

After scrounging for ideas, Zim had eventually put something together and was determined to sell it, not only as a viable plan, but the plan that would finally conquer the planet once and for all.

He took out a tiny device and set it in front of him on the table. A hologram of the Earth appeared. Zim pointed to the Pacific Ocean, then to the Atlantic.

"As you may remember, my Tallest, exactly two years and thirty-six days ago I mentioned that this substance is quite common on Earth. Composed of one-part hydrogen and two parts oxygen, not only does it carry harmful toxins, but 71% of the planet is covered in it! Oh, and the best part: all of Earth's lifeforms rely on this 'water' for survival."

Zim paused for dramatic effect. "I have devised an ingenious plan to rid the entire planet of its 'water!' Not only will my plot make it suitable for Irken life, but the pathetic inhabitants will surely be brought to their knees at the hands of Zim!"

Zim glanced around himself again, grinning impishly. He eyed the gathering expectantly, waiting for their reactions.

Instead, what he saw was that a few of the soldiers standing closest to the door were in the process of quietly slinking out of the room. It was clear that they did not wish to waste their time listening to him, and those who remained only seemed to do so out of morbid curiosity.

Zim's antennae drooped slightly at the sight and he automatically turned towards the podium. The Tallest did nothing to reprimand the departing soldiers; they simply watched them leave. Their own expressions were ones of boredom and mild impatience.

Zim cleared his throat, a tad dampened, and continued. "Anyhow…"

He pressed a button on his sleeve. Instead of the hologram of Earth transforming into the first sequence of the schematics he had formed, though, nothing happened. Zim hesitated and pressed the button again with no result. He began to sweat a little as he tried to move his presentation along without its aid. "I've dabbled in the area before, but for a different cause. All I need to execute this brilliant water plan is—"

"—Wait…" Beside him, Skutch snickered and Zim hesitantly turned to face him. Even sitting, Skutch was about Zim's full height. He looked mildly amused as something dawned on him. "Did you just imply that the planet you were assigned to is not suitable for Irken life?" Skutch glanced at the Tallest and started to snigger again.

A few of the others joined in while Zim became suddenly engrossed with the watch-like apparatus that controlled his hologram device. He started messing with the buttons, but the hologram simply wouldn't switch to the next phase.

"Why yes, Skutch," Zim said in a distracted, albeit irritated tone. "You dare question our Tallest? Only they would be so wise as to choose this harrowing mission for the amazing Zim!" The hologram began to warble around the edges and sparks flew from the device it was projected on.

"And how far away is this planet, Zim?" Grapa asked from across the room. His voice was heavy with mock interest.

"Uhh…" Zim mashed some more buttons on his watch, pretending to barely acknowledge the voice. "About a six-month journey without hyperdrive initiated."

He began to feel the many sets of eyes pinned on him while he struggled to move his speech along. Zim remained focused on the remote attached to his wrist. He pressed the correct sequence of buttons over and over, but to no avail.

"Ah, that will be useful. A toxic waste dump in the middle of nowhere…" a voice mumbled beside Zim, just loud enough for him to hear. A few titters flitted throughout the room.

Larb watched Zim struggle from low-lidded eyes. He smirked and rested his clasped hands in front of him on the table, deciding to take the thinly veiled mockery up a notch.

"Enlighten me, Zim," he asked, feigning innocence. "Why is it that we have all successfully completed our respective missions, or are at least in the final stages, while you…well, while you are struggling to even put together a simple presentation detailing your own attempt at conquest?"

Zim bristled beside him "Urrhhgg!" He finally ripped off his watch and chucked it across the room. He balled his gloved hands into fists and whipped around until his enraged face was inches from Larb's.

"Shut up! Shut up! As if you had the mental capacity to take on Zim's mission!" he panted and grabbed Larb's collar in his fist.

But the other invader only grinned smugly back at him, completely unfazed. He casually flicked his ruby eyes past Zim's left shoulder and the latter turned to follow his gaze tentatively. He looked up in time to make eye contact with the Tallest as the hologram beside him disappeared entirely.

"Don't make a scene, Zim," Tallest Purple said finally, as if scolding a small child instead of a seasoned Irken elite.

Everything was silent while the remaining Irkens took in Zim's increasingly plaintive expression. Collecting himself, he made way to segue back to his presentation as if nothing had happened. He looked down at the hologram device and inhaled sharply in preparation to say something. Suddenly, sparks flew from the little device and it promptly imploded, singeing the table and sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

Zim took a deep breath and chuckled nervously. "Well, then. I suppose now would be a good time to go over my notes on the filthy indigenous life!" Zim reached into his case again, claws shaking, but was stopped by an impatient grunt from the podium.

"You know, I think we've seen enough Zim."

He looked up and immediately made eye contact with the Tallest. They looked apathetically down at him.

"But…but wait! You haven't even given me a chance to—"

Red waved his hand lazily in Zim's direction. "Yes, well. Funny how things work out. Eh, you pass Zim!" Red turned to Purple "Now let's go get some more of that slorbees pudding in the cafeteria before they run out!"

Zim stared helplessly around him as the two prepared to leave, followed by the rest of the invaders. They all stood up and began shuffling out of the room, some chortling quietly. Still gripping his carrycase in both hands, he felt his antennae steadily lower until they brushed his shoulders.

A few moments passed him by and Zim found himself all alone in the immense and echoing room with his mission's work clutched to his chest.

Well, that was fucking dumb.

Dib sat at his computer, listening to the rustling noises of the Irkens as they filed out of the room. Once it ceased and it became evident that nobody remained in the vicinity, he warily removed his headphones. For a few moments, he looked down at his hands and tried to process the strange conversation he had just witnessed.

Why did they even bother inviting Zim?

Despite his own contempt towards him, couldn't help but wonder why his rival was treated as he was, amongst a race of creatures that seemed just as petty and obnoxious as he was. The way Zim was taunted was scarily reminiscent of Dib's own experiences with classmates. These taunts weren't distributed with an air of immaturity, though; they were cunning and sly. The kind of words that could get inside one's head and tear apart their very psyche with enough effort.

Mechanically, he rose from his desk and wandered out of his room. The smell of pizza had wafted into the hallway. It hit him immediately as he opened the door, and Dib was struck with the realization that he hadn't eaten since that morning.

Plodding downstairs, he could see Gaz sitting at the table with her GameSlave in one hand and a can of Poop Cola in another. The Bloaty's box lay open on the counter, displaying six remaining slices of greasy, congealed pizza. He quietly joined her at the table with a plate.

Deep in thought, he guided a slice of pizza to his mouth.

Perhaps most unsettling thing was an alteration in Zim's voice that Dib had never heard before.

Behind closed doors, Zim reported in to his Tallest almost daily. Out in the world, Zim made a show of answering to no one.

Dib had accidentally stumbled upon a side of his enemy he had never seen before. He had never heard Zim speak so humbly before—so timidly. And that peculiar sense of desperation in his voice near the end…

He felt as though he was trapped in a strange haze of emotion and he tried to brush off the perplexing sense of pity he felt upon listening to Zim's pleas and protests.

After a moment, the obnoxious music coming from Gaz's ever-present GameSlave stopped and she glanced over the screen at her brother. Dib's glazed eyes stared somewhere past his sister's shoulder and into the kitchen.

"What's the matter with you?" As usual, her tone expressed nothing more than the smallest hint of irritability.

Instead of answering, Dib just brushed her off wordlessly and took to picking at the sleeve of his jacket.

Gaz put the GameSlave down and glared at him. "I asked you a question. What the hell is your problem?"

The chair scuffed against the floor as Dib stood up and walked into the kitchen, abandoning his half-eaten pizza. He didn't want to speak to anyone right now when he had so much on his mind.

At the same time, though, he wondered just how bad he must have looked in order to pique Gaz's interest this much.

Being only a year younger than he was, she had withdrawn herself impossibly deeper into her own little world in recent years. She barely spoke at all anymore, especially when it concerned someone else.

"It's nothing, Gaz."

Cracking open a can of Poop cola, he shut the refrigerator door and brushed past her. He disappeared back up the stairs again, ignoring Gaz's glower behind him. Right as he turned the corner, he caught a glimpse of her releasing a sigh and returning to her game.

Dib sat down on his bed and unraveled his headphones. Positioning his laptop in front of him, he once again adjusted the over his ears and listened fervidly for any voices. Lastly, he flicked the little red switch to record any conversation he happened to pick up.

After over an hour of listening to nothing but static, though, Dib began to nod off.

The planet Conventia grew quite dark during its nighttime hours, with barely a star in the sky. The streets were empty near the conference building and the only creature in sight was a tiny figure trudging dejectedly towards the teleporters. Zim's antennae were drawn back and his shoulders slumped slightly as exhaustion wore on him. He silently cursed this development and plodded on, falling into a deep reverie.

Before he could leave Conventia, he would be required to pilot his Voot to the planet's surface for maintenance and a fuel-check.

He scowled to himself.

As odd as it was to admit, he wanted nothing more than to just return to Earth then and there. More specifically, he wanted to return to his mission. That was where he had a purpose; where he was needed by the empire for his skill and expertise…nobody could take that away from him.

It made sense he would feel this way. After all, Irkens were notorious problem-solvers. Time was precious. It could not be expended on emotions; only the next solution.

No more games. No more Dib. He would return to Earth and he would conquer it. He would work tirelessly, day and night. He would even consider leaving the hi skool. He knew enough about Earth's culture by now. He didn't need to waste his time sitting through classes all day. It was unproductive. Useless. His time and energy were not being utilized properly there. If only he had come to this conclusion long before…

He would prove them wrong. He would not fail his Tallest.

For a time, the only noise was that of his booted feet dragging across the large open area dividing the conference hall from the teleportation station.

Zim kept his head lowered and face severe while he lost himself in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Suddenly, his right antenna perked up involuntarily as he registered a vague rustling sound. He paused briefly before quickly dismissing it and falling back into his contemplations.

After about one hundred or so feet, he heard another noise from his other side. He glanced towards the direction of the source, just in time to see a shadow dart across the streetlight that lined the walkway. This time, his eyes widened a bit and he felt unsettled enough to quicken his pace. His footsteps began to match his increasing heartbeat. He set his eyes to his destination, which was slowly emerging into view up ahead.

Finally, Zim began to hear whispers, accompanied by more rustling. He couldn't determine the source this time; the noises seemed to surround him from every angle. This time, his fear got the best of him. He screeched to a halt, spun on his heels, and whipped around. His large eyes anxiously flicked around, scanning the empty area before him.

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. His heart began to slow down as he slowly turned back around and spotted an open teleporter. He stepped inside and immediately felt more relaxed as he reappeared at the docking ring. Quickly casting his prior worries aside, he turned in the direction of his Voot Runner.

-x-

In an astounding feat of obedience, GIR had remained in the ship just as instructed. The weary Irken was somewhat dumbfounded to find him sitting quietly in the cockpit and watching cartoons on the miniature transmission screen.

Nevertheless, he still stomped past GIR without so much as acknowledging him and proceeded towards the captain's chair.

Starting up the Voot, Zim prepared to pilot it towards the planet's surface. Those few moments went by in complete silence, save for the soft rumble of the engine and GIR's cartoon program. Zim hunched over his control screen and, with delicate, masterful flicks of his fingers, expertly docked it in the repair and tune-up bay next to the convention hall. A few other ships lined this area as well, all with the same intention.

During these nighttime hours on Conventia, Irkens could normally be found taking the opportunity to perform maintenance on their ships before they departed for the stars again. Others spent this time in absolute solitude after being forced to converse in groups. They would sit inside their cockpits, lit up amid the controls of their space vessels fiddling with little tablets and other such gadgets. Only a small number of them actually slept.

Zim, however, glumly found himself lumped into this latter group despite detesting the mere idea of it. It felt like he was admitting weakness by doing so. Like this convention was getting the best of him.

Typically, an Irken PAK operated constantly to keep the lifeform charged and devoid of lingering fatigue. Sleep was only essential if said Irken was ill, severely injured, or its energy had been grossly overexerted. Any of these meant that there had been an override in the PAK's mechanics, stretching it beyond its limits.

Zim had overridden his own PAK by undergoing an impressive cocktail of emotions in a single day. Outwardly admitting unrelenting anxiety, mortification, and anger were things Zim could deny easily enough. The feeling of being utterly drained, however, was something he could not.

Accepting that he had no energy to work on his ship at the time being, he instead ambled towards one corner of the cabin and began to rifle through the storage hatch.

GIR had yet to break his gaze from the tiny television screen. Mutually, Zim hadn't offered him so much as scowl since he had arrived. As the silence stretched on, it became increasingly evident that Zim was indeed sulking.

He apparently found what he was looking for after a few minutes and continued to ignore GIR as he walked from the storage hatch and into a very small lavatory adjacent to it. He slammed the door behind him with just a bit too much fervor.

After a moment, Zim reemerged in what was essentially half of his uniform. Absent of his gloves and boots, he padded back to the captain's chair in his black stockings and scratched casually at the base of his left antenna.

He scooped down to pick up the items he had been hunting around for previously—a plush-looking pillow and the blanket GIR had covered him with at the beginning of their trip.

As he stooped back to full height, he eyed his large reclinable control chair with a stubborn twinge of reluctance, as if he were giving in to a dangerous impulse by allowing himself this opportunity to rest. Not to mention, the seat was directly beside GIR, who still hadn't spoken a word to him.

Exhaustion overruled him, though, and Zim begrudgingly settled into the chair, taking extra care not to acknowledge GIR as he did so.

Only smeets and sick weaklings need to sleep, he thought bitterly to himself as he reclined back and stared distantly at the ceiling of the Voot.

He began to fret over the maintenance his ship required before he departed Conventia. An achingly long moment of tense silence passed between the two of them. GIR kept his eyes glued to the television, utterly expressionless.

Then, Zim shifted his weight awkwardly and sat back up in his chair. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and produced another item he had retrieved from storage: a package of what the Dib liked to call "Irken Fun Dip."

Zim pretended to watch the inane Earth cartoon program GIR had saved into the ship's already infinitesimal memory drive as he opened it.

Their juvenile stalemate stretched on. After yet another moment of awkward silence between them, Zim absently picked up a stick.

He doesn't have the attention span needed to hold grudges. He's always like this around the television.

But even during the commercial break, GIR still refused to break his gaze from the TV and Zim began to second guess himself. He sighed and allowed himself to pass a fleeting glance towards his servant.

Then, meekly and without making eye contact, he offered the package towards him.

GIR accepted the peace offering in the same nonchalant manner and popped the second stick into his mouth.

Zim brought his own to his lips, the sweet taste causing him to salivate a bit, and began to feel his body melt into the chair.

After a moment of both sucking on their licking sticks, GIR turned ever so slightly and smiled sweetly at Zim before returning to the television.

After he had already turned away, a rare and very tiny smile flickered briefly across Zim's face as well. He shifted into a cozier position as the light of the television cast over them both in blue flickering waves and a much-needed aura of tranquility filled the ship.

The convention hall that formerly held the horde of invaders stood empty, shrouded beneath the blackness of the night sky. As before, scarcely a star was visible, and the scattered lampposts did little to guide the way to the building.

All was silent and empty, save for a soft shuffle of feet. Then, in the darkness, the thin silhouette of an Irken appeared in the doorway.

Using its PAK's mechanical limbs to stealthily unlock the door to the building, its shadow scurried quickly to the old conference room where they had met just hours earlier. After a moment of paranoid tiptoeing, it slowly sat down at the table.

A few more seconds passed and another one appeared. Following suit, the second Irken joined the first and solemnly gazed around the room.

An ominous silence hung heavily in the air, broken only by the rustling of their uniforms and small noises their breaths made as they sighed and locked their eyes onto the door.

Eventually, two more Irkens appeared, just as quietly. Then another. Finally, after several minutes, the entire conference room was filled with them.

Then, just as surreptitiously as their predecessors, the Tallest slunk into the room as well.

Nothing more than nondescript outlines in the dimness, the invaders turned to face their leaders.

The figures of the two demanded respect as their shadows loomed over the other Irkens in a menacing arc. Only their eyes shown bright and fear-inducing, one set blood red and the other a striking purple.

"I'm sure you all know the real reason you're here," Red said finally.

The others rustled a bit in their seats, some nodding their heads.

"One day of listening to Zim make a fool of himself is a small price to pay for what we will accomplish tonight. Is there not a reason Zim wasn't invited to last year's progress convention? Or the year before?"

Tallest Purple glanced at Red, not sensing the rhetorical nature of his question. "Is it because we hadn't thought of this plan yet?"

Red's eyes narrowed in the darkness. Purple grunted in pain as his co-ruler's gauntlet-clad arm collided harshly with his midriff.

A voice spoke up from among the gathering. "My Tallest. Reconnaissance went smoothly, and we can confirm that the defective is now residing within his ship." Larb's tone was laced with venom.

There was a brief pause as the group mulled this over, then another voice spoke up. "My Tallest, while the attempt to deactivate his SIR unit was unsuccessful, we do not believe it will hinder the mission.

After we expose him to the J-636 toxin, his biological shell will gradually become too weakened to continue functioning. The cause of death will appear to be due to natural causes and will be documented as such by the Control Brains."

The others could be heard acknowledging this approvingly and some even snickered softly.

The Tallest imperturbably regarded the voice with shrewd looks of approval, and the two glowing sets of red and purple eyes were soon accompanied by wicked zipper-shaped sneers.

Dib had started to nod off at his desk. His head dipped downwards towards the open magazine in his lap and he could distantly sense the cold air begin to seep in through his open window.

Suddenly, an abrupt noise through the headphones jolted him awake. Dib gasped and sat up straight in his chair, instinctively eyeing the translator screen.

Quiet whispers hissed vehemently in him ear in that same rough language and he immediately noted the lack of Zim's distinct, croaky voice among the throng. He frowned and set his gaze on the computer monitor as their words appeared on the screen in English.

"Excellent. If all goes as planned, Zim will be a threat to the Irken Empire no longer."

The cryptic voices crooned their approval to Tallest Red's words.

"It is essential that this mission be executed at discreetly as possible. We cannot afford to have anything come back to haunt us. It must look like an accident."

Dib's stomach turned, and he groggily rubbed his left eye. A stab of unease hit him.

What? What is this?

"Yeah. We have a reputation to maintain," chimed Tallest Purple.

Red spoke again. "It goes without saying that Zim cannot be trusted enough to stay alive. He singlehandedly ruined Operation Impending Doom I, caused multiple blackouts, and was responsible for the deaths of two Tallest before us.

"Even in exile, Zim has been the reason for far too much destruction. His false mission was not enough to prevent him from wreaking havoc on Operation Impending Doom II.

"The proof? He has caused extensive damage to the Armada, wiping out half of it with an unknown planet he called 'Mars'. He put the lives of his own leaders in peril by remotely controlling the Massive. He continuously wastes valuable Irken resources on his joke of a mission!"

Dib stared at the computer screen, mouth agape, trying to process what he was hearing. An icy wave of shock passed through him.

"He is more than just a nuisance; he is a danger to us all. At his existence evaluation, not even the Control Brains could rid us of this menace to the Empire. We must take matters into our own hands.

"Spearheaded by Invader Larb, we launch this mission to ensure his PAK is not added into the collective. Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

Entire solar systems away, the translated words reflected off Dib's round spectacles. Behind them, his face conveyed nothing but pure horror.

Chapter Text

Paralyzed with shock, Dib's breath faltered until his lungs burned with the lack of oxygen. He felt detached from reality. Then, as soon as his body could force him to gulp down an immense breath of air, more came with a vengeance. Quickly, he began to hyperventilate.

A million different thoughts coursed furiously through his mind.

They're going to kill him. Right this very moment, his life is in danger. I have to do something!

He stood up hastily from his desk, knocking over his chair as he did so. The ensuing headrush caused his brain to whirl with blood and his vision to blur for a moment.

As it cleared, he glanced helplessly around him at his various gadgets and gizmos, trying to figure out what to do. Then, a singular question sprang into his mind, elbowing its way through the sea of panic.

Why should I do anything? Without him, the Earth is finally safe.

He paused. Slowly, he picked up his desk chair and lowered his shaking body into the seat once more.

The flurry of information that had been thrown at him was still gradually seeping into his mind.

What did they mean when they said he was a "defective"? And about his mission being a joke? He was in exile?

Dib unconsciously pulled at his hair as a familiar wave of pity and confusion washed over him, the very same as the twinge he felt after listening to Zim's "evaluation" only hours prior.

Like before, he immediately tried to shut down his own warped train of thought. This time, though, he felt his typical apathy waver in favor of something he could not place. Perhaps the deep-rooted duty to act, not out of fondness or alliance, but merely as a human being with morals and weaknesses and things Zim could never comprehend but needed direly right now.

He began to break out into a sweat as his amber eyes flicked about his desk yet again.

What could I do?

Dib launched into deep, calculated thought amid the pounding in his brain, nervously allowing his gaze to fall on the countless apparatuses littered on his desk. They were of both human and Irken origin, little treasures he had stolen from Zim that had gradually accumulated over the years until he had garnered his own collection of broken plasma blasters, locaters, and ambiguous remote controls. They lay strewn across the desk, disassembled almost savagely in his haste to study them.

He had taken them apart in vain, trying to learn more about Irken equipment. More often than not, though, a majority of his knowledge had come from working on Tak's ship over the years in the hopes to explore more of the paranormal.

Tak's ship…

Something suddenly gnawed at the back of his mind and in his maelstrom of excitement, he remembered a snippet from his past, not so very long ago. Back when the two had fought for control over the Massive and immediately after Zim had discovered the spy bug Dib had planted in his base.

Zim, even in the face of conflict, was smug as ever. Fire had gleamed in his eyes and the words poured from his mouth with that ever-present smugness. "Computer! Lock onto Dib's transmission signal and transmit a little signal of our own!"

Dib recalled his own voice, laced with dread. "What are you doing, Zim?"

"That's Irken technology you're sitting in, Dib! I'm just reminding it is all…"

Dib's head snapped up.

He could use the ship to send Zim a transmission! He could warn him!

Allowing his disarrayed motives to progress no further into doubt, Dib bolted from his desk and burst out into the night.

A sense of rare serenity wafted throughout the Voot.

Zim was nestled in his chair, absolutely still aside from the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. The seat was reclined as far as it would go, and his head nearly hung off the back of it.

Not long after Zim drifted off to sleep, GIR followed suit and very quietly nestled himself into the passenger seat beside him.

He set his sights on the pillow Zim had taken with him, which was wedged between the arm of the chair and his abdomen. GIR paused for a beat, then reached over and slyly extracted it without so much as causing Zim to stir.

Lying back against the warm cushion, he too fell asleep.

For a few moments, all that could be heard was the rhythmic sound of the pairs' breathing and a vague humming from the monitor, which continued to play cartoons at a decidedly low volume.

Then, a barely discernible rustling could be heard outside of the Voot. A shadow slipped past the windshield, undetected by either sleeping occupant. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished back into the darkness.

In the gloom, the outlines of two invaders stood watch, their svelte shadows stretched menacingly across the pathway.

The repair bay was silent, the air still. Quiet, albeit vehement sounds of an argument traveled through the air as the two quarreled in hushed whispers.

"You dare question the Tallest? Those who spoke before your fleet when you became an elite soldier? Those who christened you an invader at the Great Assigning? To whom you owe your unwavering respect and loyalty? The very thought of it is nothing short of treason!" Spleen hissed at the other figure.

Fretfully, the second Irken shifted his feet. "But is this entire mission itself not treason? The Control Brains made their final verdict at Zim's existence evaluation; what we are doing is against the law. I can't afford to be re-encoded!"

Spleen snarled quietly and redirected his gaze to another figure that crept by on extended PAK legs. His eyes trailed it as he responded to the second Irken. "You won't be, fool! Now ensure that it stays that way and keep watch!"

Slinking away on his own PAK legs, Spleen abandoned him and followed the dark shape of Larb to the edge of the repair bay, right outside Zim's Voot.

Spleen looked at the idea of answering to Larb, who had until previously been his equal, with nothing short of bitterness.

For years, Invader Larb had striven to become the poster child of Irken galactic conquest. From the moment he had been assigned Vort, one of Irk's greatest challengers, he had assumed a role of superiority in the face of his fellow invaders. And once he had conquered it, that sense of pride only grew.

Now, though, without a mission, he was at the mercy of the Tallest. And their newest assignment for him was to lead the quiet slaying of Irk's greatest annoyance.

Though Irkens were a destructive and heartless race, execution of their own kind had always been deemed criminal unless specifically ruled by the Control Brains in a trial. Hence why Zim was merely banished after his actions in Operation Impending Doom I as opposed to being deactivated.

Applying rationale to the situation could be done, of course, but it didn't change the fact that what the Tallest had plotted was staunchly forbidden. It was no longer a game or a thinly veiled ploy to rid themselves of Zim; it was a conspiracy at the hands of their most vulnerable soldiers—those who had completed their missions and had turned to scrounging for a purpose.

Larb dared not go against his leaders, nor did any of the others, though they all bristled inwardly at the risk involved.

Now, the conqueror of Vort turned to acknowledge the adjoining outline of Spleen in a taciturn manner.

Both were fitted in biohazard suits, complete with gas masks that, when pulled over their faces, hid their features and made them all the more menacing.

Strapped to Larb's back, however, was a large metal canister and a long black tube that trailed from it. Its exterior was blank, and the fastenings were fitted snugly over his shoulders.

He wordlessly handed the tube to Spleen and gave him a stony, unreadable expression.

Spleen took it in both hands just as stoically.

"We have ensured that the defective is in his ship and the airlock is secured. The mission is simple; you will place the tube through the escape hatch on the roof.

"Do not blunder this, Spleen, like you blundered nearly everything else during our cadet training. We cannot risk exposure.

"I will stay down here and administer the gas. When the job is done, we report back to the Tallest. It should take no more than ten minutes."

Spleen narrowed his eyes at him shrewdly but turned away nonetheless and began following directions.

The idea of gassing one of his fellow elites in his own ship evidently bothered him far less than Larb's snide comments, for he seemed far more distracted with cursing the latter under his breath as he adjusted the mask over his face and snuck towards the Voot.

Inside the ship, Zim slept on peacefully.

Then, directly above him, a hatch opened slowly and allowed just enough access for the tube to slowly snake its way down into the ship.

Dib's silhouette tore across the lawn, making a beeline for the garage.

All the while, two different voices seemed to be arguing back and forth in his head, jockeying for acknowledgement.

One scolding voice, righteous and coldhearted as ever towards Zim, fought against his impending actions. He felt inclined to listen to it; this voice was what he knew, and what he had always known. This was what he perceived to be reason. It furiously screamed in his ear, demanding to know why he would even consider warning his mortal enemy of danger.

Dib was fraught, for he could not give it an answer.

Meanwhile, the other voice was a constant frenzy of panic, controlling Dibs fingers as he dazedly tumbled into the ship and burst into action, flicking various knobs and levers in the Spittle.

To his dismay, he felt his chest clench as the sheer frustration of his muddled thoughts caused angered tears to slip from his eyes and pool onto the dashboard.

The two counterparts of his internal monologue continued to battle inside him.

Finally, the computer interface lit up.

"Computer! Lock onto Zim's ship and send an emergency transmission!"

The computer lagged, processing Dib's request. Then, after an agonizing several seconds, "Connection successfully established with Irken Space Vessel VR-86967. Please state your orders."

Dib slammed his hand down on the dashboard, blood pounding in his head heavily and sweat fogging up his glasses.

"I just told you! Transmit an emergency warning…or… or something!" He didn't quite know what he was asking the ship to do.

He ripped his glasses off and hesitated again, ensnared in his own rising emotional turmoil. As the ship processed his command, he fidgeted impatiently with shaking hands.

After another excruciatingly long moment of waiting, he slammed his fists down on the control panel and stood up anxiously, finally exhausting his thin supply of patience.

"NOW, DAMMIT! IT'S AN EMERGENCY!"

Outside, the hunched silhouette of Spleen was suspended by his PAK legs. He lifted his hand and gave silent cue to Larb to begin administering the toxin.

The switch flipped, and within seconds, a cloudy gray vapor began to emanate from the tube and into Zim's cockpit.

The waft of poison swirled, curling overheard and contrasting vaguely with the glow of Zim's control panel. It began to settle over its victim in a thick wave.

Hardly had it begun, though, before a blaring alarm suddenly blasted from inside the ship.

The cockpit lit up with warning lights, illuminating Zim and GIR in a brilliant, glowing red. The whine of the emergency signal indicated that its origins were from a transmission, typically meant to alert Irken vessels in enemy territories.

The invaders froze and collectively stared at the ship in abject horror.

"What?! What's going on?! Zim stammered, disoriented. He crashed to the floor. "GIR!"

Flashing lights lit up his stunned face He glanced around himself, eyes wide as saucers.

Up above, the administration of the toxin stopped abruptly, and the tube disappeared back out the hatch in the blink of an eye.

Spleen threw the tube onto the ground. He slunk off the roof and took off at a run. Several others followed his lead, aborting mission. Like cockroaches, they dispersed into the darkness, some raised on PAK legs.

Larb, too, shut off the button on the side of the still-full canister and made to flee as the alarms continued to echo inside the Voot.

Before he could get far, though, a stark realization dawned on him; if he returned to the Tallest without having killed Zim and completing his mission, he would most certainly be re-encoded.

He knew full well that while they played the role of gracious rulers in assigning him this mission, they had also made it very clear that the Irken army had nothing to lose by disposing of him. He had conquered Vort long ago and his fate, along with the fate of the majority, now lay in the hands of the Tallest.

He felt a brief pang of regret at having asserted himself as the leader for such a mission, but the pang quickly melted into something resembling panic.

He ceased running and began to shrug out of the straps that held the canister to his back. The others streaked past him on quick agile legs, heading back towards the building they had come from.

Gruffly, Larb shoved the bulky cylinder towards a passing Irken.

"Take it!" he yelled over his should as he dashed back towards the Voot. As he ran, his PAK opened and deposited a glowing, mauve plasma blaster into his waiting hand.

-x-

Zim tried to sit up from his spot on the floor but stopped as he broke out in a sudden and violent fit of coughing. His eyes stung and watered. He tried to force them open, overwhelmed by the flashing red warning lights and a strange thickness in the air that made it nearly impossible to breathe.

"GIR! WHAT DID YOU DO?!" he hollered when he could catch a breath. He managed to pull himself off the ground on shaky legs and clutch the console for dear life as he was seized by the attacks.

GIR, no worse for wear, appeared next to him and shut off the transmission screen, putting a stop to the alarm.

"I didn't do nothin'," he said innocently.

Zim faced him and tried to respond but was wracked with yet another round of coughing. His airways felt like they were closing in on themselves and his head began to swim woozily. When he looked down at GIR, he saw double. He staggered back into his chair.

Then, through the confusion, he registered a faint scratching coming from outside the Voot. Despite the nearly all-consuming sensation of asphyxiation, fear flooded back to him as a dark, indiscernible shape appeared right in front of him. It was mere inches away and buffered only by the windshield of the ship.

Zim's bleary eyes widened in horror. He was unable to make out any defining features of the silhouette, save for the respirator mask that covered its face and the ominous luminosity of the pistol held in one steady hand.

The glow of the brandished weapon radiated between the two for a brief instant, contrasting the impassive gaze of the masked figure and the look of awestruck horror that dawned on Zim's face.

It aimed the firearm towards his chest, just a trigger pull away from extinguishing his life.

Zim's heart stuttered, and he fell out of the chair yet again, landing on his rear with an audible "uuuumph!" and causing the Voot to rock slightly.

The blast that tore through the plasma gun obliterated the back of the captain's chair he'd been in a fraction of a second before, leaving it a charred heap. The strips of purple fabric and plastic smoked, as did the rim of the gaping hole that now appeared from the windshield.

Zim crawled to the back of the cockpit while the dark form adjusted his aim, prepared to shoot at him yet again.

"GIR! GIR! DEFENSIVE MO—" Zim screamed before another spluttering cough cut off his orders.

But GIR was nowhere in sight. Zim crawled along the floor on his front, just as another shot hit the frame of his storage hatch, inches above his head.

Taking refuge beneath the console, he frantically attempted to start up the ship, fuel level be damned.

It rocked again and rose shakily off the ground. At once, the shadow that had stood in front of him slid off the hood and landed roughly on the ground with an audible cry of pain.

Yet another blast from the gun shot up into the air beside the space vessel, an exquisite, glowing purple exploding into the night like a beacon. Another followed close behind as its wielder tried in vain to down the ship.

Zim jerked to his feet and gripped the wheel, trying to see through his increasingly warbled vision. All the while, the coughing continued. It tore through his body mercilessly, interspersed with desperate gasps that offered no reprieve.

The Voot Runner wobbled unsteadily in the sky as he attempted to steer it upwards.

Without the stabilizers engaged, he tottered woozily around the cockpit, dodging plasma blasts and rising higher into the air.

Zim's heart pounded rapidly, becoming one with the fire in his lungs.

What's happening? Why can't I breathe?

He fumbled blindly overhead, fingers desperately seeking out the oxygen mask that resided there before abandoning the effort and returning to the controls.

Through sheer luck, he managed to steer the ship out of range while the figure on the ground below him threw up its arms in rage.

Though the hole within his windshield allowed some of the thick, stale air to dissipate, nothing could quell the coughing. At any rate, it couldn't sustain. The oxygen was growing thinner and thinner, and the air pressure stronger.

Knowing he had just seconds left, Zim went to work at the controls. He slammed a button down with the palm of one ungloved hand to replace his ruined windshield and peered dizzily through the spare one as it locked into place.

Breaking away from the controls, he made one last attempt at unlocking the hatch that held the oxygen mask above, clawing at it in his panic.

GIR watched him closely, though the expression on his face was unreadable. He may as well have been reading a billboard or watching paint dry.

He amiably patted Zim's back while he wheezed painfully and fumbled at the hatch.

Eventually, he gave up and instead felt clumsily along the dashboard.

Black spots obscured his vision. What he could see of the glowing buttons on the control board bleared together.

He somehow managed to weakly set the coordinates to their last known destination before his body started to dissociate from his mind.

He was only vaguely aware of the Voot hurdling through the sky, close to breaking through the atmosphere and into space.

Now, all he needed to do was put the ship on autopilot. He felt his knees buckle as his hand sought desperately at the controls to ensure the ship would not become lost in space or come crashing back down to Conventia.

Feebly, he reached forward, towards the button needed to initiate it and pressed down with one claw.

At that moment, his eyes began to flutter shut, and in something reminiscent to hazy desperation, he made brief eye contact with GIR before they rolled back into his head.

The last thing he felt was his hand, extended out in front of him, slide limply down the side of the console and his knees hit the ground.

Dib slowly rose, trembling violently, from his seat.

He had no way of knowing if Zim was still alive or if the emergency signal that was transmitted to his Voot had gone through successfully.

Why? Why would you do it?

Dib's stomach knotted. He couldn't explain why.

A sudden claustrophobia settled over him as his actions caught up with him and he hurriedly climbed out of the ship and retreated from the cold garage.

Outside, where the sun had gleamed brightly only days earlier, cold snow now settled in slushy piles and fat gobs of snowflakes fluttered down from the sky. Such was the unpredictability of spring weather.

Dib nebulously felt the pinpricks of the flakes as they landed on his hot skin. His breath rose in thick clouds from his agitated panting while he stumbled dazedly back to the house.

Once in his room, he gripped the headphones numbly in both his hands and remembered that he had recorded the conversation in the hopes that he could show it to the Swollen Eyeball Network.

He perched on the edge of his seat and stared at the computer screen in front of him, which was covered in several paragraphs of translated dialogue.

Again, he read through it, starting from the beginning when he had woken up and set it to automatically decipher the plot he had intruded upon.

…Must look like an accident…Continuously wastes valuable resources on his joke of a mission…Defective Zim's parade of indignities…Defective Zim.

His eyes skimmed the writing an absurd amount of times in utter disbelief until he had memorized every word. He felt as though he had walked in on some horrible tragedy. His mind reeled with conflict and frustration. He involuntarily reevaluated the last year, rapidly seeing it in a new light.

He was daunted by just how much he didn't know about Zim. By how much Zim didn't know about himself…

If Zim's mission is a joke…then this "armada" will never actually make it to Earth like he had assured it would. Zim's threats were all just empty, ignorant promises.

He smirked in spite of himself at the newfound knowledge, but it quickly faded. Confliction tore through his body, flashing with a new misgiving every second.

He had received too much information, both about Zim and his occupation, far too fast to digest.

Everything felt muddled these days. Everything. It was something Dib himself could never understand in the moment, and it had existed like a rift between him and his own common sense for the last year or so.

He sat on his bed in a stupor for the next hour, shivering from a combination of the cold draft, his own actions, and Zim's unknown fate.

At one point, in the midst of his attempts to untangle his snarl of emotions, he felt a pang of guilt from somewhere deep within his chest.

Dib's mouth pulled down at the corners as he pondered it. He could not place its origins. Was it because he had acted in favor of his enemy or because he felt he hadn't done enough?

The voice deep within his gut told him it was the latter and he felt his shoulders slump as he slouched over his crossed legs.

Regardless, he tried to comfort himself with the idea that he had done all he could in the face of a situation that didn't concern him in the least.

No matter how disjointed his motives or thoughts may have been, nothing could change the fact that, at this very moment, Zim was likely nothing more than a cold, lifeless corpse. And to this perverse visual, he attempted to find solace in the idea that his actions held no consequence one way or another. It was out of his control.

Cautiously and with a twinge of dread, Dib lowered his body stiffly onto his bed. He removed his glasses and closed his laptop, feeling the cold darkness close in on him without its glow to light the room.

Instead of closing his eyes though, for several minutes, all he did was stare up at his galaxy poster and continue to allow his thoughts to run amuck.

Regardless of what he told himself or how he justified his actions, he could not shake the inexplicable medley of unsavory emotions, nor could he quell the pounding headache that pulsed through his head relentlessly for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

"Are you insane?!" The voice pierced the air in the wake of the scuffle as shadows remerged and began to surround Larb.

He panted and let the plasma blaster drop to the ground beside him. All he could do now was glower maniacally at the defective's ship as it tore through the sky, higher and higher until it was nothing more than a speck.

Tenn latched onto Larb's shoulder and spun him around to face her. In one swift move, she tore off his gas mask and spat in his face. "You could have killed us all!"

He slipped from her grasp and swiped one claw savagely across her face in retaliation. "I was only completing what I had been ordered to do! The Tallest gave us strict orders!"

The others glanced from Tenn, who hissed and clutched at her wounded cheek, and back to Larb.

"What's going to happen to us now?" He demanded. His wide eyes were livid and the kinks at the end of his antennae were standing on end and pointed forward.

Several allowed their eyes to slip downwards as the question lingered heavily in the air.

What's going to happen to us now?

The amalgam of emotions Dib felt had died down by the next day. Or so he tried to convince himself.

Zim is dead.

He told himself this over and over in an attempt to subdue his anxiety from the night before and remind himself of where his priorities were supposed to lie. It was a simple fact that Zim couldn't possibly still be alive. Why should Dib be bothered by that? If he couldn't bring himself to feel any sort of positive feelings in response, he must try to feel nothing at all. Afterall, wasn't well-placed apathy the secret to never getting hurt? His own sister would certainly argue in favor of that claim.

He continued to trudge to skool, sidestepping the residual sludge from last night's snowfall as it melted in the morning sun. In a dream, he flowed into the crowds of students entering the skool and drifted into his first period class.

As to be expected, Zim's seat sat dormant. The one course he shared with him, Intro to American Literature, had previously served as Dib's best opportunity to spy on him—much to the detriment of his grade in the class. As usual, throngs of groggy students stumbled into the classroom, many bearing disheveled clothing and steaming coffee cups. The room was silent as they took their seats and begrudgingly reached into their backpacks for their textbooks. The teacher, a portly balding man named Mr. Carrigan, rose from his desk with a clipboard and began to take attendance.

Dib slumped in his seat and pressed his fingers to his temples. The sleepy voices of his classmates announced their presence around him. Not one student acknowledged the lack of Zim's attendance and Mr. Carrigan merely glanced at the empty desk and flicked the box beside Zim's name to record an unexcused absence.

Dib allowed himself a single glance at the desk, which turned into a hollow gaze that made the world seem to drop off around him. He turned his head back to the front of the room and pulled out his composition book.

The monotonous droning of Mr. Carrigan's lecture barely reached his ears as a numbness settled over him and pressed gently on his chest.

"Ugghhh…"

One green hand squeezed into a fist and immediately went slack again. Zim shook his head back and forth slowly, as if fending off a nightmare. Something dry and crumbly was being shoved into his face repeatedly, stirring him from his slumber. Finally, his sunken eyes fluttered open and met a bright, cyan pair that hovered over him.

"GIR?"

The robot's face lit up in an ecstatic smile and he pushed himself even closer to Zim, until their foreheads touched.

"I getted you cookies!" he screamed into his face, trying to jam another one into Zim's mouth.

Zim cringed inwardly and jerked away from GIR's well-meaning gesture. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was lying on the floor, spread-eagled and tucked partially beneath the Voot's control dash. With another groan, he slowly worked to heave himself into a sitting position.

GIR backed up and watched him struggle, shyly clutching the box of Nilla Wafers close to his chest. "You were sleeping a long time, Master…"

"Heh? How long?" Zim drawled, finally managing to sit upright. He brushed crumbs off his tunic and looked around. The cockpit spun wildly as he did so, and he immediately held his head in both hands and pinched his eyes shut again. He waited for the room to come into focus before very apprehensively taking in his surroundings.

The very first thing he noticed was his control dash. Namely, he noticed the dully flashing warning on one monitor that served to alert him that the ship was dangerously low on fuel. The Voot had been drifting along languidly in space, set to Earth's coordinates.

Zim held onto the console with both hands and weakly pulled himself up before turning to GIR again.

The latter watched him closely and munched on a cookie. "I wanted to let you sleep in." Cookie crumbs fluttered from his mouth to the floor.

Usually, Zim would pitch a fit at the mess GIR was making, but his mind was still reeling. He blinked woozily and looked down at his feet. He was still wearing just his black socks, which were slowly slipping off and bunching at the toes. Cautiously loosening his grip on the edge of the control panel, he very gingerly let go and tested his strength. Almost immediately, he tottered to one side and was forced to clutch it once again for stability.

He felt sore and strange. So, so strange…

The coughing had all but disappeared, oddly enough, leaving nothing but a dull ache in his chest and the sensation of having scrubbed his throat out with steel wool. That could be explained. What couldn't be explained was why his muscles felt so weak and sore. Even the aftermath of all the ruthless physical endurance tests back in the academy couldn't even come close to the fatigue he was now experiencing. He couldn't for the life of him understand exactly why this would be. The charging cell located within his PAK should have revitalized him in his unconscious state and he should be perfectly fit and alert right now.

Instead, his low-lidded eyes kept focusing in and out, seemingly detached from the rest of his mind. The room spun and continuously blurred and unblurred. A wave of nausea swept over him. He growled and tried to ignore the sensation as he sat down on the ground again, huddled beneath his dashboard.

GIR wandered over and dropped to a sitting position beside him.

Zim didn't acknowledge him. The tips of his fingers massaged his temples, and he screwed his face up in discomfort as flickers of the night before returned to him. He remembered flashes of plasma, a masked figure, and his own slumber yanked from him like a sheet in favor of bewildered terror. Most vividly, perhaps, was the panic in his chest as he tried desperately to cough and splutter and rid his insides of whatever he had breathed in.

Zim started to feel faint again at the memory.

Why hadn't I been able to breathe? Who was that? Where am I? What's going on? How long has it been?

Steadily, his rising paranoia began to swallow him whole. He stood up a little too suddenly and peered over his controls, through the windshield. His antennae flattened against his head.

Enemy.

He had an enemy who wanted him dead. Someone who dared kill him in cold blood, inside his own ship…

Half expecting to see alien vessels surrounding the Voot, Zim's breathing quickened.

Nothing. He was alone. Nobody was pursuing him. In fact, not another ship nor planet was in sight, leaving his Voot to drift indolently through unknown space, presumably in the general direction of Earth.

Even so, Zim broke out into trembling. He dropped to the ground yet again and curled into a tight ball beneath the console. His face was hidden beneath his arms and knees, which were drawn up to his chest as tightly as they could manage.

GIR regarded him expressionlessly, then cocked his head a little to the side. He poked at Zim's right antenna experimentally. Zim squirmed uncomfortably away, withdrawing into himself impossibly further.

"Master?" GIR sounded concerned. "You're scared…" The second part came out more as a self-assured statement than a question.

Zim ceased his shivering at once. "Of course I'm not!" To further prove his point, he unfurled from his position and looked up at his servant.

But GIR was no longer paying attention, currently in the process of shaking the empty Nilla Wafer box upside down in search of more. When no additional cookies magically appeared, he shrugged and devoured the box instead.

Zim didn't budge from his spot. "Computer. Run a scan on the Voot. And check for any security breaches or enemy vessels within the perimeter."

He waited while the computer processed his commands, though he could easily look up the latter information himself on the radar screen. He was groggy, and confused, and unwilling to leave his sanctuary beneath the table until he was fully convinced he was safe. His antennae perked slightly once the computer had deducted that he was under no threat of attack. It then proceeded to run an analysis the ship.

"Fuel reservoir low: immediate action advised."

Zim pinned his eyes on the storage hatch, which held a few containers of additional fuel that existed exclusively for emergencies such as this one. He would have to venture outside his ship to attend to the matter.

"Master!" GIR tapped Zim on the shoulder and held out a jumble of clothing. He recognized it as the rest of his uniform and his purple spacesuit.

Stepping into the pair of boots and adjusting his gloves, Zim turned back to the entrance of the storage compartment. The rim of it was melted and black from the plasma blast, leaving it little more than a charred mess. He yanked at the door until it screeched crookedly along the floor and revealed a plethora of equipment. Tools, food, oxygen tanks, and additional clothing lined the walls—just a few of the vital items the compartment held.

He scrutinized the room until he found what he was looking for—three full canisters of fuel. It would have to do until he could find a planet within range to land his ship and perform perfunctory maintenance. Next, he fixed his eyes on another corner: a collection of weapons in case of ambush.

Zim very selectively chose a small revolver and tucked it into his pocket, hand shaking ever so slightly.

The end of the week arrived slowly and steadily, just as it always did.

Dib walked to skool, sans Gaz, who was at home finishing the last level of her latest game. She was hardly fazed at the idea of taking a fake sick day when she was "in the zone." He hiked his backpack further up on his scrawny shoulder and fixed his eyes emptily ahead.

The snow had completely melted, leaving steadily drying puddles of water scattered up and down the sidewalk.

Subconsciously, he found himself walking far out of his way, taking the scenic route to skool. He only partially registered that this included passing by Zim's house. He could see it looming in the distance. The strange glowing that seemed to emanate from the walls, combined with the freakishly large satellite seemed to beckon him, spiking his heart rate.

He had slowed to a stop in the middle of the walkway. As soon as he realized this, he scowled and dragged his feet forward once more. Despite his best efforts, he still found himself abstractedly side-eyeing at the house for a moment, unsure why he had even come here in the first place.

Then, he forced his eyes away and continued down the street and around the corner.

The Voot had been puttering through space for nearly a week. Zim couldn't afford to put it into hyperdrive until he was able to reach an allied planet and properly replenish the fuel reserves, leaving him to idly pass the time through any means necessary.

He, himself, still felt off. As if his energy had been slowly and steadily drained from him over the past several days without any clear indication why. He leaned back into his ruined chair and listened to the blood course through his head.

After a moment, he stood up and squeezed his eyes shut at the vertigo that instantly overcame him. It made him feel exhausted, somehow, and his limbs felt several tons heavier. He ignored it the best he could and forced his feet forward in the direction of the storage hatch, not even a few steps away. His breathing rattled in his chest, air being sucked in far too copiously. The effort exerted was not reasonable grounds for being winded.

What is wrong with me?

Once he got to the door, he paused and clung to the handle for a moment to recuperate.

GIR watched him from his spot on the floor, where he had been coloring pictures and humming cheerfully. "You're outta shape!"

Zim growled and opened the hatch. "I'm fine, GIR," he said.

He snagged a bag of chips and collapsed back into his chair, silently reminding himself to run a biological scan when he returned to Earth. He looked down at the chips with mild distaste. He wasn't hungry. Hadn't been for the last few days, in fact. He still needed to eat, though. Ripping the bag open, he shoved a few into his mouth and glanced down at the mess of papers he had been rifling through before.

The contents of his carrycase, which he had intended to flaunt in the faces of his fellow invaders, was open and various schematics and photos were strewn across the ship's dashboard. Zim sifted through them insipidly. As he lifted some files, a picture slipped out and fluttered to the ground at his feet. He leaned down to pick it up.

It was the sophomore class photo from the beginning of the skool year, back in early September. Zim had taken it with him to show the Tallest as part of his evaluation on the indigenous life. He had assumed they would want to know how he had managed to blend in with the other Earth larvae.

All the students stood lined up in three different rows, rigid in posture and beaming with fake, plastic grins. The only two who weren't smiling were he and Dib. Zim was standing at the end of the front row with the shortest of the short, glaring warily at something off camera. A few rows behind him, in the back, Dib's face was as neutral as the design on his t-shirt. His eyes were downcast.

Zim smirked.

As time passed them by, he had tried to simply ignore the human, who had recently hit a growth spurt and now towered over him. He had spent years exasperatedly kicking Dib off his property, putting up with his clichéd monologues, and cleverly playing the victim in the face of their peers when he went off on another tired rant about Zim's alien origins.

Only when he appeared to pose a threat to his mission did he pay him any attention. He had learned to regard Dib as a very real threat when he wanted to be. Though the human was the very definition of a pest, he was admittingly cunning in his persistence. Because of this, Zim could not deny the dangers of his interference. Countless times, Dib had foiled Zim's plots, leaving him back at the drawing board.

Zim squinted at the photo. Something in Dib's features were no longer childlike and innocent. They had been replaced instead by a cold expression, and the undertones of newfound masculinity that comes to every adolescent in time.

He tossed the photo aside and reclined in his seat.

Suddenly, the computer's voice interface came on overhead, startling him slightly. "Proximity warning: planet ahead."

Zim breathed out a relieved sigh. Now he could properly fuel his ship and enter hyperspace. The sooner, the better.

If he were coming back, he would have been back by now…

He wondered why he cared. Tried to tell himself he didn't. Nothing he did could get rid of the hollow pang he'd felt in his chest all week. He felt as though he had been sucked into a permanent stupor.

By the third day, it had occurred to him that he may be only person to truly know what had become of Zim. The thought made him feel ill.

Now, on the ninth day, he did his best to ignore the empty desk in English class. In all that time, not a single person had so much as questioned Zim's whereabouts.

The date on the whiteboard sloppily announced that it was Thursday, April 22nd in purple Expo marker. Dib's gaze flicked from the writing on the board to his notebook as he tried to focus on the lecture.

Mechanically, he copied the notes being written by his teacher. Ernest Hemingway was born July 21, 1899…His eyes wandered over to Zim's empty seat. He caught himself and snapped his gaze back to the front of the room where the teacher was still droning on.

For the next several minutes, facts continued to appear on the projector screen and make their way into his notebook. He kept up, swiping his pencil over the paper without truly taking in what he was writing—sevens novels, six short story collections, and two non-fiction—he caught yet another glance at the empty desk.

This time, he did a double take. A glimmer of light underneath it had caught his eye. He stared blankly before recognizing it as the narrow gray stylus that went to Zim's tablet. Just barely visible was the tiny two-eyed Irken insignia on the side. It looked to have been stepped on multiple times and was now pressed awkwardly against the inside leg of the desk.

Something about the sight rattled him to his core. A wave of nausea tore through his body.

He shot his arm up into the air.

"Dib? What is it?" the teacher asked.

"I need to use the bathroom!" he burst out with a bit too much fervor.

A few students sniggered behind him. He ignored them and rose from his seat on numb legs.

Once he was out of the room, he practically sprinted down the hall towards the restrooms. He felt hot, angry tears course down his face before he'd even made it.

He pushed open the door to the men's room, noted its emptiness with a tiny surge of relief, then beelined to the furthest stall.

For a couple minutes, he just stood there, debating whether or not he was going to be sick. His entire body trembled, and his arms were wrapped protectively around him.

At last, he slid down to the dirty floor and pulled his knees to his chest. One hand pressed against his cheek and felt the wetness there.

He swore loudly and kicked the toilet paper roll clean of its hinges from his awkward sitting position.

What do I care? I've wanted Zim gone since he first got here.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Right?

Zim had been a constant in his life for years. His only constant, it seemed.

The Irken hadn't changed at all, even while everything else around him was nothing but change. He was still thickheaded, still hellbent on world conquest, and still ridiculously short.

While the rest of his grade skool classmates—Dib included—had shot up in height, Zim could only watch bitterly as he remained at a solid 3 feet, 10 inches. Grade skool had come and gone and hi skool gradually took what lingering childishness the students of Ms. Bitters' class still possessed. Now, it was talk of boyfriends, girlfriends, college, scholarships, moving out, adulthood, blah, blah, blah. It dominated their minds. The only thing that stayed the same was the rivalry between Zim and Dib.

Dib wiped his nose.

…Had he just been wasting his time with Zim to distract himself from growing up?

How much was real and how much was a poorly guised attempt at maintaining the status quo?

He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach as he pondered this. He would rather cling to that bit of "normality," in the loosest sense of the word, instead of worrying about college, dating, and being shoved into the work force.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew Zim was hardly a threat to Earth. Over the years, it became increasingly obvious that his plans would inevitably backfire on him. Only a handful of times, Dib had had to intervene before something of consequence could occur.

Had his rivalry with Zim come from a place of selfishness? After a while, it seemed to be more for himself than for the good of mankind.

He supposed he had turned his attention from "saving the world" to proving himself sane. Surely, Zim's exposure would earn him the respect he so desired. He would be hailed as a hero. Remembered as a misunderstood visionary. Even that, though, seemed to falter and crumble over time. He hadn't put a terrific amount of effort in actually exposing Zim in quite a while. Almost as if he didn't want to.

Dib sniffled a little, then let out a sigh.

Pushing one shaky leg beneath him, he slowly rose from the floor and walked out of the bathroom stall.

He stood in front of the mirror and emptily stared at the face on the other side. One stiff hand reached out and pressed the silver handle back on the sink. Cold water streamed out and he splashed some across his face to calm his nerves before returning to class.

Chapter Text

Larb had never been much of a navigator.

He cursed softly at his radar screen as the tiny red dot he'd been watching slowed. It dawned on him several seconds too late that it was likely descending on a nearby planet. He straightened up in his pilot's chair and prepared for landing as well, focusing on maneuvering in such a way that he would trail behind his target far enough to not draw suspicion.

No, he had never been much of a navigator. His expertise lay in the art of manipulation. He had mastered it on Vort and used it to his advantage to bend others to his will. It was one of many things he took great pride in and the stubborn invader suffered a bruised ego from his lack of success in using it the week before.

Now, he sat stoically in his ship, following the path that would lead him to the defect and pondered the exchange he shared with the Tallest.

It had been several days ago, on the very night they had attempted the murder on the defective. For Larb, the defining moment was not the success of his mission, but the ultimatum he had been faced with following its failure.

-x-

The invaders had stared helplessly up at the sky as it returned to pitch black following the departure of Zim's ship. The entire assemblage had gone silent, confronted with their very limited options. The eventuality in any case was to confront the Tallest and take whatever consequence that may be delivered.

Therefore, with utmost deliberation as to not arouse suspicions, they trickled back into the room they had originally met in. One by one, two by two, they marched back, nerves hidden professionally behind well-practiced poker faces. Their chins were held up high in a signature stance that gave off the impression of increased height, looking down upon all that was shorter than they.

As they approached the two rulers of Irk, however, this attempt at appearing taller was unceremoniously turned on its head. As soon as their eyes flicked upwards to make eye contact with the Tallest, they appeared more like smeets staring up at their elders with a sort of timid reverence.

Silently, the invader who held the canister meekly offered it to the Tallest. Purple took it from his outstretched hands, measuring its bulk thoughtfully. He frowned, then sneered down at them. "Hey! It's still full."

Spleen stepped forth, eyes fixed ahead coldly, and began speaking in a recited, somewhat monotonous tone that did little to conceal his fear. "My Tallest, we were only able to administer a small amount of toxin before the mission was compromised by unknown forces. We were forced to abort."

Both looming figures frowned in the darkness. Slowly, they turned to exchange a glance with one another. They had clearly not planned for their dubbed finest elite soldiers to fail what they had presumed to be a foolproof plan in ridding themselves of Zim permanently. An abstruse hush had fallen over the room, and a few soldiers shifted uncomfortably.

Then, as if to break the silence, Tenn stepped forward. Her face still dripped with blood, which glistened in the darkness. "My Tallest. Months of reconnaissance on Meekrob has given me insights to the nature of the toxin. It is highly lethal. Even a small amount of exposure will have drastic effects over a very short period of time. The defective will expire, likely before the month is through."

The Tallest pondered this for a moment. With a hint of apprehension, Red opened his mouth to speak.

"N-not good enough!" All heads whipped around to where Purple stood beside him. "We assigned you with a crucial mission in the name of the Empire! You are not relieved until you complete it!"

The rising panic in his voice echoed throughout the empty corridors. Red cringed and promptly hit him across the face. Several of the invaders staggered backwards in alarm. Turning his attention away from them, Red grabbed Purple roughly by the arm and led him away for a moment as the latter continued to tremble with rage.

The invaders watched like frightened children, frozen in place, as the two argued quietly in the corner of the room.

Red and Purple spoke in muted whispers for a moment, occasionally allowing their voices to raise in hushed tones as they heatedly argued with one another. Eventually, they seemed to settle down, reaching some sort of consensus. Several of the invaders shot fearful glances at one another. After a moment, Red turned for a moment and made brief, accidental eye contact with a certain invader.

Larb should have known. It shouldn't have taken Red's almost inconspicuous glance to tell him. He stiffened in his spot and allowed his mind to reel, searching for solutions before even properly assessing the meaning behind the look. He had dug his own grave by insisting on leading the mission. That much was clear. He would end up taking the brunt of the Tallest's debacle.

His hands clenched into tight fists by his side as the two straightened up and turned around. They were calm and collected once more, faces drawn passively. Almost kindly. Red held up one hand in a beckoning motion, over their heads and towards the door. "Very well. You are all dismissed, back to your assigned planets or other…places you came from."

The invaders balked, stunned at his words. A palpable electricity passed throughout the room for a beat as they exchanged glances, not believing what they had just been ordered. Then, slowly, hesitantly, they made their way to the end of the room.

"Except you! You stay!"

Those who remained widened their eyes again, following Purple's long, accusingly pointed finger. It stopped at Larb's somewhat startled face. The others sighed in relief and picked up speed towards the door. The group parted around Larb, leaving him to gaze fearfully up at his leaders. A handful of them snuck glances at him on their way out, not-so-subtle amusement glinting in their eyes at this turn of events.

At last, the three were left alone in oppressive silence. Larb approached them, standing as tall as he could manage. Both rulers looked down at him. Their postures appeared far more natural, however. More intimidating in their ease.

Larb swallowed thickly. Gone was the half-crazed expression he had worn earlier, back when he was desperate to kill Zim then and there, desperate to avoid this very confrontation.

Red spoke first. "Larb. We assigned this mission to you after you so…passionately assured us you were capable of handling it." Larb squirmed ever so slightly and shrank back a bit.

"What were your exact words?" Red asked, faux nonchalance dripping from his voice.

"I swore loyalty to my Tallest. I promised the defective would no longer be an obstacle."

"Yes, that's what I thought."

Larb pressed his antennae flush against his skull and held his breath. He was quite sure that their next sentence would pertain to the stripping of his invader title, his very credibility as a worthy Irken soldier. His conquering of Vort, all for naught. He took in a sharp breath, straightening up impossibly taller. He was prepared to contest with every ounce of who he was. He was an expert at arguing; it had always been his most valuable tool, having aided him dearly in his career.

However, Red turned away from him and proceeded to tuck the canister into a large metal case instead. Casually, as if he had forgotten of Larb's presence entirely and was merely preparing to depart, he turned back to Purple and the two exchanged a knowing look.

This time, it was Purple who spoke up. "Someone will die before the month is through. And if it's not Zim, then it will be you."

Larb's breath hitched in his throat. He heard the words as if in a trance. It took a moment for him to process the statement, somewhat detached at the words drifted to his mind and formed meaning. Then, in an instant, he forgot his composure. Gone in the blink of an eye was his poise as he bent his knees forward and shrank back on his heels, antennae flinging forwards in terror. He began to stammer desperately. "You-YOU CAN'T DO THAT! Only the Control Brains can execute an Irken!"

"Oh, I assure you, there are ways around that. Creative ways." Ways that never seemed to work for Zim, Purple added to himself dryly.

And it was true; launching invaders as part of the cannon sweep, strapping servants to ships headed towards massive stars, and sending Zim on a false mission had merely been a few of the tactics the Tallest had used to rid themselves of Irkens they saw as threats. Unsaid, but understood between them was the fear behind their scheme to eliminate Zim. It was only one-part blatant homicide. The true fear laid in the means they had chosen to complete it. The existence of the toxin could not be unleashed onto the general public, nor the Control Brains.

"But…" Larb froze where he stood, petrified. He blanched and withdrew into himself further. Remaining in a half-crouch as the Tallest nonchalantly walked past him towards the door, he held his breath stared straight ahead with both eyes open as wide as they could manage.

On his way out, almost as an afterthought, Red leaned down, close to his right antenna and spoke. The words cut through the air sharply, causing Larb's antennae to quiver and a chill to run down his spine.

"Do I make myself clear, soldier?"

-x-

Now, several days later and icily composed once again, Larb narrowed his eyes and glared down at his radar screen. For days he had been in pursuit of a certain Voot Runner, determined to succeed in the new mission that had been thrust upon him.

As a member of one of the highest calibers in the Irken military, he had long before gained full access to the guidance processors within all Irken ships. At a distance, as to not raise suspicions, he had been trailing Zim from Conventia to the depths of unknown space, to where he presumed the defect's "assigned" planet must be. Now, though, his rickety old ship appeared to be making a pit stop. Larb clenched his teeth and prepared to initiate the landing sequence of his own top-of-the-line Zhook Cruiser.

He would put an end to this. Killing an Irken was no different than killing a Vortian. Just another job to be done. Just another gateway to bringing honor to the Empire.

Though he had no other choice, Zim was still rather reluctant to land upon the planet that he had been alerted by. The map on his screen had labeled it as under Irken rule, conquered by Invader Alexovich. Now grounded, he peered out of the windshield and distastefully took in his surroundings.

Currently nameless, it must have been claimed by the Empire quite recently, as the aftermath of the Organic Sweep still remained, giving a burned tinge to the air and a desolate auburn hue to the skies. A mixture of ruins littered the dirt and no sign of life, be it plant or animal, was in sight. It heavily resembled a barren Earth desert in its current planet had already undergone visible construction that had slowly but surely converted it into an enormous parking structure that included docking bays for ship maintenance and refueling. As it was, though, the section Zim had chosen to land on was completely void of any other pit stoppers.

As he descended from the cockpit, the thick smog in the air overtook him immediately. Zim fought to control the coughing fits that threatened to erupt from within his sore chest. He was still fitted with his protective space attire, and almost immediately, he pressed a button on his neck to activate a translucent, bubble-like helmet to ensure proper breathing in the atmosphere. It seemed to help, if only slightly, against the pollution.

Behind him, GIR slid out and landed gracefully on his feet before promptly dashing off into the pallid wasteland.

"GIR! Come back here!"

The robot paid him no heed and continued to romp away from the repair structure, off into a barren patch of sand and ruins beyond. He cheered and stretched his legs, bounding carelessly around in frenzied little circles while Zim stared on, tapping his foot impatiently. After a moment, he sighed and began to chase after him.

Deep shadows stretched over the two as Zim tried to catch up. He was almost instantly winded from the effort. He slowed to a stop, panting and coughing, and bent over with his hands resting on his knees. At this point, GIR was a mere dot in the distance.

Zim wheezed out GIR's name again. He didn't have time for this. He needed to get back to the base. They couldn't afford to waste time playing childish games on this filthy, unnamed dirtball of a planet. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he would have to run a diagnostic on both his PAK and his biological shell. In the meantime, he only hoped he could wait it out until they returned.

As he became preoccupied with catching his breath, GIR turned a wide circle and made a beeline back over to him, skidding on the gravel and ramming right into him.

Zim grunted as he toppled over into the dirt, limbs flailing.

GIR smiled dopily and sat on his chest. "Hi!"

"Get off me, GIR! Now!" he yelled, shoving him to the side.

With visible difficulty, he rose to his feet and dusted off his uniform before stomping back towards the Voot. "We need to get back to our mission! If you aren't going to be useful, then at least stay out of my way!"

Larb took care of ensuring his own ship was hidden from sight. He could not risk it being noticed by Zim or any others. By some stroke of pure luck, though, the area was completely void of any other passersby, Irken or otherwise.

He rounded the corner, unable to see any more than Zim's outdated Voot Runner near the fueling station. However, the sounds of jubilant shouting echoed throughout the canyonlike ruins of the surrounding area. As he neared closer, he could see a metal shape stumbling around, shouting and throwing up its arms in delight.

Instantly recognizing it as the defective's SIR unit, Larb stood still for moment and watched it with morbid curiosity.

If anything, the thing served the opposite purpose of what it was designed to do. It was cruelly fitting that an Irken as substandard as Zim would receive a malfunctioning SIR to assist him. What was even more fitting, in a pathetic sort of way, was the fact that Zim would bother keeping such a hindrance around.

Larb glanced around, still not seeing the defective. He had the perfect opportunity. First order of business: take care if what the technicians back on Conventia had failed to do.

Now at an acceptable fuel level, the Voot was in the process of being automatically diagnosed for any inefficiencies.

Zim was standing in front of it with both hands on his hips, taking in his surroundings. No matter how undesirable the planet was, it still allowed him to refuel his ship and run a diagnostic on it, for which he was relieved.

For the last two hours, GIR had been screaming like a banshee and running around the fueling station, stopping every now and again to announce something inane or blurt out random words in his master's general direction. Now though, he was suspiciously quiet.

Zim picked at a loose string on his glove and sighed impatiently. Another few moments passed before the Voot was declared safe for long-distance space travel. "Finally! You're lucky you have my brilliance, GIR, to counter your…not…brilliance…"

He looked around after a few seconds, but the robot was nowhere in sight. He sighed once more.

"GIR! GIR! Where are you?"

No reply.

Zim let out a peevish growl and marched off in search of him. His boots kicked up dust and gravel as he trudged around the other side of his Voot, towards the area where GIR had been playing.

All was still for a moment as he scanned the empty wasteland.

Inches from his left antenna, something whistled past him. Zim whipped around, facing the ruins of what once was a large building. He recognized the sound of the shot as that of a handgun, not unlike the one he was carrying in his own pocket. Another shot fired at him, just barely missing his head.

Zim yelped and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He frantically searched the area and took cover behind another ruin nearby. His hand dropped to his side, and he felt the shape of his own weapon through the thick material of his spacesuit. He pulled it out and fired blindly in the general direction of the shooter.

"You dare open fire at an Irken elite? REVEAL YOURSELF!" He popped his head out from behind the structure and scanned the zone directly in front of him. The only answer he received, though, was yet another blast of the firearm, which hit the remains of building he was huddled behind and caused a cloud of dust to explode in front of him.

Zim clenched his teeth, sweat beginning to form on his forehead as he racked his brain and tried to remember his former training. Simulations back at the academy had taught him the tactics needed in instances of guerilla warfare, but he had all but purged them from his mind once his invader training had taken over his priorities.

He lifted his gun in a shaky hand and fired again. This time, immediately following his squeeze on the trigger was a small cry of pain as the shot connected with flesh. Zim's antennae perked in mild surprise at the sound. When he heard no further shots, he apprehensively appeared from behind his shelter and approached the ruins opposite from him, weapon still brandished in both hands.

As he rounded the corner, standing behind a tall, crooked chunk of decimated wall was someone clutching his left arm tightly with his right and grunting in pain. Several feet away in the dirt, knocked from his grip, was a plum-colored Irken handgun.

Zim watched the strange figure favor what appeared to be a minor flesh wound, taking notice of the crisp pink invader uniform, identical to his own, and the large helmet that covered his face.

"Who are you?" Zim demanded, unconsciously letting his own revolver drop to his side in his confusion. His attacker was…another Irken?

At the sound of his voice, the assailant turned to meet his gaze for the first time. Without answering, he let go of his arm and turned to face him head on.

Before Zim could react, Larb activated his PAK legs and hunched forward, poised for attack. Thin rivulets of emerald blood dripped from his left arm and down one hand, saturating the pink fabric of his sleeve.

Zim blanched and staggered away, mentally ordering his PAK activate his own mechanical limbs. He waited for a second, but nothing happened. No emergence of PAK legs to give him a very much-needed advantage in both height and stealth. He tried again, putting all his energy into willing his organic brain to connect with the PAK. Again, no response.

Zim broke out in a sweat, turning his eyes back to the Irken towering over him. He began to back away.

Larb was scanning the area from his new vantage point. Zim followed his gaze to the fallen handgun, laying in the dirt several feet away where it had been flung from his grip after Zim's lucky shot.

At that moment, Zim was suddenly reminded of his own gun, which he was still holding at his side. Quickly, he raised his arms and held it out in front of him. Before he could make a decent aim, though, the other Irken snapped his attention back towards him and lunged, knocking it out of his claws with a single PAK leg.

Zim stumbled backwards, his bottom hitting the dirt.

They were both now weaponless.

Slowly standing and backing away in retreat once again, his eyes roamed the area for a place to hide. They suddenly caught on a small, metallic object laying half-tucked behind the ruins of the wall. Still as could be, it glinted in the sun, juxtaposed brilliantly against the dusty gravel. Zim's eyes widen in shock.

GIR.

He continued to stagger away while Larb closed the distance slowly. Zim's heart skipped a beat as he glanced frantically around himself, trying to gather his options of escape. He desperately tried to activate his PAK legs one more, heart rate hastening when the effort offered nothing in return.

Meanwhile, his attacker raised one of his own PAK legs above himself, the tip alight with a small blue flame.

Sucking in a deep breath, Zim tensed his muscles, eyeing the light of the blaze in awe. The ends of them, even without welding tools or lasers activated, were sharp as razors. A stab wound from a PAK limb could be fatal.

At the last second, before the leg could come down on him, Zim lunged forwards. Larb, taken aback, watched as he scurried between his PAK legs and towards the area behind him.

Assuming he was after his gun, Larb retracted his mechanical limbs and set his eyes on it instead, hurrying to reach it before him.

Zim did not have his sight set on the fallen firearm; instead, he snatched up GIR's body and took off after his Voot as swiftly as his heart could handle.

Within seconds, he began to pant and break out anew in sweat. Panic and breathlessness closed in on him like a vise, leaving an impossible tightness in his chest. He gasped in lungfuls of air and pressed on, the Voot appearing larger and larger in front of him, GIR's limp body pressed firmly to his chest.

Without taking the time to look back, he hurled himself and GIR into the cockpit and ignited the engine with more fervor than he ever had before.

In a matter of seconds, the ship rose through the air and hurdled upwards, leaving Larb in the dust for the second time.

-x-

After several minutes of trying to catch his breath, Zim turned to one of his control monitors.

"Com…puter," he wheezed. "Take…all systems offline."

The computer paused for a moment, as if in apprehension, before complying.

Zim's chest visibly rose up and down as he drank in stale, recycled air and tried to maneuver his way back on course. Taking his entire ship offline was a serious risk. It would render his attacker unable to track him, but it also meant no outside forces could make any contact with his ship whatsoever. If he were to infringe on enemy territory, he would be none the wiser.

In utter silence, Zim set the coordinates to Earth yet again and sat stiffly in his pilot's chair. For several moments, he stared straight ahead, half expecting the Irken to appear behind him. But after nearly an hour, nothing happened.

Zim's muscles unclenched little by little. He had lost him. He could not be traced. He was safe for now…

Still shaking, he made his way to the back of his Voot and towards GIR. In his rush, he had deposited him near the storage hatch. Now, picking up his tiny, wilted body, Zim examined the damage thoughtfully. GIR's exterior was slightly scuffed and dirty, and his right arm was disconnected at the shoulder.

SIR units were easy to fix. And GIR got into so much trouble on a daily basis, Zim had grown accustomed to making frequent repairs, even going so far as to keep spare parts in his storage room.

Nevertheless, a flicker of concern danced across his face. He set GIR down again and tried to summon a welding tool from his PAK to mend the dislocated arm. To his disheartenment, but not necessarily his surprise, nothing happened.

Despite the disconcerting and outright horrifying events that had befallen him, this new development seemed to cast a feeling of dread over him unlike anything else. For the next several minutes, he threw his focus into connecting with the PAK. It was as if something just wasn't processing. Finally, he was able to get it functioning just enough to deposit a small welding tool into his hand.

Frowning deeply, he went to work on the snarl of exposed wires that protruded from Gir's shoulder. Anything to distract him. After completing that task, he opened the SIR unit's head and examined the slots where the guidance chip and memory storage resided. Both slots were empty. Zim cocked his head to the side and set the body down on the floor. He would have to make those repairs back on Earth. GIR would just have to wait.

Anxiety crept upon him once more in the lingering silence.

Zim made his way back to his seat and sat down, listening to the droning of the Voot's engine and the ominous quiet from the lack of GIR's little voice. Belatedly, he realized the ship was well within its abilities to enter hyperspace again, and a tiny rush of relief fell over him. He could not return to Earth soon enough.

From inside the Membrane household's garage, the dash lit up on Tak's ship. Softly, a voice broke through the stillness.

"Establish connection with Zim's ship."

Silence. After a moment, the echo of a barking dog called in the distance. Dew dripped from freshly mown grass and signified the beginnings of a springtime that had previously been stifled by the handfuls of fluke snowfalls. The overcast dawn of a new day brought with it a lovely sense of mysticism and spread across the entire neighborhood as the rest of the world slowly awoke. All was peaceful and serene, light rain pattering on the roof of the hollow, metal garage and mingling with the sounds of whirring technology.

"Failure to connect with Irken Space Vessel VR-86967."

Dib drew his shoulders back and dipped his head down. He didn't know why he was back here, revisiting the memories of the week before and trying to contact Zim. Perhaps, if nothing else, just to know for sure that his suspicions were correct. That Zim was, in fact, dead. Just to have some closure.

Heaving a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered out into the foggy morning air with a flinty stare.

There's your closure, Dib. Are you happy now?

-x-

He ambled into his first period class a few moments late. Though springtime had overtaken the snow piles on the sides of the road, a chilled breeze still touched down in the early mornings. He could feel his cheeks stinging with cold and rain and he immediately became warmer as he entered the classroom. He sat down and pulled out a pencil and his notepad, then glanced up absently.

In an instant, his blood froze and jolted him from his weary haze in a single second.

There, in the empty chair he'd being eyeing for almost two weeks, sat none other than Zim.

Chapter Text

The Irken was slumped forward and gazing apathetically at the notes written on the whiteboard with both arms limply hanging at his sides.

Dib just stared at him, going so far as to wipe the sleep from his eyes, half-convinced Zim's presence was nothing more than a demented hallucination. Then, a floodgate of emotions burst through him at once, spearheaded by unfathomable relief as he clutched the edges of his desk. Without realizing it, he choked out a few incomprehensible words of disbelief, arousing the attention of the classmates sitting beside him. They glanced at him in varying states of mild amusement and annoyance before returning to their own conversations.

If Zim himself heard Dib's display of incredulity, he paid it no mind. He simply scowled at the whiteboard and swiped some of the hair from his wig out of his face. He kept his chin propped lazily on one hand and kept his gaze fixed to the front of the room.

Once Dib had collected himself enough to see through the initial shock, confusion quickly took its place. Confusion as to how Zim had gotten back alive, and confusion related to Zim's demeanor.

Something about him was unmistakably off.

His eyelids drooped wearily over his violet contact lenses and his skinny shoulders were slumped forwards over the desk. His uniform looked disheveled, as did his bouffant wig. On top of it all, he seemed to stare directly through the whiteboard, lost in his own thoughts.

Dib quirked one eyebrow and continued to stare.

Finally, Zim opened one eye a bit wider and turned to his left to look over at him, grimacing when Dib refused to break eye contact. It was the first time the two had seen each other in nearly two weeks.

At once, the silence was broken by the monotonous voice of Mr. Carrigan as he rose from behind his desk and started class. A tremor ran through both Zim and Dib as the interruption sliced the air and brought them back down to earth. Zim was the first to break his gaze, turning back to the front of the room.

"Remember, ethos is appeal to ethics. Pathos is appeal to emotions. And Logos is…" the teacher droned on as Dib unabashedly kept his entire body turned to the side in his desk, facing Zim head-on.

He looked as if he were in a stupor. After several moments of slouching in his seat and staring blankly ahead, Zim seemed to melt where he sat. His head drooped over his blank notebook, dipping downwards. He jerkily brought it back up again and returned his eyes to the whiteboard. No more than thirty seconds later, he began to droop again. It looked like he was nodding off before catching himself in the act.

Dib watched this happen a few times in utter bewilderment.

Combined with his unkemptness, Zim's behavior seemed not unusual for the classroom setting. All around them, various classmates were dozing and passing notes while the teacher's back was turned, and many of them were also sporting sweatpants and uncombed hair.

Dib knew better, though. Zim prided himself on his physical appearance. He was a blatant perfectionist in that regard.

While the class occupied themselves with their own little antics, little of which actually concerned American English, Mr. Carrigan kept his back turned and scrawled a constant stream of notes on the whiteboard in fading green dry erase marker.

Zim blinked and rested his head on his desk.

After about half an hour of failing to get his attention again, Dib tore out a sheet of lined filler paper from his notebook. With the fringe still intact, he wrote furiously on it his barely legible chicken scratch.

Where were you?

He folded it over several times. When the teacher's back was turned again, Dib poised it in front of him and flicked it across the room, watching as it landed slightly askew beneath Zim's desk.

Zim lazily trailed the direction of the note's arrival with his eyes and, after a beat, bent down to pick it up. He looked up again at Dib, this time narrowing his eyes a bit more spitefully.

Dib refused to look away, eyes glinting with anticipation.

He deflated when, instead of reading and responding to the message, Zim unceremoniously tossed the still-folded paper into the wastebasket beside his desk.

The bell rang then, causing the both of them to startled.

Zim hastily gathered his materials and joined the horde of students pouring out into the hallway.

Dib, in turn, threw his pencil and notebook into his backpack and followed in hot pursuit, looking frantically around for him. He caught a glimpse of green skin before quickly losing him amid the throng of people walking to second period. Within minutes, the halls emptied out, and there was no sign of Zim anywhere.

Cursing under his breath, Dib turned around and resignedly headed in the direction of his next class.

Zim sat in his second period classroom, pretending to take notes on material he didn't understand. It had all been covered in the weeks he'd been gone and was now being taught as review.

Just as before in his first class, it only took a few minutes before his head was wilting over his desk and he had to actively work to stay upright in his chair. Every now and again, his breathing would snag in his throat and manifest itself into heavy bouts of coughing that he fought to contain.

Overall, the vibe of this class was leagues less stressful now that Dib was gone. While it was nothing short of a relief to be rid of him, Zim was far from being at ease, though.

He was still caught in a maelstrom of anxiety that made it almost impossible to focus on any one objective, be it the strange rogue Irken who had attacked him on the desert planet, his PAK malfunctions, or his unexplainable fatigue.

He had needed an escape from it all. He needed something he could control. Returning to his mission, effective immediately, seemed to be most logical option.

-x-

Upon arriving back on Earth the night before, Zim had wordlessly and morosely landed the Voot in his docking bay. Once the engine cut, though, he made no move to leave the confines of the cockpit, instead staring straight ahead in a daze. He felt like the events of the past week or so had finally caught up with him in their entirety. And Zim was tired.

It didn't take long before the aching silence of the house and absence of GIR's prattle seemed to nearly swallow him whole. He could hear his own heartbeat steadily increasing in tempo.

Sluggishly, he stood from his seat and lifted GIR's limp body from where it had been placed beside the storage hatch.

"Computer," his voice broke out into the silence, "take me to the main laboratory."

He stepped onto a platform and was lowered down into the bowels of his base, back to the familiar twists and turns.

Stepping out of the elevator and into his lab, he set GIR on a table amid a horde of instruments and tools. A dusting of reddish dirt still clung to metallic body and stained Zim's black gloves as he handled him.

He examined the welding job on his arm, then took another peek inside his head cavity. When he closed it up again, his eyes lingered a little too long on GIR's dead, gray eyes. They stared out at him hollowly. A shiver ran down Zim's spine and he looked away. Weakly, he turned back to the elevator. First things first.

"Medical bay."

He stepped onto the platform and crossed his arms.

He wanted to believe he was unstoppable, thwarted by nothing. His PAK's newly developed malfunctions were a physical sign of something direly wrong that he simply could not ignore, though. Unhurriedly, he was lowered once again to an even deeper sector of his base.

The medical bay was comprised of several pieces of equipment for Irken use, none of them particularly savory. It included a surgical room, complete with all necessary equipment, and a pharmaceutical station in which the computer could produce a variety of drugs from a special reserve. Elsewhere was a manual charging cell, meant to aid the PAK in cases of emergency.

Squarely in the middle of the med bay, when one first entered, was station used to scan any biological entity and make diagnoses of injury or illness. Zim headed directly towards it and settled onto the platform with his feet about shoulder width apart.

"Computer, run a physical diagnostic on me."

He waited while the scanners flashed up and down his body, over his skinny arms and legs, pausing as they reached his PAK, and then trailing onward. They grazed every inch of him, from the tips of his toes to the ends of his antennae. At last, they ceased, and a screen popped up, accompanied by the voice of the computer.

"Diagnosis: PAK deficiency resulting in a weakened biological shell and immune system."

"I know that! I could have told you that!" Zim yelled. His voice came out with a slight, croaky edge. "I want to know why!"

He began to shift from foot to foot nervously. He could think of no plausible reason for this development; he had not overexerted himself physically nor had be become disconnected from his PAK at any point recently. It rested between his shoulder blades as it always had since birth, a sacred embodiment of his very being, the reason for both his very existence and his current frustrations.

Just for kicks, while the computer continued to process his scans, Zim tried to summon the communication device from within it. It came out halfway before the PAK gave up on him and left it hanging awkwardly from its opening.

Zim sighed. This seemed to be happening more and more as of the past couple days: either the PAK wouldn't respond at all or it would only respond briefly and insufficiently. He spent the next few moments trying to retract it. Finally giving up, Zim snaked his left arm around himself and shoved the half-exposed monitor screen back into its place.

He glanced back up at the screen right as the computer finished processing its information. "Unknown contaminant present."

"And what is this contaminant?" Zim demanded impatiently.

"Insufficient data."

The Irken nearly exploded with rage. "Insufficient data? I am your master, and this is my life! I order you to research every possible reason and outcome!"

He started to tremble with anger as the computer went through various ailments native to both Irk and Earth.

"Proper research may take time."

Zim put his hands on his hips. He was still shaking, but this time it was for a different reason. "W-well, get on with it, then!" he said, his voice cracking a bit.

"Rest in manual charging cell heavily advised."

He eyed the charging cell warily. The little cubicle was specifically designed for those who suffered from PAK inefficiencies. Essentially, it worked through a cable that plugged into a port located on the bottom of said PAK, providing it and the biological shell with energy. It could be used for any array of issues, either as a quick pick-me-up or, in more dire circumstances, a means to sustain the basic life functions of dying Irkens.

It was a rather odd machine, and one that Zim hardly ever used. He decided to allow that trend to continue, instead turning to make his way back upstairs while the computer researched his symptoms.

He briefly considered going down to the equipment room to get supplies for Gir, but quickly decided against it for the time being. He didn't have the energy to work on the repairs at the moment, never mind put up with GIR's antics once they were completed.

So Zim stood dumbly in his living room, considering his options.

Then, a new thought crept into his head. It had been nearly two weeks since anyone had seen him. Surely, the skool would grow suspicious.

He looked around. Walking reluctantly to his front door, he looked out the window at the breaking dawn outside.

"Computer, bring me my disguise. I'm going to skool."

Dib glared stonily out the window from several classroom away. From far away, he could hear the teacher launching into a tirade on paying attention in class, assuring the entire room that failing the course would be their tragic downfall once graduation came around.

All he could think of was Zim. Nothing was adding up. He didn't even know where to begin.

Zim had disappeared to some far-off planet, escaped his own conspired killing, spent two weeks in deep space doing God-knows-what, and was now sitting in class somewhere bored out of his mind like any other day?

It was so absurd, it verged on comical. The missing facets of context gnawed away at him, and he was determined to figure out what had happened. No. Not determined. Entitled. The irrational and obsessive part of him felt he deserved an explanation from Zim.

The day slogged on, one class bleeding into the next. At last, the final bell before lunch rang. Dib couldn't hurry to the cafeteria soon enough.

He found Zim sitting alone at a lunch table in the corner of the lunchroom, head propped in one hand and the other poking at a dry brick of lasagna with his fork.

Dib marched to the other side of the table and planted both hands on his hips, waiting for him to look up.

Zim continued to stare at his lunch, then shuddered slightly and pushed the tray away. After a few more seconds, his dulled senses pick up on Dib's presence and he slowly lifted his head to meet his gaze in distaste.

"Well? What do you want?" he asked after Dib refused to speak.

"What do you mean 'what do I want'? What is this? How are you here?" He gestured wildly around the lunchroom with his arms.

He knew he wasn't making sense, but he couldn't help it. He had never been much of a people person and his awkwardness had trailed him throughout adolescence like a shadow. If anything, it had only grown worse in recent years.

Zim's look of disgust deepened, and he waved him off. "Go be insane somewhere else." He dropped his eyes back down to the table.

"No! I demand an explanation!" Dib banged his both fists on the table. His voice went up a few octaves, as it usually did when he was agitated.

Heads started to turn at the sound of his outburst.

"Where were you? And-and how did you escape?"

He thought he saw a touch of wariness touch Zim's face before disappearing again. He waited, glaring down at him.

"Answer me!"

More students twisted in their seats to see what was going on. Zim regarded the little gaggle of onlookers coolly before swinging his legs out of the bench seat.

Dib watched him depart through the double doors leading to the skoolyard, then dropped his gaze to the untouched tray of food left on the table.

Zim had changed. He no longer held the same fixation on Dib that he seemed to have on him. In fact, he often tried to avoid him, or at the very least, ignore him. Dib had noticed it long before, but it only seemed to strengthen his resolve at the time. He wasn't so quick to outgrow his own obsessions. They had whirled around, trapped in the same hellish circle of cliched threats and ploys for years. Dib had grown to see Zim's faults and did not see him as much of a threat anymore, but rather a safety net. It only took a mere few days to see it as it was, plain and clear. And the child inside of him wasn't ready to let go.

Regardless of where they stood now, though, one thing remained grounded in fact: Dib had played a part in ensuring Zim's safety back on Conventia. He had helped him, and for no reason he could dredge up even after weeks of overthinking his actions that night. Never before had selflessness held a place their motives. All had been self-concerned, bitter, and resentful. Something about this little action going unacknowledged made him feel cheated. Sick to his stomach, even.

He decided to change tactics. He needed to tell Zim something, anything, just to get a reaction out of him.

Zim now sat on a bench near the edge of the blacktop, engrossed in something on his tablet. He set it in his lap as Dib approached him again.

"Can you not take a hint, Dib-stink? Leave me alone! Your colossal head is in my light." As to be expected, he looked irritated. But there was something in his tone, as if he were distracted with more pressing issues than Dib's head.

"Zim, seriously! Listen to me! I really need to talk to you. I know about the other Irkens! They were going to kill you! They might still be trying to kill you. What happened?" The words spluttered out of his mouth, sending a wave of electricity down his spine as he spoke them.

To his amazement, they actually seemed to arouse Zim's attention as well. He immediately snapped his head up to meet his Dib's gaze.

"Heh? What are you playing at, human?" he spat, his eyes immediately narrowing to slits. He looked suddenly suspicious.

Anything to get a reaction.

With newfound eagerness coursing through his body at the mere indication of finally being acknowledged, Dib shifted so that he was standing dangerously close to him. Zim smelled like Elmer's glue and hand sanitizer.

Almost immediately, the Irken squirmed away uncomfortably. Putting distance between them once more, Zim steadily brimmed with fury.

Dib, however, still rapt with excitement that Zim was actually reciprocating, briskly ignored the sudden hostility. He started to yell in a whisper, even though there was nobody within their earshot.

"I listened in on the invader convention thing! I heard it myself over radio broadcasts! These other Irkens, and…and your leaders! They were saying all this…stuff! About your mission being a fake and how you're a danger to your own people. I—"

"—Silence!" Zim leapt to his feet abruptly and glared daggers at him.

Dib stared back desperately, still riding the wave of adrenaline and clinging to the hope that he was getting through to him.

"Zim, I know what it sounds like. But you have to believe me! Your leaders! They want you dead!"

At that, something inside Zim snapped. He lunged forward and with uncharacteristic strength, shoved Dib roughly to the ground.

Dib grunted as he hit the pavement, then glanced around him. The action had garnered the attention of a few students in the skoolyard. They surrounded the two on the blacktop in curiosity.

He stood up on shaky legs. The heels of his hands were scuffed, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Zim moved in until he was uncomfortably close to him. Though he had to strain to make eye contact with Dib with his increased height, he compensated quite well with his hot temper.

"How dare you spout these lies? And since when do you care about the life of Zim?! We hate each other! Remember?"

Dib stood in dumbfounded silence as he poked a gloved finger into his chest to emphasize certain words. Zim then tottered to the side, as if dizzy from this feat. He'd begun to break out in a sweat despite the chill in the air.

"Fine, Zim! Don't believe me! I'm not the one who has a death plot against me!"

Zim practically convulsed with rage. His hair hung limply over tired-looking eyes, but even this managed to look menacing. He was a ticking time bomb that had finally detonated.

More students circled the two, gawking at the sight with zeal.

Before he could consider just how much attention he was drawing to himself, Zim balled up one hand into a fist, reeled back and punched Dib so hard in the face, he spun around and dropped to the ground in a heap.

Zim winced as a dull pain shot up his arm from the impact. His glove was torn near the knuckles where it had connected with Dib's teeth.

Dib lay prone on the ground in front of him for several seconds. Then, to the alien's astonishment, he unsteadily pushed himself to a sitting position, his eyes unfocused and barely clinging to consciousness. Blood trickled from his lip and dribbled down his chin. An almost insane expression crossed his face and he smirked wildly at Zim, before collapsing back onto the blacktop.

Before Zim could even give his actions a moment's thought, he was yanked roughly by his collar and dragged off dazedly to the principal's office.

Dib awoke sometime later, blinking as bright, florescent lights whirled dizzily overhead then came into focus. He moaned and unconsciously raised a hand to his lip, feeling the tenderness there.

Then, pushing his body up with his scuffed hands, he weakly sat up. He was on a plastic-covered bed in the nurse's office.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom attached to the little resting area, examining himself in the mirror dully. The lower half of his face ached, and his lip was swollen. He tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and cringed inwardly.

It was far from their first physical brawl, but it was the most public one to date.

Outside the office, students filled the hallways, the buzz of conversation spiked with enthusiasm. No doubt, they were talking about the debacle on the blacktop outside. Dib also knew that just around the corner, Zim was awaiting his punishment outside the principal's office. The thought elicited a tiny streak of satisfaction even in the midst of his anger.

He gargled some water in an attempt to rid himself of the taste of blood in his mouth and walked out of the little room.

Heading towards the door to head back to class, he paused midstride just before he left the office. Zim wasn't in either of the chairs outside of the principal's door and the room itself was empty.

His nosiness got the best of him. He approached the bored-looking receptionist.

She stared up at him from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her beige cardigan made her already pale face appear even more washed out and her brown hair was tied in a messy bun on the back of her head. She had all the evidence of being rather young, though it was hard to tell beneath what must have been years of spirit-crushing apathy in a thankless, mundane job.

"What happened to Zim?" Dib demanded, without so much as a greeting.

She examined him laconically, taking note of his busted face. "Oh, he was sent home about ten minutes ago."

Dib's brow furrowed. "What? Why?"

The receptionist sighed and typed something on her computer. Elsewhere in the office, a phone rang distantly. Dib shifted his weight. He was getting impatient. Finally, she looked up again and shrugged.

"Nurse's orders."

A perplexed look spread over his face. His voice became shrill as he answered. "Nurse's orders? He wasn't injured! He's lying! I didn't even touch him! He knocked me out! He just wanted to get out of going to the principal's office or getting detention or whatever!"

The receptionist regarded him blandly for a moment, a hint of irritation in her voice as she spoke again. "Yeah, but I guess when the nurse examined him, he was running a fever or something. We can't have disease plaguing the halls, you know."

"But—"

"—Look, I don't know the details. Now get back to class, kid. Before I send you to the principal's office." She returned to her computer, leaving Dib more confused than ever.

Chapter Text

Zim seemed to forget his rigid, militaristic posture, instead opting for a slow trudge as he headed down the familiar path in the direction of the base. The cold springtime air whistled down his throat and into his lungs, prompting another fit of coughing by the time he'd turned the corner and left the skool out of sight.

He unconsciously balled his fists in irritation, wincing in startled pain as the movement opened the cuts on his hand and caused them to weep.

Glancing upwards, the breeze washing over the dew of sweat on his feverish brow, he absently decided to cut through the park, concurrently removing one glove to examine his bloodied knuckles as he did so.

He clenched his teeth at the persistent stinging in his right hand and examined the cuts with two parts resentment and one part concern. Small flecks of blood dappled the hem of his sleeve.

A very large part of him was concerned that it hadn't healed already. Irkens were notoriously quick healers, a trait they credited to their PAKs. What would otherwise be a lethal injury to a lesser lifeform would, to an Irken, be nothing more than an unpleasant memory in less than a day's time, leaving not even a scar to tell the story.

His split knuckles earned its place in his ever-growing reserve of anxieties with each drip of emerald blood on the concrete beneath his feet. It was just another hallmark that something was wrong with him.

Clutching the glove tighter in his left hand, he continued walking down the sidewalk and through Hurt Park.

The grassy area was filled with towering oaks and large pine trees, offering a choice view of the city from its highest point. Nearby, a playground had been constructed, making it a popular location for families. All things considered, the park was one of the more desirable places in town, and the place was often filled with mirthful children and their parents. It was all the same to Zim.

One of the most notable features was its close proximity to the town's cemetery, in which the two were adjacent. The cemetery, from what Zim could gather, was a place in which the humans buried their deceased. They visited them, sometimes cleaned their headstones, and adorned the surrounding area with notes and flowers. It was just another sentiment specific to humanity that he could not grasp.

No such place existed on Irk; deceased Irkens were stripped of their PAKs and cremated immediately following their deaths. The PAKs then went to the Control Brains, to be added to the collective. That was how they lived on; through the whole of their race's knowledge.

Zim had never actually entered the cemetery, although he often passed by it. He never had a reason to. Every now and then, though, he would catch a glimpse of Dib strolling back from this area.

Zim would be out walking GIR through the park in a desperate attempt to take the edge off his seemingly bottomless energy, striding grumpily among the dead patches of grass, litter, and vagrant humans, when he would see the unmistakable silhouette of Dib exiting through the large steel gates that led out to the sidewalk.

It used to be a rare occurrence, almost an anomaly. Within the last six months, however, it had become more and more frequent. Almost every time Zim found himself in the park, usually in the late afternoon between skool and his precious hours allotted for mission planning, he would see him.

It wasn't only that, though, but Dib's demeanor during these occasions greatly puzzled him. Each time, without fail, he was gently composed with a thoughtful expression on his face. Several times, he even walked straight past Zim without sparing a moment to insult or even shoot him a glare.

For every detail Dib did not know about Zim and his home world, Zim held close to the same amount for Dib. It made him anxious to see the human grow older. Almost overnight, he'd gone from being a loud, overactive Earth smeet to being something entirely different. He was now continually offering a novel perspective in his new, mild-mannered state. Catching Zim off guard.

Dib no longer wore his heart on his sleeve, preferring to fall into a state of dreamy pensiveness in the presence of others. For a time, Zim earnestly believed he was plotting something against him, playing with his judgement and giving him reason to be suspicious. But after a time, he began to see something else in the boy's eyes, something that didn't concern him in the least. It was a certain softness, a second-guessing nature that he couldn't understand.

And yet it only took seconds for Dib to go from being quiet and contemplative to outright explosive in his temper.

Zim glared back down at his torn glove gain.

It was his fault!

His filthy mouth that had prompted him to take such measures. Dib made him do it. And it was because of him that he had gotten in trouble by those vile skool humans!

-x-

Not even a full hour before, Zim had been hauled down to the principal's quarters, rage practically wafting from him as he passed students in the halls and ignored their rubbernecking. He continually pushed the mop of fake hair out of his face with his one hand and stumbled over his own feet as he was dragged along.

The stern, hulking teacher who had witnessed the incident held a strong grip on his upper arm. She hardly gave him room to keep up, too concerned in chastising him on his actions.

He tried to recall ever seeing her before, but honestly couldn't place this particular human. It didn't help that he still occasionally had trouble telling them apart from one another, such were their similarities.

Based on her gruff demeanor and baggy sweat suit, though, he eventually decided that she must be one of the gym teachers. She smelled like sweat and turf and Zim found himself cringing away in disgust at the earthy stench.

The smell mingled nauseatingly with the overwhelming scent of discount air freshener that hung thickly in the admin office as they burst through the door. The tile floors were quickly replaced by stained brown carpeting beneath Zim's feet as he scrambled over the threshold. Much like the rest of the hi skool, the entire area was drab and blandly furnished.

The two headed straight towards the principal's office. Zim glanced around himself and began making indignant grunting noises as he frantically tried to pull away.

As they walked past the skool infirmary, the nurse popped her head out of her office at the sound of the commotion.

"What's going on here?" she asked in her soft, pleasant voice.

Her gaze immediately dropped down to Zim, taking in his sickly appearance and rumpled clothes. He was laced with sweat, and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

He met her eyes and, in his dim state of mind, slowly recognized her as the very same nurse who had deemed him a "healthy little child" years earlier when he had come down with head pigeons. She was a short, plump woman with light brown hair wound tightly into a bun and a broad smile on her face. She was the sort of person who radiated joy in a robotic, phony sort of way.

A look of mutual recognition touched her face at the sight of him. Her smile widened impossibly further, and she beamed down at him.

Zim shyly stared back up at her, regretting his decision to come to skool more and more with each passing moment.

"Well, I remember you! Back when I was working at the grade skool! You were—"

Zim cut her off with an uncontrollable burst of coughing. He watched her face become bleary and distorted and listened to her words fade out into a worried hum of sympathy, before squeezing his eyes shut in pain. His head swam with vertigo and he barely registered her placing a cool hand on his forehead as he stood, doubled over.

"Oh my!" she remarked.

Zim's eyes widened, and he straightened up again, blinking away dizziness. He thought about saying something, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he just struggled once more against the teacher's grip like a chained animal, eyes fixed on the exit. The last thing he needed was to be under the scrutiny of all these humans.

"This one was caught fighting on skool grounds. He's on his way to the principal's office," the gym teacher said, tightening her hold on Zim's upper arm. He continued to pull, despite the bruises that were inevitably forming on his skin from the force.

The nurse glanced at Zim again, then up at the teacher. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean in closer to her colleague and speak in a low, hushed voice. Beyond the sound of his own rapid heartbeat, he could make out the words fever and skool policy, followed by angry rebuttals from the gym teacher in a slightly louder whisper.

Zim growled and glared hazily at the floor as they argued.

After a couple of moments, the nurse threw her hands up and edged back towards her office, obstinately placing both hands on her hips. "I'm calling his parents."

At the definitive nature of this statement, the other teacher unconsciously loosened her grip on Zim's arm.

Without a second thought, he broke away and made a mad dash for the door, sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. She instinctively lurched after him, but he was gone in a flash, rounding the corner and disappearing out of sight into the crowded hallway.

"Fine! Then let them know he's suspended as well!"

-x-

Zim meandered up the base's gnome-lined pathway and through the door.

In the dark of the front room, he only heard the sound of his own heavy footfalls and the deep, gasping breathes that he drew in and out. The walk home had only exacerbated whatever was wrong with him; at this point, all he could feel was the rawness of his own throat and the dull aching in his lungs.

He was struck once more with the same overwhelming sense of emptiness that he had tried to escape from just a few hours before. Crossing through his dim living room and into the kitchen, he carefully stepped into the trashcan and lowered himself into the laboratory.

Immediately following the final bell at skool, Dib found himself stomping angrily down the sidewalk, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He was at his wit's end. He demanded answers and he was giving Zim one final chance to explain it to him.

Under the guise of giving him the homework he had missed, Dib allowed his resolve to take over. He walked with a determined stride, leaving the sound of dull thuds behind him on the concrete as he walked.

His face was drawn into a tight, formal sort of glower, save for the edge of his bottom lip. The area where Zim's fist had connected caused his mouth to pull down at the corner ever so slightly, the area swollen and protruding. For good measure, it was also tinged with a conglomeration of angry reds and purples that had appeared in just the few short hours since the incident.

Though it had been greatly overshadowed over the course of the day, a very small but very sincere part of Dib was still secretly relieved Zim had returned. If nothing else, because it meant he didn't have to continue harboring the inexplicable feelings of guilt he carried with him since that fateful night when he'd sent the distress call. Purely not knowing what had happened to Zim had haunted him—no, hadn't just haunted him—had tangled itself up in his heart, mingling unrelentingly with hate and sorrow until he'd broken down.

For someone who had devoted his life to stopping, or even killing Zim, Dib had been driven almost to madness by his own anguish. But now? At this very moment, all he had to do was touch his bruised lip to press those emotions back down. He was back to square one.

He couldn't tell if he was compelled by morbid curiosity or by genuine concern. All he could speculate was that Zim was hiding something from him. For the few brief hours he had seen him, everything about Zim, from his appearance to his behavior had raised more questions than they solved. The nurse sending him home for being sick had been the breaking point. Nothing was making sense anymore, and it infuriated Dib to no end.

He marched down Zim's walkway, carefully avoiding the gnomes. Expertly shimmying into their blind spots, he was able to make it to the porch with only a few minor burns from the lasers.

Straightening up so that he stood a little taller, he knocked on the door. He half expected Zim to explode out of his house, ready to finish what he had started on the blacktop, or perhaps blast him into oblivion with some sort of advanced Irken weaponry. After several seconds of waiting, the door remained closed and not a sound came from within the living room.

Dib sighed and knocked again, louder this time and more fervently, until his knuckles started to burn from the force he was putting into it. After yet another moment of unresponsiveness, he rang the doorbell.

"Open up, Zim!"

Nothing.

He shifted to his left and peered in through the window. Through a small crack in the Irken's shades, he could see into the main room. He pressed his face against the glass to get a better view. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, taking all into consideration. The darkness and quiet from within gave off the impression that the house was empty. Not even Zim's little robot, who seemed to harbor an inseparable bond with the couch and television set, was in sight.

"Come on Zim," Dib lamented, his volume wavering slightly, "I have your homework."

At this point, you've missed so much skool, I wonder how you're passing at all, he mused to himself as he glanced down at the stack of papers.

When his last plea got no response still, Dib sighed and sat down on the front patio, facing the street. Setting the mess of homework assignments aside, he stared down the walkway and blankly at the road beyond.

His heart rate began to pick up little by little as he realized what this meant. Zim's obstinacy had sealed his own fate. This was it. The final straw.

Dib was taking matters into his own hands now.

Several hours had passed. The bright, cloudless sky had slowly dimmed, becoming replaced instead by a thin crescent moon and a smattering of stars. The rows of streetlamps lining the street lit up the cul-de-sac outside of Zim's house.

Sense of time had long been lost to him, though. He was hidden in the windowless depths of his laboratory, working on GIR's memory chip even as anxiety simmered away in the back of his mind.

His hand had hardly scabbed over, and his PAK was just as unresponsive as ever. As for his body, he'd been feeling progressively worse as the day wore on. Exhausted and woozy, he sometimes stopped midway through his work on the memory chip as his senses fogged over and a faint giddiness took hold of him.

He still refused to step foot in the charging cell, determined to press on without its aid. Deep down, part of him was worried that it wouldn't make any difference anyhow. And then where would that leave him? He needed a real diagnosis, a real solution. The computer continued to analyze his scans, having broadened the search to ailments native to other planets.

When he had walked into the lab after returning from skool, he'd found himself mechanically going through drawers in search of spare SIR unit parts.

GIR was still sitting on the cold metal table right where Zim had left him, his mouth pulled down in a frown.

Every now and then, Zim's eyes would wander from the little table where he was working on the memory chip and to the other side of the room, sticking on the empty, hollow expression on GIR's face. Each time, without fail, an involuntary shudder would wrack through his body.

At last, he picked up the memory chip and rose heavily from his workstation. His steps made loud echoes in the empty room. Click, clack, click, clack.

He approached the robot peered into his head cavity to inspect the damage once more.

GIR often hoarded random objects in this compartment. He was like a small child, constantly bringing home undesirable odds and ends. And like a parent of sorts, Zim had grown accustomed to sitting him down each night on the couch to disapprovingly go through his storage areas, emptying everything from candy wrappers to dead animals. This ritual had at point been followed by some sort of lecture on Zim's end, but he had eventually ceased his hectoring on the matter, knowing that GIR would merely forget come the next morning.

Thankful GIR's hard drive was still intact, albeit a bit damaged, Zim placed the memory chip in its respective slot and dropped into the seat next to the body.

He tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything. Over the last few days, a cold heaviness had settled in the pit of his belly. His loss of appetite had progressed to the point where even the thought of eating made his spooch churn. He couldn't tell what was from illness and what was from stress anymore.

He sat on the workbench, wilted over his robot, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. He blinked slowly. When he opened his eyes, the room around him blurred around the edges. He rested his chin on the table and closed his eyes again. Within minutes, fatigue overruled, and he fell asleep.

Dib was going to get his answers one way or another. He desired the truth with the same fervor one desires oxygen and he refused to let Zim's stubbornness hinder him. What had happened that night? It was a question he was tired of asking himself.

Zipping up his jacket and cracking his front door open, he felt a familiar exhilaration run through his veins. He had never thought he would feel that excitement again, and something about it made his heart stir with a brew of bittersweetness.

If there was one thing he knew after years of attempting to infiltrate the base, it was that he could not expect to just waltz right through Zim's front door. Of course, the Irken was dim enough that his security system was strongest directly in in from and behind his house. He had neglected the give show the same priorities to the thin strips of lawn that divided Zim's base from the apartment complexes on either side of him. Trial and error had shown Dib that certain blind spots existed on the sides of the house.

He carefully snuck around, his body pressed against the wooden fence that divided the properties. He was on the side of the apartments, out of sight. Quietly, he peeked his head over the edge and squinted in the darkness. Just as he had observed months earlier in one of his notetaking excursions, a vent cover peeked from the exterior wall on the far end. He ducked back down and unzipped his backpack. He opened his laptop sat down with his back against the fence.

Zim's security system was second to none, if only he knew how to utilize it properly. It was easy enough for him, after years of observing and attempting to infiltrate, though, to hack into the computer system. Of course, it was sheer luck alone that Irken Empire just happened to use the same operating system as him.

Dib had never actually made it far enough into his schemes to disable the alarms or scanners that would pick up on his presence. Zim had always gotten to him first, aided by his keen senses and perpetual suspicion of the boy's attempts to break in. If he could just avoid getting caught by Zim, he was home free.

Dib glanced around himself briefly before stuffing his hand into the deep pocket of his trench coat. He pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver and immediately set to work on removing it, still unsure of his next move if and when he infiltrated the base.

Within moments, he had freed the panel, revealing a dark chute. Heaven knew where exactly it would lead him, but Dib was not in the least bit deterred as he bent down on his hands and knees and wriggled his way into the vents.

For a time, he crawled forward in the darkness, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat and seeing only vague clouds of breath as they materialized in front of him in the cold. Not long into his claustrophobic escapade, he began to panic, fearful that he would never find an exit, or worse, that Zim would hear his commotion and find him. Dib had been taken prisoner one too many times in his attempts to break in…

He glanced down at his digital watch, the glow illuminating the metal walls surrounding him. 3:42 a.m. He pressed on, scuttling blindly through the vents and turning corners, until, eventually, he could make out a light up ahead.

As he approached the slotted cover that separated him from whatever room he had stumbled upon, he paused in contemplation.

A paranoid part of him began to wonder why Zim hadn't noticed him yet. Try as he might, he hadn't exactly been the picture of stealth as he navigated his way through the echoing metal vents.

He peeled back the vent cover and peered tentatively into the chamber he had found himself in, immediately searching the area for any sign of Zim. This area, however, appeared to be just as empty as the rest of the house.

The first thing he noticed as his eyes skimmed the room was a computer screen, lit up and flashing some sort of message. With more than a little apprehension, he gingerly climbed out of the vent and lowered himself to the ground, drawn to the monitor like a moth.

Right beside the flashing screen was a huge platform that vaguely resembled an x-ray machine, and adjacent was some other contraption Dib couldn't place.

Standing in front of the monitor, he gawked at the rest of the room, taking it in with unrestrained wonder. While many levels of Zim's base looked almost indistinguishable, this particular area stood out. It seemed to be some alien rendition of an infirmary. Sharp, delicate tools lined the walls and numerous vials dotted the table at the far end. It had an uncanny likeness to a sterile operating room and the eeriness to match.

He turned his attention back to the screen, at the jumble of Irken characters that continued to flash steadily in angry red text. He pulled out his computer again, effectively translating it into English with a few clicks. Dib smirked gleefully as he did so, satisfied with his increased knowledge on Zim's base after years of floundering. He had finally gotten something of a footing in the constant battle to understand Irken technology.

However, his zeal was dampened when the message on the screen didn't become any clearer even after it had been translated.

CONTAMINANT DETECTED: TOXIN J-636.

Dib wrinkled his nose.

What the hell is Toxin J-636?

He tried to piece this together with his very limited knowledge of the predicament, giving up quickly.

Tentatively, he reached his hand out and lightly grazed the touch screen of the computer with his index finger.

Another bout of uneasiness washed over him and found himself glancing every which way again, certain that Zim was just around the corner. After several seconds of silence, however, he returned to his snooping.

Finding a search bar, right above the diagnosis, he slowly typed in TOXIN J-636.

Immediately, a page shot up onto the screen, displaying rows upon rows of text written in Irken. Dib set to ordering a translated version. The screen froze for a moment, then the display promptly flicked to English. Dib adjusted his glasses and read the description the medical database had offered:

The chemical compounds found within J-636 results in irreversible PAK inefficiency, cutting off the host's life support. The resulting cerebral disconnect between the organic brain and PAK leads to inevitable expiration over time.

One of the most notable features of the toxin is its inability to be recognized by Irken Control Brains and medical scanners after death. Seeing that all naturally deceased Irkens eventually expire from a PAK deficiency, it is nearly impossible to rule the J-636 out as a cause of death. This has led to a universal paranoia among the Irken race, for fear that the virus may make an undetected appearance on Irk. Some—

Dib heard a rustling coming from another recess of the lab. His first instinct was to whip around and cross his arms protectively over his face. He half expected to see Zim, eyes ablaze with fury, coming towards him with claws bared, demanding to know how he had managed to infiltrate his base. Or perhaps Zim's little robot, a full arsenal of weaponry bursting from within his head at the sight of him.

Instead, nothing happened. He felt his heart pound in his chest as his eyes scanned the area. He sighed after a moment and mopped the sweat from his brow.

His own fear was getting to him. It was definitely justified, though. In even his most carefully constructed plans to sneak into Zim's base and gather data, he had never once made it this far. Again, he didn't understand how he hadn't detected him yet. Even in the dead of night, he knew full well Zim was awake and active.

Dib hesitantly turned back to the computer. Almost none of it made sense to him, and he found himself clicking on another page that detailed the history of the toxin. Pulling it up, his eyes trailed the rows of sentences that appeared on the screen, his lips quivering as he mouthed the words to himself.

Little is known about the properties of J-636. Engineered by Meekrobian scientists nearly two centuries ago for use in biological warfare, it is the deadliest known toxin to the Irken race. Its existence has led to multiple conflicts and tensions between the two planets, sparking a cold war that has been ongoing for the last one hundred fifty-seven years. The Meekrob have used it as a fear tactic, should Irk break their ties with them and attempt to invade the planet. Multiple rumors have spread on both sides, sparking paranoia regarding both the toxin and a potential invasion. One popular conspiracy theory is that it has managed to fall into Irken hands and is currently being held in a high security biological containment facility, of which only the Almighty Tallest are allowed access.

Dib stopped and allowed himself to process the vast, confusing array of information that had been thrown at him between this article and the last. Part of him was absolutely enamored with the history he was learning about Zim's homeland. Propaganda and wars that humanity was blithely unaware of…perhaps no race, no matter how advanced, was immune to the violent nature that fear of the unknown brings with it.

His mind trailed back to the more critical parts of what he'd read, though, and he felt dread swell up in his chest. Dread for his enemy?

"Since when do you care about the life of Zim?! We hate each other! Remember?"

Swallowing thickly, Dib scrolled down, glossing over another page that detailed more of the cold war between Irk and Meekrob. Not finding what he was looking for, he exited out of it and perused the database further.

Finally, he stumbled upon a document describing an experiment that had taken place on this "Meekrob" planet. He noted that the information was gathered in a reconnaissance mission by an "Invader Tenn". He read through it quickly and tried to ignore the persistent shaking of his hands as he scrutinized what he was painfully aware was a top-secret Irken military document.

In an undisclosed experiment on the planet Meekrob, seven Irken prisoners of war were used as test subjects for the toxin. Each Irken was exposed to varying quantities of the gas to test the effects of it. The month-long experiment concluded that varying quantities could either hasten or prolong the eventual result.

The first group of three POW died within just ten minutes of exposure, the toxin having taken effect almost instantly.

The other group received a diluted form of the gas. These Irkens suffered effects similar to a prolonged PAK deactivation. For approximately three weeks, their biological shells weakened until they suffered eventual paralysis. Eventually, two of the four test subjects slipped into comas before finally succumbing to the lack of life support.

The remaining two died a week before, of typically curable ailments that were unrelated to the experiment. It could also be determined, as a result, that since it manifests itself within both the Irken's PAKS and biological shell, it will also weaken the body and drastically compromise the immune system.

He stepped back for a moment and tried to draw conclusions from this data. One of the few things that became clear was that, somehow Zim had been infected with this toxin, and was now suffering its effects. Dib tried to piece bits of information together like a puzzle, connecting it back to the conspiracy he had listened in on. He began to wonder if there was more on that recording that he hadn't heard.

He had a basic understanding of the importance of an Irken PAK and of the symbiosis that existed between it and the actual body. According to what he was reading, the toxin was causing this connection to falter, instigating a deterioration of Zim's biological shell. In layman's terms, he was deactivating really, really slowly.

He glanced back at the last page desolately, trying to digest it all.

There. You have your information…isn't that all you wanted? Now leave!

He knew the little pest was alive, and at least part of what was wrong with him. Somehow, it didn't settle him in the least.

He could be dying right now…

Dib glowered down at the floor as his headache returned once again with new vigor.

This isn't your concern. Why do you care? Walk away. Now.

He stood there dumbly, eyes taking on a faraway sort of blankness. Instead of walking away, though, he raised his hand towards the screen once again. Hesitantly, he typed another word into the search bar:

DEFECTIVE.

Chapter Text

The Tallest sat back in their chairs, staring at the large computer screen aboard the massive in heavy, stoic silence. They had long since returned to their own leisurely roles of monitoring the progress of Operation Impending Doom II immediately following their return from Conventia. As it was, though, the goings had grown increasingly stagnant in recent time. It gave them an abundance of alone with each other, their thoughts, and their snacks.

Tallest Red shoved a handful of chips in his mouth and glanced around himself at the gargantuan control room. The usual array of technicians and navigators were deep in their respective tasks, headsets in place and tuning out nearly everything around them.

Beside him was Purple, slurping loudly on a soda and stuffing his face with their ever-bountiful supply of foodstuffs straight from the finest vendors on Irk. Everything was reasonably quiet and not unlike it had always been. And yet, a growing uneasiness had been welling within Red for days.

"It was a mistake," he said finally, in a barely audible yet obstinately firm tone.

Purple paused mid-chew and turned to him. His movements gave the indication of nonchalance, but there was just a hint of apprehension there as well. "What was a mistake? The chips? Yeah, we should've gotten the cheese flavored—"

"—No!" Red said a little louder, "I mean we never should have used the toxin to get rid of Zim."

Purple gazed blankly back at him, wordlessly urging him to elaborate.

"Imagine the consequences if it ever got out! If it got back to the rest of the Irken population, or worse, the Control Brains that we were in possession of it!"

Purple shifted a bit where he was sitting. His eyes, perpetually half-lidded, flicked up. "What do you mean? If they knew we were in the middle of a successful invasion of Meekrob and that we'd retrieved that stupid toxin, they would probably hail us as the greatest Irkens to ever live."

"Not if they knew we used it to try and kill one of our own kind against the will of the Control Brains."

"Nobody's going to find out. Besides, no one cares about Zim. I doubt anyone even remembers him anyway…except us. He makes sure of that." Purple flicked his eyes towards the enormous computer monitor that Zim had frequently utilized over the years to send out updates on his "mission".

"That's not the point. The toxin can't be identified by the Control Brains after death."

"So? That was the entire reason we used it. What is your point?"

"It can be identified before death. And that runt is out still there, walking around with it in his system. Imagine what would happen if he were to be examined by a medic, or even if he received a biological scan! That information would go right back out to the Control Brains. And then what? We'd be doomed!" Red's voice, carefully leveled to avoid eavesdropping from their communications team, began to waver in volume.

At this, Purple set down his bag of chips and turned his body so that he was facing his counterpart head-on. "That won't happen, right? That's why we sent that weird-looking soldier…uh…Lerp."

"Larb."

"Yeah, him. He conquered Vort, surely he can take care of Zim before it becomes an issue."

Purple seemed entirely too calm about the matter. Likely, he was trying to convince himself, too, that everything was fine. They had taken preventative measures, and it would eventually sort itself out.

Red tended to be more calculating in his thoughts and actions. They had suffered one too many failed attempts at getting rid of Zim and the pang of dread in his squeedlyspooch was growing increasingly hard to ignore.

Of course, it had backfired! Just like everything else.

"He better," Red muttered bitterly.

-x-

The truth was, both had gotten too hasty in their combined judgement, starting shortly before the standing date of the annual progress convention. Red and Purple had been in this exact room months before, where they spent most of their time aboard the Massive.

They had debated even holding the event, given that Operation Impending Doom II appeared to be coming to a crawling, albeit foreseeable close. Most of the invaders had already conquered their planets, proudly fired the first shot in the Organic Sweep, and had subsequently brought forth further prosperity to the Irken race. Only a few remained, and those who did had been assigned riskier missions, having been placed among highly intelligent and potentially threatening lifeforms.

One of these soldiers was Invader Tenn, who had been assigned Meekrob. She had been well-known among her squadron to possess both stealth and keen intellect in each simulation they placed her in during invader training. She was highly skilled as an invader and had the tenacity to boot. Given the long-standing cold war with Meekrob, it made sense to assign one of their most proficient soldiers with this mission in the hopes that she would deliver. And deliver she did.

Months ago, she sent out a transmission to the Massive. Upon receiving connection with them, she boastfully described her efforts, having done extensive reconnaissance work on both the toxin and top-secret Meekrobian experiments as part of her research on the indigenous life.

It was during this exchange that they had become morbidly intrigued its power as a weapon. And as soon as she, days later, had transported a pilfered canister of it as an offering, Red had turned over the idea in his head, knowing the toxin could vanquish Zim with the Control Brains being none the wiser.

Both failed to see its riskiness through their own pride.

Was it desperation to be rid of Zim for good? An urge to take drastic measures after listening to years of his pathetic schemes and begrudgingly sending him absurd amounts of monies for snacks and lab equipment? It had gotten old quickly.

Even if they had confronted him on the validity of his mission, they both doubted he would be so quick to give up, or to even believe them. Zim only listened to what he wanted to hear. Killing him off for good seemed to be their only option, justified by his obvious status as a defective and refusal to accept his banishment.

At the time, their plan seemed foolproof. As it was, a majority of the invaders had already completed their missions and had been awaiting orders for new assignments. And assign them they did, under the table. Surely their best and brightest soldiers, with nothing better to do, could take care of Zim in a mere night.

If only it had been that easy.

Dib shifted from leg to leg anxiously.

Out of all the things both dreadful and shocking he had heard that night on the recording, the one he remembered most clearly was that word. Defective. And they spoke it so scornfully, refusing to so much as address Zim by name. Only that belittling title.

The computer lagged for a moment as it processed the new request. Then, thousands of pages shot up. Medical records, criminal records, all information sent and recorded by these "Control Brains". The word was tossed around so casually, included in just about every recorded Irken felony. He couldn't even begin to decipher it all.

With a pause of reluctance, he clicked the first one that appeared to give a bona fide medical explanation and began to read.

Any Irken who receives a faulty ID PAK is considered to be defective. These individuals are often emotionally and physically compromised, making them notoriously unpredictable and, therefore, a danger to themselves and others. Deviation from their encoded tasks and military orders are often a primary indication of defectiveness.

While these signs can become increasingly apparent during early adolescence, an official diagnosis can only be made by Irken Control Brains in a court-ordered existence evaluation. The verdict during this trial determines an Irken's future serving the Empire. Those who are found to be defective are immediately stripped of their PAK and deactivated. Infected PAKs are disposed of, along with the information downloaded during the course of the defective's life. These ID PAKs are not to be added to the collective of Irken knowledge, therefore preventing contamination of newborn smeets and lowering the risk of any new generations becoming afflicted.

Those who are defective have no place within Irken society and pose a threat to the Empire as a whole.

Dib stopped reading. He was beginning to understand enough to take a pause for thought.

If everything that had been said about Zim at the progress convention was true, and he wasn't an invader at all, but someone who had earned a title as demeaning as defective… then he must be a joke to his own race. A deluded pariah, unaware of his own exile.

Dib pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose in frustration. He had known this! Known it ever since he had listened in on that conspiracy over a week ago! But…seeing on a database of Irken medical knowledge solidified it. Made it a little more cut-and-dry.

His heart hitched a bit in his chest as he stepped away from the computer. He felt plagued with an onslaught of emotions that sickened him to his core.

Why, exactly, he didn't quite know. Was it anger for his wasted years spent fearing the Irken Empire? For years, he had been convinced that one day Zim would arise with the entire damn armada at his beck and call, hellbent on obliterating the planet.

Or was he unsettled because "Defective Zim" was the only one who ever took him seriously? In return, Dib had always taken him seriously. With every waking moment, though, the veil seemed to lift over his eyes, revealing not a pair of highly skilled mortal enemies but, rather, two paranoid morons constantly at each other's throats. If all he had read were true, then he was as much of a joke as his Irken rival. It was more of a blow to his own ego than anything.

Or…or were his feelings something else entirely? Despite what he wanted to believe, deep down, he felt that it may be something that didn't concern his own pride or the Earth in the very least.

Empathy perhaps? Concern for Zim? In any other circumstance, Dib would have laughed at that notion. Instead, he just looked down at the ground and hugged his middle tightly with both arms.

He felt like he had opened the Pandora's box of Zim's secrets and, in that moment, decided he had had enough.

Looking around, he almost pleading for the Irken to make an appearance, to drive him from this hellhole he had infringed upon. Everything was dead silent. He could feel it pressing down on him with a disconcerting heaviness. It was enough to make anyone go mad with panic, isolated and alone in such a small, confined space.

His eyes fell upon the elevator door.

He was slowly beginning to become more and more convinced that Zim may not be in the base at all. Not to mention, his systems were deactivated…

What should have been relish at the idea of exploring the base instead came to him with almost overwhelming unease.

You'll never get another chance like this.

That's what the little voice inside his head told him, at least. His younger self—or even himself last month—would have been overjoyed at this window of opportunity.

Right now, a very small but very persistent part of Dib wanted nothing more than to run away and never come back.

He didn't, though.

Instead, his legs carried him forward and towards the elevator.

He had to duck slightly in the doorway, as it was more accustomed for someone Zim's height. Inside, the translucent pink glass displayed a view of the snarl of cords and electrical fixtures that adorned Zim's base and kept his endless labyrinth of rooms and laboratories functioning. Dib stared at it all in awe as the elevator rose up.

It came to a smooth halt seconds later and he paused, slightly taken aback. Where exactly was he? Very tentatively, he poked the area above his head, where a sliver of light was peeking through. The flap opened outward, revealing him to be inside the recycling bin in Zim's kitchen.

Fascinated, he swung one leg over the side of it and heaved his body up and out of the bin. Just like everything else, the upper level was eerily quiet, save for the low cadence of whirring technology. Even the enormous television screen, normally blaring some mind-numbing drivel, was turned off.

Treading lightly on the checkered linoleum floor, Dib stopped between the entryway separating the living room from the kitchen. He had been here before and it was admittedly the only part of the base he was reasonably familiar with.

However, as he took in the two rooms, he noticed another little hallway just off the kitchen, tucked nearly out of sight. He approached it warily. It didn't extend very far and ended at a curved, metallic door with a touch-screen panel on one side. He tapped at the screen a few times, but the only response he received back were a few bolded words in Irken jargon and some whirring from the other side of the door. Then, it parted down the middle, revealing it to be a different elevator.

Curiosity prompted him to step inside without a second thought. Just as before on the other elevator, the floor beneath him began to rise without so much as a button-press or verbal command.

The door peeled open again, revealing a large, dark room that consisted mainly of rafters, more cords, and…and Zim's Voot Runner.

Dib's eyes widened. He stepped off the elevator and began wandering down the catwalk towards it.

Peering into the darkened cockpit, he noted the similarities between it and Tak's ship. Both were small, meant for one or two Irken-sized passengers, and contained a large control panel with a variety of buttons and levers.

Looking at it closer, though, more seemed to fall into view. The back of the large pilot's chair was almost completely decimated, as if it had been melted down with hot lava.

He shifted to the side and squinted in the dim light, trying to get a closer look.

The chair wasn't the only thing odd about the inside of the ship. Above the control panel was a tiny hatch, left ajar and with the bottom half of an oxygen mask peeping out. The area around the opening was riddled with claw marks and dried blood, smeared across it in a deep brownish green. It looked like he had been in a struggle, desperate to get to it.

What the fuck happened to him?

Dib was beginning to feel sick to his stomach again.

He wandered around the Voot hangar for a few moments before entering the elevator again. When it didn't lower him down, though, he began to fiddle with the touch screen. The doors closed after a beat, and he felt himself being pulled in the desired direction. However, after several seconds of waiting, he was surprised to still feel it moving downwards instead stopping at the main level.

Eventually, the dull, metallic interior walls disappeared as the platform descended into the subterranean level of the base again, revealing the same translucent glass as in the other elevator.

Like a small child, Dib pressed his hands to the glass and examined each floor he passed. He could see some sort of storage area, littered with half-completed contraptions and blueprints. Another level below that, and he passed through the holo-chamber he had been in after he threw that muffin at Zim's head a few years ago.

Finally, he reached the main laboratory, complete with the enormous computer monitor that accompanied it. Slamming his hand onto the panel, Dib tried to stop the elevator at this floor. He knew this area was important, and that Zim spent more time here than anywhere else. It was here where he researched his invasion tactics, called his leaders, and designed experiments. He had only seen the room a handful of times and the ardent need to investigate it beckoned to him.

As he took his first step off the platform, though, he felt an odd electricity pass through the air and with it, that same jumpiness he had experienced down in the med bay began to rush back to him. It took him a minute to recognize what it was: the visceral feeling he was not alone.

Flicking his eyes back and forth, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary at first. He tried to cast it off as nervousness at being in such an important level in Zim's base. The room was vast and dimly lit, providing no shortage of deep, looming shadows and hidden crevices.

However, when his gaze spread to the far corner of the room, he suddenly felt his breath catch in his throat. He let out some bizarre combination of a shocked gasp and a startled yelp, then stumbled backwards.

Face down, at a long table littered with various tools and apparatuses, was Zim.

Dib stared with wide eyes, cold adrenaline coursing through his body.

A few uneasy seconds came and passed. Zim didn't move.

Unconsciously, Dib felt himself creep nearer to him until he was standing a mere few inches away.

Up close, Zim looked far worse than when the two were at skool only a day earlier. His green skin looked washed out and had taken on a sickly-looking yellowish tinge. He looked like he was being smothered in the thick material of his uniform, causing beads of sweat to form on his half-hidden face. A weak, barely audible whistle of breath in his throat in the quiet room was the sole indication that he was, indeed, alive.

Dib had no idea Irkens slept. Somehow, he wasn't surprised, though. Anything Zim had told him negating this held next to zero credibility.

In front of Zim, just inches from his head, was the empty, dead shell of his little robot.

Seriously, what the hell happened? Dib heard himself thinking for the billionth time, staring at GIR's motionless body.

On an impulse, he reached forwards towards the Irken, as if to confirm he was even real. The feeling was likened to walking in on a wild animal in the midst of slumber. Dib was filled with both fear and insatiable curiosity.

Zim's left antenna began to twitch slightly.

Dib froze where he was standing, hand still partially extended outwards.

Zim stirred, then sluggishly opened one eye. He blinked, turning his gaze upwards towards Dib in a drowsy sort of stupor.

At once, his eyes flew open. Zim let out a raspy, almost animalistic shriek and bolted upright at the table, tipping over the stool he had been sitting on. Then, panicking, he fought to scramble over some mechanical lab equipment that had been on the ground beside him. He stumbled and tripped over it in his desperate haste.

"Zim, wait! I—"

Zim's PAK legs exploded out of his back and clung to the tubes above him on the ceiling.

Dib staggered backwards in quick, erratic motions. He continued to back away, eyes pinned on him with equal intensity.

Retreating to the corner of his lab, Zim eyed him in fear, antennae standing ramrod-straight atop his head. His PAK legs jerkily unhooked from the rafters and found their way to the floor, leaving his body still raised up.

The distance closed between Dib's back and the wall behind him. "I-I just wanted—"

"—Leave me alone!" Zim's labored breathing picked up and he started to shake. The thin PAK legs swayed unsteadily, rocking his shivering body along with them. All it took was him breaking out into another coughing fit, and the joints bent inwards and collapsed from under him. He crashed unceremoniously to the floor, amidst a tumbling cluster of metal struts.

Dib cautiously took a step towards him, caught in a daze and ignoring Zim's bared teeth and deep, guttural snarls.

The Irken tried to get to his feet, but gravity seemed to elude him. At the same time, he was desperately attempting to retract the limbs into his PAK, but they remained motionless on the floor, sprawled behind him in a heap.

Somewhere in Dib's mind, just like when he realized he had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to snoop around the base, it dawned on him that he had the same opportunity to expose Zim. He would never get another chance like this. In ill health and rendered defenseless, Zim was easily overpowered. It was the moment Dib had dreamed of relentlessly since the day the two had been acquainted.

Even so, apprehension took hold of him even as he reached out again towards Zim, as if to pick him up.

Zim let out a high squeal and clambered unsteadily to his feet. He scrambled away, beelining for the elevator in a bid to escape up to the house.

Dib followed in hot pursuit, clearing the distance of the little space easily. His first instinct was to grab hold of one PAK leg trailing on the floor within reach.

Zim was yanked back, feet flying out from under him. He let out a strangle cry, his arms flailed briefly, and then he collided with the floor PAK-first. The clang of the contraption reverberated in harmony with the dull smack of his head against the rough floor.

For a moment, Zim lay still. His aching head swam with terror and new, overpowering exhaustion, as if he were fading in and out of reality. Then, Dib's face appeared overhead, and he felt him crudely dragging him away by the very same PAK leg.

"Nooo! No! Nooo!" Zim screeched. He kicked and thrashed about as he was dragged across his cold floor. The dull, throbbing pain in his head was unbearable. A carousel of emotions began to flood his sickly, feverish body as he processed his situation.

He never thought he would allow himself to stoop so low. But now? He was so tired. So weak. His other three PAK legs flared out behind him across the floor, uselessly tangled together and making scratchy, metallic noises as they, too, were dragged along with the rest of him.

Surely, Dib was off to carry out his vows. Whether to dissect him, interrogate him about the Empire, expose him to any number of filthy humans, or some sick combination of all three, Zim did not know. His intentions had never been entirely clear.

Dib continued to pull him across the floor, pausing slightly when Zim ceased his screaming in exchange for a pitiful mewling. Gradually, his struggling subsided and Zim began to shake violently, caught in a sorry state of crippling fear and illness. He shuddered, whining and squeezing his eyes shut in shame. What a dishonorable way to die, sniveling like a smeet at the hands of the enemy…

"Please, Dib…" he said at last.

Dib's heavy boots stopped staunchly midstride. What felt like an eternity passed in complete and utter silence, save for the terrified sobs that continued to escape from Zim's lips.

Then, silently, Dib knelt down beside him, wearing an odd expression on his face. He said something, but Zim couldn't hear beyond the deafening thrashing of his own heart.

Zim began to see black spots cloud his already warbled vision. The stress had finally taken its toll on him. Overworked and utterly distraught, his body began to heave. The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the look of repugnance on Dib's face as he unleashed a torrent of vomit over his black trench coat.

The tiny broken fragment of his mind that hadn't yet disassociated itself from the rest of the world screamed out from beyond as he was sucked into nothingness, trying desperately to alert him of the danger. It grasped at him, still pleading from beyond as he slipped away.

It was then that his unconscious mind picked up where his conscious one had left off. Demented visioned roiled through his brain. Flashes of scalpels and other such instruments, organs that should never see the light of day, Dib's sadistic face as he chopped the alien into bits…

Zim awoke in horror, expecting to find himself on an autopsy table. Taking in sharp, uneven little breaths, he watched as his surroundings lazily sharpened into focus, revealing it to be not a dark operating theater, but his own living room. Zim, himself, was wrapped in clean blankets and propped up on the large, pink loveseat.

His heartbeat slowed slightly at the warm familiarity. That same oppressive fatigue he had felt for weeks begin to wash over him again. He began to wonder if he had dreamed the entire debacle.

And yet… something in the ambiance of the room seemed off. He huddled in his blankets as his senses slowly trickled back to him. His antennae flicked upwards at the sounds of shuffling in his kitchen. Clinking plates and mugs from his cupboard. Then, with utmost caution and timidity, a tall, lanky figure appeared in the doorway.

Dib sat down beside him and silently handed him a cup of cold water, condensation already beginning to form on the outside of the glass. Zim looked at it distastefully, making no move to take it from him.

After a moment, Dib's muscles twitched, and he awkwardly set it carefully on the floor beside him. Zim glanced at him suspiciously, but the boy looked more frustrated than maniacal. He was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular and he wasn't wearing his jacket. His bare arms were scrawny and pale.

Something about this sight prompted Zim to look down at himself, and he was both shocked and disturbed to find he was no longer wearing his tunic. His black leggings remained as he left them, but from the waist up, he was dressed in only the mauve undershirt that he typically wore beneath his uniform. He peered into the kitchen and caught sight of these items. They were balled up in the corner, coated in a vile, puce colored substance. He winced and pulled his antennae back so that they were pinned against his head.

With a pang of deep revulsion, Dib's doings settled into his mind. The human had somehow infiltrated his base, tampered with God knows what, dragged him from his very own lab, undressed him, and was now sitting expectantly beside him with that stupid, stupid look on his face.

Instead of relief, or even inquisitiveness as to why Dib didn't just steal him away to perform all his experiments, Zim only felt bubbling ire. He glared balefully at the human.

Dib frowned and averted his own eyes, magnetized against his glasses. "What happened, Zim?" he asked at last.

Never before had Dib's voice sounded so somber and rough. In that moment, he sounded more like grown man than a young child. His tone had taken on a firmness that wasn't there before. He was not merely asking Zim what had happened; he was demanding he tell him.

Instead of answering, though, Zim just continued to glower at him. "Get out of my base," he growled, his already half-lidded eyes narrowing even further.

The two stared at each other for a moment, then Zim started to break into another violent fit of coughing. His chest rose awkwardly with jagged, troubled breathes. He gulped down air between each lapse and his eyes began to water again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was reminded that Dib had seen him cry mere moments before. The thought filled him with fresh anger.

Dib silently leaned over and retrieved the cup that he had set on the floor.

"Drink this, Zim. It won't hurt you. I promise."

Zim glared at the glass in disgust. He hissed and swiped feebly at it. "Lies! Do you take me for a fool, human? I can't drink that!"

Dib looked down at it, his swollen lip tugging down further in a deep frown. His brow furrowed. "Geez, get over yourself, Zim. I understand enough about your race at this point to know what you can and can't do. I boiled it first; it's perfectly clean."

Zim stammered for a moment. "T-then you've poisoned it! I-I know you have!" He closed his eyes and rasped out another deluge of pained coughing. "And I already warned you; get out! Now!"

Dib lowered his eyes to the floor for a moment, exasperated. Then, he lifted his head, and a familiar expression graced his features; one Zim had seen many a time when he was ensnared in one of his traps or injured in their countless battles. His amber eyes narrowed, and his brows arched over them in an expression of utter helplessness, giving him the look of a young, fearful child.

It used to fill Zim with exhilaration when Dib would pull that expression; it meant that he was out of options. These days, though, that small and scared look seemed to appear for no reason at all. It was disturbing how that part of Dib and the older, more adult part of him seemed to flip on and off like a light switch.

For only a brief moment, he held it. Then, to Zim's astonishment, he stood up. Rising up on his two long legs, he strode stiffly towards the door.

Dib swallowed and pursed his lips slightly. A single hand rose to push his glasses further up his nose. The tiny voice inside his head beckoned to him once again, arising for the first time since he had been down in Zim's medical bay. It begged for release from the confliction, the fear, and the God forsaken pity he felt.

Walk away. Now. Without looking back, Dib stiffly opened the door and departed, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.

This isn't your concern…

Chapter Text

Zim sat frozen in his mass of blankets for an untold period of time after watching the door slam behind Dib, his eyes wide and vapid with shock. Moments slipped away from him as his heart battered against his chest and his bare feet curled beneath the covers.

A patch of sunshine gleamed lazily on the floor before him from the window, and the living room dimmed and brightened continuously as clouds drifted overhead, repeatedly passing over the bright rays outside.

Finally, Zim blinked and looked around. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? The blood pounded through his head as he searched the area for anything amiss. Any threats that he could add to his growing list.

Nothing in the base had been disturbed, at least that he could see. He stretched his neck a bit and meekly peered out the window, but there was no sign of the police or FBI. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. He watched the ugly neighbors from next door walk by outside, chatting in muted voices as they ambled up the sidewalk.

The only sign that Dib had even set foot in the base was the glass of water at his feet and the balled-up clothing in the kitchen, covered in Zim's own sweat and vomit. His tunic, gloves, and boots were wrapped with Dib's trench coat, abandoned by him in his haste to leave.

"C-computer," he squeaked finally, his voice hardly audible.

A jolt of adrenaline ran through him when he got no response. He was surrounded only by the unnerving stillness of his base in the wake of his command. The ever-present whirring of electricity was the only noise, and even that had taken on a somewhat disturbing cadence.

"Computer?" he asked again, a little louder this time.

Once more, he was met with jarring silence. The computer was offline, giving him absolutely no insight into his base's operations. As the gravity of this hit Zim, he started to tremble and cower into his blankets.

The Dib! He did this! Who knew what else had he meddled with?

He was hyperventilating. His head throbbed and his spooch ached and churned mercilessly. He worried he was going to be sick again. Ragged breaths turned to desperate pants as he heaved himself from the couch and stumbled unsteadily into the kitchen. He needed to get to the lab; needed to know if the human had done anything that could potentially compromise the mission.

On his way, though, Zim felt a tug of resistance from his back. Turning his head slightly, he gasped at the sight of all four of his PAK legs piled behind him on the couch, limp and tangled together at their joints.

He stared at them for several seconds, mouth agape. Then, dropping to his knees, he held one in his gloveless hands, shivering and whimpering softly.

Knowing what would happen, but still attempting anyway, he tried to summon them back into his PAK. A weak humming reverberated in his antennae from behind him as the device on his back tried in vain to comply.

Zim swallowed thickly.

Pushing his communicator back into his PAK was one thing, but his PAK legs were an entirely different predicament. Extending over ten feet in the air when fully exposed, they were long and intricate in design, requiring elaborate folding and placement in their designated compartment. The PAK was designed to do this automatically. Trying to fix them manually may as well be likened jamming the twisted, knotted tape of a videocassette back into its rightful place with no tools or aids.

Dolefully releasing his hold on the single PAK leg, Zim scooped the entire snarled mess into his shaking hands with a desolate air as he heaved himself to his feet again and made his way towards the toilet. Once in, Zim hugged the lot close to his chest and stared straight ahead with that same vacant stare as he was lowered down into his lab.

He still felt weak and feverish, sweat forming on his pale skin and running down his temples. To his dismay, after a mere few seconds, he had to sit down inside the elevator, fearful that his own legs would give out beneath him.

He was an invader. He was Zim. Top of his squadron in training, the best of the best in each simulation, a true force to be reckoned with…

A vortex of overwhelming perplexity had terrorized his psyche for weeks, threating to swallowed him whole with every new addition it threw at him. Schemes against him; attacks out of nowhere, plots that even his worst enemy, the filthy Dib creature, was apparently in on. His PAK. His body.

Zim was frightened. So very frightened.

Dropping the bundle of PAK legs, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins. He felt like a sallow husk of himself, curled on the floor of his elevator while the wires and cords passed him by through the translucent glass.

Even once it came to a stop, he didn't budge, preferring to stay curled into a tight fetal position, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could block out the entire world.

After a couple moments spent taking deep breaths, he slowly opened them and stared ahead at his lab. He totteringly rose to his feet and made his way to the chair that faced the oversized monitor, letting the useless PAK legs trail behind him like the train of some extravagant wedding gown.

Collapsing into his seat, Zim stared at the screen through bleary eyes and tried to navigate his way through the computer's settings. Before he could do anything else, be it more scans in the medical bay or repairs on GIR, he needed to bring the vocal interface back online.

As he had suspected, it had been overridden by an outside force. Once again, the very thought of Dib infiltrating his base, his only pocket of security in the entire galaxy, caused Zim's breathing to hitch compulsorily as he reinstated the computer's former operative functions.

At last, clearing his throat, he spoke into the darkness once more. "Computer."

Clear as day, it responded, giving Zim just a hint of familiarity. It was a voice to speak to, and that knowledge alone ignited a tiny spark of relief.

He paused for a moment, bringing a hand to his throat, before stating his first of many orders.

"Scan the entire base and surrounding areas. R-report any"—He stopped to breathe, trying to hold back another fit of coughing—"any security breaches."

The computer was silent for several seconds. Then, "Foreign clothing item located in the top level. Traces of human fingerprints matching DNA of Dib Membrane identified throughout the base."

Just as he had suspected. Drawing his body tightly into the chair, Zim's antennae dipped over his head and he closed his eyes.

Without opening them again, he spoke. "What is the status on GIR?" He couldn't remember how far along he had gotten in his repairs before this new debacle had transpired.

"SIR unit is now fully functional and only requires rebooting. Enable remotely?"

"Proceed." Zim glanced across the room at him. He was still lying across the table, completely untouched and peacefully still.

Shakily climbing out of his chair and approaching him, Zim gazed down at his face somberly.

After a moment, a flicker of light danced across GIR's dead eyes, and then, at once, they lit up fully to their usual, warm cyan. He sat up, eyes searching the room until they eventually locked onto Zim with utmost attention. He remained speechless, simply gaping outwardly at the Irken.

"GIR?"

He continued to stare, the newly lit parts of his body glowing softly in the dark of the lab.

"GIR, I order you to respond to your master!" Zim rasped. His typically boisterous voice was nothing more than a ghost of what it had been, though he strained his airways with the sheer force and irritation the words carried.

Finally, GIR spoke. "You're not Master…"

An odd expression crossed Zim's face, some strange glint of unease, mingled with slight annoyance. "Did that accident scramble your hard drive? Of course, I am."

Again, his tone was reduced to nothing more than a hoarse croak and he broke into spluttering coughs almost immediately after speaking, leaning on the side of the worktable for support. GIR only watched coyly as he gasped for air.

Zim was suddenly very aware that he was still wearing nothing but his underclothes, and that sweat was pooling beneath his arms and along his collarbones. The way he carried himself, too, typically so full of blustering pride and militaristic rigidness, had been shrouded entirely by the state he'd found himself in.

He could feel his airways closing up and dark spots begin to fog his vision as it continued on. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed the fit to wrack his body, turning his attention away from GIR.

It was just as well, for the robot was slowly beginning to withdraw from him, registering nothing but mystification. His eyes never left Zim, gawking at him with deep intensity while he tried to understand the situation with his crudely constructed sense of logic.

Zim coughed and coughed, swallowing great gulps of air with each tiny break between fits. Somewhere in the back of his cloudy mind, he could hear tiny, metallic footsteps fading away to another level of his house and when he opened his eyes moments later, he realized GIR was gone. Once more, he was alone.

He opened his mouth to yell his name, but at that moment, another fit began with new vigor. He bent over, holding his knees and feeling the ache in his chest flare up anew. This time, it seemed to come from deep inside, past his lungs and into his gut, and the coughs dissolved into gagging. Zim's eyes went wide as he swallowed slowly and deliberately, trying to hold back vomit.

He staved it off for only a few seconds before the cycle returned, and with it, the urgency for something—anything—to be sick into. He was vaguely aware of a single robotic arm from up above lowering a small trash bin in front of him. He clutched it to his chest. The sounds of retching echoed throughout the lab before tapering off into hoarse groans. What he brought up was nothing more than colorless bile that burned his throat and left him with his eyes watering in the corners.

He needed to get to the medical bay. Now. Maybe the computer had discovered something new, something that could help him. Either way, he could wait no longer. Each passing day had been steadily worse than the last.

Staggering to his feet and moving slowly to the same elevator that GIR had vanished into just seconds before, Zim began speaking to his computer again.

"Computer. Take me to the"—He took a breath and leaned against the wall, begrudgingly pulling in his PAK legs—"To the medical bay."

After a beat, the elevator began to move and Zim continued to speak. "What did the Dib do? Did he plant monitoring devices again? Or…or set traps?" He began to let his mind run wild and had to force himself to stop and take deep breaths for the umpteenth time.

"Scan detected no further impairment to the base. All he did was disable the voice interface and security system." The computer said the last part in an uncharacteristically gentle tone, as if trying to get Zim to relax.

His shoulders slackened slightly at this information. Then, he glanced down at his rumpled undershirt.

"Computer. Clean my uniform at once."

The computer's voice came back overhead almost immediately following these orders. "And the trench coat?"

"Incinerate it."

The elevator came to a smooth stop and Zim exited and headed directly towards the scanner platform. But before he could make any further orders, he heard the elevator's gears crank again and then a clanging of metallic feet as they scurried across the floor.

Slowly, Zim turned around.

There in the shadows stood GIR, holding something in both his little hands. He walked over to the Irken, who was taking deep, weary breaths.

"You aren't Master," he said again, simply.

Between his wheezing, Zim growled softly. "Yes, I am."

GIR looked from Zim to the object in his hands and back again.

"Master looks like this," he said finally, holding it up and offering it to him.

It took Zim a moment to recognize what it was. There, before him, was the picture of him and GIR in their disguises standing stolidly before a heart backdrop. It had been used as a prop long ago, meant to emulate a "normal human practice of sentimentality".

Zim snatched the photo frame away from the robot. "Have you gone mad? That is me."

But he self-consciously touched his face and could almost feel the gauntness around his eye sockets and the dark bags that had gathered at the bottoms. He looked nothing like the Zim in the photo.

GIR still looked confused. Taking the photo from his hands, he stood off to the side and allowed Zim to brush past him and towards the raised platform.

Glancing from the patient, mildly disinterested expression Zim wore in the picture and back to the real flesh and blood Irken, GIR quietly slunk away into the shadows again. Not even a moment later, a door slam reverberated throughout the medical bay. This time, though, Zim hardly noticed his absence.

"Computer, run another biological scan."

He made his way to the center, spreading his arms and legs slightly as he waited for the scanners to pass over him.

The computer, having already deducted the cause of his illness, paused briefly before ultimately obeying its given commands. It had no choice. Red light bathed Zim in its glow, trailing his body once more and going so far as to pass over the PAK legs that flared out behind him. He held still the entire time, staring stoically ahead.

Finally, the computer's voice spoke, simply regurgitating the information it had already known for the past twenty-four hours. "Diagnosis complete. Infection is result of exposure to Toxin J-636. Prognosis: fatality."

Zim heard the word and looked at the screen as if in a dream. What?

He had heard of this toxin before, though it had been years since he had followed any news on his home planet. It had grown in infamy as the Meekrobian scare tactic that had sparked a cold war between themselves and Irk for over a century. It was supposedly unlike any other weapon and the resulting ailment was said to cause any Irken afflicted to suffer painful, inevitable deaths from the lack of viable life support.

His utter disbelief presented itself into something most aptly described as irritation, convinced the computer was playing some sort of sick joke on him. How on Irk could that be possible? It was simply implausible. In fact, like many Irken citizens who had been spoon-fed their race's propaganda over the years, he had been inclined to believe the toxin was nothing more than a myth.

His eyes narrowed shrewdly. "What is this? I would be in my right mind to disable you for trying to deceive Zim!" He pointed a finger symbolically in front of him, angled slightly towards the ceiling.

The computer's deep voice echoed again through the base, repeating what it had already said. "Toxin J-636 present within biological shell. Rest in manual charging cell heavily recommended."

The words, though spoken in a flat monotone, sent a jolt of anxiety through Zim's chest before simmering to fiery anger. He felt it bubble inside him, clouding his judgement.

Sometimes it was this anger alone that acted as a defense mechanism between Zim and reality. Denial that created a buffer between him and an unpleasant truth. This time, though, it was a futile attempt to turn a blind eye to something so ineluctable.

"I demand you tell me—"

He was cut off by the lowering of the main monitor screen, displaying the information just inches from his face. The computer offered no words this time, instead allowing the report to speak for itself. There before him was the scan of his body, blood work, and the official diagnosis, ordered to be sent to the Control Brains per protocol. It was irrefutable proof—the cause of his condition. Simply undeniable.

Zim's arm dropped to his side in an instant. As he took in the sight, a sort of glazed opacity formed over his eyes, as if he had entered another dimension.

He couldn't even begin to make sense of the information before him. So farfetched and absurd were the words on the screen, written right below the insignia standard for all Irken medical evaluations, marking it as an official document.

For a moment, all he could do was gape. Blood rushed through his body too fast, far too fast.

Before panic could claim him fully, that intense, sinking sensation of oblivion began to return instead, offering a numbness in its place. It cast a haze over Zim's brain, and when he blinked, his was vision heavily obscured by dark spots. He began to sway back and forth on his feet, air whistling faintly through his airway with each feeble breath. Then, his eyes rolled back into his head and both shaking knees buckled from beneath him.

What a tedious little thing, this feeling. So familiar and predictable, yet he was never any more prepared for it. It dove for him with aching force, pulling him in deeper waters and smothering him with its dark chokehold.

Zim crumpled to the ground in a heap, dead PAK legs spread like entrails around his body.

Three streets away, over on Haverford Lane, Dib sat at his desk, trying to do his biology homework. He would stare intently at his page of sloppy, lackluster bullet points in his notebook for several minutes until his eyes glazed over and his mind began to wander back to Zim. Then, he would snap out of his trance and pace around the room before sitting back down and trying in vain to study once more. A few moments later, and he would be back where he started, staring blankly down at his desk again, seeing nothing but feeling everything.

This cycle went on several times and finally, Dib scowled and shoved his skoolbooks and notes off his desk a bit too vehemently, giving up on studying. In doing so, he also knocked over several other paranormal gadgets that had been sitting on his desk as well.

Zim was a mystery wrapped in an enigma as far as he was concerned. One moment he would spew empty threats and lies and the next, he was on the floor begging for mercy. And Dib had an innate impulse to possess goodwill, despite its typically veiled existence. It was only human of him and he despised it.

It had taken standing dumbly in Zim's living room, listening to Zim's predictable slew of vitriol, for him to make his decision to ignore that feeling. To push it back even further into his subconscious. He would not waste his time helping someone who did not want to be helped. He would not put himself through the emotional stresses of worrying about the morality of the situation. It was simple self-preservation. Whatever would happen was left purely to fate and Dib wanted no part of it.

He sighed and bent down under his desk to pick up his fallen belongings. In doing so, something caught his eye. It was the glowing red button on the side of his laptop, which had been buried underneath a pile of clothes under his nightstand. He remembered at once that he had recorded the entire conversation between the other Irkens who had been hellbent on ending Zim's life.

Huh.

Something hit his windowpane. Dib jumped with a start, turning towards the source of the noise. It came again. It sounded like a little piece of shrapnel, or perhaps a rock, banging against the glass repeatedly.

Guardedly, he rose from his seat. He walked over and opened the window tentatively, peering out into the darkness. Outside was a deep, starless black and he couldn't see anything from beyond the murky curtain of night sky.

Suddenly, a figure barreled through it and into the room, crashing into the wastebasket beneath the desk.

Dib gasped and reeled backwards, slamming the window closed in the process. He lurched towards his bed, snatched a screwdriver that was lying beneath his pillow, and held it out in front of him in defense.

The figure stood up and turned to him, eyes lighting up the room.

Recognition slowly began to flood Dib's body and his alarm was quickly replaced with little more than vague annoyance.

It was that little silver robot; the one that hung around with Zim all the time. Evidently, it had been fixed in the time between Dib's departure from the base and now.

"You have to help him! He don't look good at all!"

Dropping the screwdriver on the carpet beside him and placing both hands on his hips, Dib quirked an eyebrow and scrutinized him. "What?"

"Master! He's in a bad way! I think he needs help!"

Dib stared at GIR incredulously, trying to make sense of the situation. He stammered for a moment before finding his words. "I-I don't give a damn! Absolutely not! I'm done 'helping' him."

He couldn't believe that anything quite so dense and ignorant could possibly be the creation of a supposedly advanced alien race. Dropping his shoulders, he shook his head with two parts umbrage and one part twisted bemusement.

GIR barely paused, his screechy little voice transforming into a childlike plea. "But why not? You two are friends! You even got him a birthday present!"

"…Huh?" Dib just crinkled his brow in confusion as GIR stared at him expectantly. Then, somewhere in the recesses of his brain, buried behind the strange happenings of the last month, he remembered.

Oh, right. The recording device.

That particular stunt felt like it had occurred ages ago. Dib had felt like a different person then. In fact, the entirety of his life had felt different. Like some sort of tedious little story, or perhaps a deranged cartoon. He and Zim had spent their lives going around in circles, repeating their quarrels and arguments, seemingly destined by some unseen force. There was some sort of sick humor to be found in the situation, he supposed. His demons wouldn't leave him alone. They manifested themselves in so many ways, through thoughts and feelings and now this—standing in his room with his rival's henchman, who may as well be a mentally deficient, perpetual child.

GIR stared back, innocent perplexity plain on his face. He looked to be waiting for Dib to respond.

He didn't. Instead, Dib just stiffly turning back towards the window and wordlessly gestured for the newest source of his frustration to make his grand exit back through it.

GIR made no move to leave, though, casting pleading eyes towards Dib, boring them into his soul.

He glowered at him with as much hatred as he could muster, but the robot seemed blind to it.

They continued like this, arranged into something of an immature standoff until, finally, Dib's expression softened faintly, and he sat down at the head of his bed. He tucked one leg beneath him and let the other dangle over the side.

GIR followed suit like an obedient child, clambering up the bed and taking a seat across from him. His little legs were spread out in front of him, and his large eyes gleamed brightly in the darkness of the room. The light was somewhat coruscant, basking over the both of them in a soft, almost mesmerizing wave of cyan.

Dib stared at him awkwardly for a moment, then sighed. "Look…GIR…I'm not helping Zim. I don't want to help him. And trust me, he doesn't want my help either."

He was trying to break it down as simply as he could with as few words as possible. It didn't help when he, himself, could barely fathom the dilemma at hand, nor his true feelings on the matter. But GIR just continued to sit there and look at him expectantly, mouth pulled down slightly at the corners in a tiny frown.

Dib sighed again, growing irritation welling from within him. "There's nothing I can do. I think it's best if I just let whatever happens happen. In fact, I don't know why I cared so much in the first place. I'm sorry I ever did."

He began to feel anger rise up again. It built anew, threatening to overflow. Shooting up from his bed again, Dib began to pace in the little circle of space in the middle of his room. GIR's presence faded to a minute detail, just another feature in his crowded, messy bedroom.

"What the hell is wrong with me? Zim's too stubborn to accept my help even if I wanted to. It's not my responsibility! None of this is! I never should have broken into his base to find out what was wrong with him. I should have known it couldn't possibly end well…" His raised voice had an air of desperation to it. He trailed off, pressing both hands to his temples and turned away.

"…I never should have sent that transmission from Tak's ship. "

He squeezed his eyes shut in agony before whipping around to face GIR again, who hadn't moved an inch. The robot just sat on the end of the bed, eyes stuck on Dib as he continued to pace around with his first balled tightly as if in preparation to punch something.

"Besides, why should I help him? Do you really think he would do the same for me? Zim doesn't care about anyone but himself. All he's ever done is make my life harder! If he knew what I had done for him already, it wouldn't change anything. Because I tried! I tried to help him. Multiple times! So, it's not my fault if he ends up dying because of his own stupidity! In fact, it's long overdue if you ask me!"

Dib waited until his breathing evened out before finally cracking open an eye to look at GIR again. When he spoke this time, it was in a lower, more collected voice.

"Zim made his decision. And I made mine. There. That's why. Now get out of here."

The blank eyes that stared back at him made it impossible to decipher his true reaction. Finally, after an achingly long amount of time, GIR opened his mouth. "But…why?"

Dib growled under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb before finally exploding outward in a fit of rage. "I just told you why! Now go back to wherever you came from!"

Abruptly, he stalked over to his bed again and threw open the window, gesturing dramatically with both his hands this time. He was done with this conversation. More than anything, he just wanted to be left alone.

GIR barely flinched at his outburst, so used to similar incidents with his master. He did, however, begin to tear up and snivel quietly on his end of the bed, making no move to leave.

Several seconds passed by and Dib slowly dropped his arms and began to slouch where he was standing. He cocked his head and stared down at the tiny thing as it cried, though his face, made of stone and malice, didn't falter this time.

Silently, GIR stood up and began to climb to the windowsill. He paused and turned to him again, looking hopelessly forlorn. "B-but, he needs you…"

Dib only stared back at him, his mouth a thin line. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, without another word, GIR hung his head and activated his jets. Just as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, careening out into the night and disappearing down the street in a blur of gray and luminous turquoise.

Dib stiffened, eyes wide with shock at the unexpected action. The blast from GIR's thrusters had left his eyebrows singed and hair blown wildly against the top of his head.

After he vanished, Dib sat down at the edge of his bed again and rubbed his temples. Several moments passed in the dark of the house. The silence was so heavy, only the faint ticking of the clock in the foyer could be heard. The glow from his computer screen flickered out as the machine went into hibernation mode.

He flopped backwards on the mattress. For a time, all he did was glower at the poster above him on the ceiling. All those stars and planets printed on cheap, glossy paper.

Avoiding the situation altogether was all he felt he could do. And even so, even when he tried to repress it all, it still came back for him, not even a solid day later. This time in the form of Zim's absolute dolt of a robot.

Even demoting his concern down to a word like pity was unacceptable. Even the lowest form of sympathy was far too out of place to be felt towards someone like Zim. He detested feeling anything but hatred towards him.

Zim was still a threat to humanity. He was evil incarnate, as far as Dib had been concerned. He possessed absolutely no benevolence of any kind. From the time he had arrived on Earth, Zim had destroyed the town several times over, captured humans to use as test subjects, and had been responsible for quite a few of Dib's scars. Both physical and emotional. Absolutely nothing could justify even a feeling as degrading as pity.

And yet, as much as he loathed himself for it, he could not pretend that everything he felt wasn't in earnest. He had unwittingly peeled back the truth about Zim and his entire livelihood. Zim had failed miserably at being respected amongst humanity, yet he seemed to struggle just as much, if not more, amongst his own race. His very existence, it seemed, was riddled with failure after failure.

And seeing him in the flesh almost immediately afterwards had only reaffirmed Dib's wavering fortifications of obstinate hatred. From Zim's pleas to his sickly appearance, he couldn't possibly see him in his former light. It had possessed him to cease his opportunistic plan of exposing the alien. Not only that, but it had also compelled him to carry Zim back upstairs, clean him of his own mess, and wrap his shivering body with blankets. Of course, though, the moment Zim came to again, it was back to unaltered hostility in the blink of an eye.

Dib's thoughts began to flitter, fueled by sleep-deprived inebriation. He remembered back to before. Not very long had passed had passed since he had been under the assumption he had lost Zim for good. Even more than the sorrow of loss, Dib had felt guilt towards it. As if it were his fault that he didn't do more.

He remembered sinking to the floor in the dirty skool bathroom, allowing emotions he never knew he possessed for Zim to reveal themselves.

Maybe his guilt from before had been baseless. There had been nothing more he could have done from his hunched little seat in the dim cockpit of Tak's ship that night. It was not his fault.

This time, though, if Zim perished, it would be.

If he walked away, having turned his back on him and rebuffed GIR's pleas, guilt would be his deserved burden.

Dib began to feel something stir within him. So very familiar and dreadful, and yet he could not put a name to it. It possessed him to arise from his bed and head to his closet in a daze. Before he knew it, he was wrapped snugly in a black coat and marching out of his dark house.

Indignantly, Dib paraded onward through the empty streets and fluttering snowflakes, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. His breath became visible in the chilled air, but no amount of cold could shake him from his stupor. Each step was mechanical, every sense numb. At that moment, though, somewhere through the internal fog he had fallen into, Dib was certain of one thing only: that he had truly gone as crazy as the whole world had claimed.

Deep within the catacombs of his base, Zim continued to fade in and out of consciousness, caught in ceaseless tidal waves of dim light that then lapsed back in encroaching darkness.

Every fleeting thought triggered a fresh skip in his heartbeat, every passing shadow aroused another croupy gasp that caught in his throat. Sometimes, in a burst of perception, he would try to speak or pull himself up. But his voice had all but vanished and he could only make his way to his knees before it became too much for him.

All the while, he manifested every imaginable threat before him in a terrifying dreamscape of combined anxiety and shadowy fever dreams. The entirety of the last month marched through his brain, as if he were subconsciously trying to decipher what had ascended to plague him with this curse.

Preparing for the progress convention. Flying to Conventia. Being mocked by the other invaders. Being ambushed by an unknown enemy—the rogue Irken. The one who had tried to kill him multiple times, starting with the plasma blaster back on Conventia's surface. But there was something else odd about that night.

In a feverish haze, he relived the choking, stifling feeling within the cockpit of his Voot as toxin filled his lungs over and over again. He remembered clawing for his oxygen mask, working his fingers bloody as he tried to open the hatch. And then darkness.

It made too much sense. That night had sealed his fate with every gasp of air, every moment within the airtight cockpit of his ship. Deep within his unconscious mind, the epiphany hit him with the full force of bleak, macabre truth.

His PAK was failing to support its host—Zim's body. It explained why he was fraught with exhaustion and illness, no doubt from PAK deficiency. He knew the outcome of infection. It had been engineered to wipe out the entire race. Death was its sole purpose.

His nightmares swirled through his mind like a sick, continual joke. It was even worse when he was awake, though; his dreams bled into the wakeful world and he saw only demented hallucinations.

He could see his Irken attacker perched in the rafters and making his aim, a plum-purple plasma blaster brandished before him. Ready to extinguish Zim's life with a single pull of the trigger. Yearning only for the cold satisfaction of his final breath.

Then he saw GIR, with not even the common sense to run in the face of danger. His eyes were wide and blank, leaving an overwhelming portentousness in his hollow gaze that Zim could not look at for long. It was a gaze that haunted Zim with the omen of impending death.

Very last, he saw the Dib, tall and gangly as ever, emerging from the darkness with blood in his eyes and venom in his cracking voice. He was standing in the shadows, waiting to exploit the Irken in his weakened state. Why he didn't before, Zim knew not.

Spots clouded Zim's vision again. Then, in the back of his mind, swimming with visions of Dib and GIR, of rogue Irkens and Toxin J-636, he heard a vague, yet distinct tick.

It went on like a metronome, somewhere inside his own head. It was soothing in a sense, full of predictability and rhythm. And yet, deep inside his mind, full-scale panic abruptly beat at the walls of his failing consciousness. Zim's heartbeat picked up like a drum, desperately thumping in his chest, competing with the metronome, trying to beat its way out.

That ticking. It could only be one thing. It was the lullaby all dying Irkens slipped away with.

Zim opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

GIR. Where was GIR?

His charging cell! He had despised the very idea of using it. Suddenly, he yearned for it with insurmountable desperation.

Paralyzed firmly with simultaneous dissociation and panic, he was unable to move nor see his reality as it faded away from him with each second. All he could do was lay there, slipping into utter nothingness to the cadence of his own lifeclock.

Chapter Text

Dib's body felt divorced from his mind, acting on its own accord as muscle memory led him down the familiar path to Zim's house. His feet took the same steps they had a thousand times before. Every single one of those prior times, it had been to ensure that Zim wasn't in the midst of plotting anything that could put mankind in legitimate danger. Now, though, it was Zim, himself, who was the one in danger.

The sole thing keeping Dib connected to reality was the muffled crunch of his boots through the snow and the fog of his breath as it trailed out in front of him. The weather here was never consistent. Especially not in April. It was often warm one day and in single digits the next, teasing the citizens for weeks until late spring drifted in at long last, bringing with it mild rains and peppering the city with wildflowers.

The wind nipped at his exposed skin, it's intensity nearly blinding him. Dib kept a straight face, though, as he ambled on through the dim light of the streetlamps.

Never before had be felt so…absent. Absent of rationale and a clear, concrete motive. Absent of that tie that brought him down to earth and provided him with the logic to make informed decisions based on judgement instead of hunches. Something almost otherworldly seemed to compel him to keep moving forward, to trudge down the snow-covered sidewalk and ignore the maelstrom of snow flurries and blistering cold around him.

Perhaps this was what insanity felt like. True insanity. The omission of reason in his actions, replaced instead with blind persistence and recklessness. Even more than that, though, it was utter peace with the open acknowledgement of it.

Dib's eyes were fixed stoically ahead in an expression void of any emotion. If one were to even begin to understand his motive, or lack thereof, it could perhaps be understood through a building of disorder. It began with something small and unexplained and manifested itself until it was unable to be ignored. Chaos theory, he supposed. Or perhaps something a little more subtle. Blowing on a fire to keep it alive.

It began with the decision to give that little recording device to GIR, and then everything had spiraled from there.

And Dib… well, he had helped it along. He had listened in on the progress convention. He had pressed the button on Tak's ship that sent the distress signal several galaxies away.

As he considered this, his pace began to pick up a bit, long legs taking great strides down the sidewalk.

In the days that followed, he had passed by Zim's house, gaze lingering on it from the safety of the sidewalk. He had broken down in the skool bathroom, hot, bitter tears running down his cheeks. He had tried to contact Zim's ship yet again in a final desperate attempt to reach him.

Dib made it to the intersection at Haverford and Maple before pressing forward, arms swinging stiffly by his side as he sped up little by little.

When Zim had returned, it was him who had initiated the conversation, demanding to know what had happened despite having no logical reason to care. He had forced the issue.

Just one more block.

Dib's heartbeat picked up in his chest, his breath quickening. He frowned, then began to unconsciously break into a slight jog. The streetlights lined the way, gossamer yellows peeking through the heavy fog.

He had taken it yet another step further by breaking into Zim's base, discovering things about him that not even Zim, himself, knew… or at least things he would never admit to.

Defective.

Dib couldn't pretend he didn't care…it wasn't possible. Not when he had set so much into motion. Not when he had repeatedly fed the flames.

He stopped for a split second, breath trailing from his mouth and gathering in a thick puff of fog. Then, suddenly, he burst into a full sprint, dashing down the sidewalk and against the pinpricks of snow against his face. Goosebumps appeared on his arms, even beneath his heavy coat. Flakes gathered on his glasses and he swiped them off his face, racing even faster down the street.

Somewhere along the way, whether it was from the very beginning or a slow burn in Dib's chest, he was coming to a stark realization: the alien meant something to him, and it was far more than a ticket to fame. And for now, that was all he needed to know.

His eyes began to water, but he wasn't sure if it was from the overflow of emotions coursing through his body or the icy wind against his face.

He could almost see it in the distance, that glowing green beacon, nestled between two apartment complexes in the cul-de-sac at the end of Greenbush Way.

He skidded on the ice and toppled over, scraping the heels of his hands against the pavement as he tried to break his fall. Without even giving it pause for thought, he scrambled back to his feet and continued forward, quickly shortening the distance between himself and the house

His hands stung and he could hardly see straight, but he made it to the front door and immediately began banging on it. Receiving no response, he jerked his body sharply to the right and pressed his hands against Zim's window, iced over from the frost. He breathed on it a little and rubbed the glass with one fist before peering inside.

Nothing. Not even GIR.

The living room was still and dark, and the television was turned off. The closer he looked, he could see the pile of blankets on the couch and the glass of water on the floor just where he had left it hours earlier.

Then, moving back to the door, Dib forcefully twisted the knob with one numb, scraped-up hand. Finding it to be unlocked, desperation melted abruptly into astonishment and he burst into the dark foyer, almost falling over himself as he did so.

He shouted into the darkness.

"Zim!"

"Master?"

GIR poked at Zim's body, lying face down on the floor, then stared at him expectantly. He had found the Irken in the deepest sector of the base, the medical bay. He sat patiently beside him and tried to figure out this new game.

"…Master?"

When he didn't budge, GIR grabbed hold of one limp antenna and yanked it downwards like an old-timey doorbell. "Ding dong! Anybody home?"

Not so much as a flinch, even at the rough tug of his most sensitive organ. He lay in a heap on the large metal platform of his medical scanner, dim lights from his various monitors bathing over him in a delicate, mauve-colored glow.

"Are you sleeping? Huh?"

GIR leaned down on his hands and knees, pressed right against Zim's face. He was about to start poking at him again when he heard a noise from upstairs. It was the sound of heavy footfalls and a male voice, calling out something.

Leaving his spot from beside Zim, GIR dashed back towards the elevator.

Dib was in a dreadful state, nose and ears red from the cold, as he panted and searched the dark room. The second his wild eyes locked on GIR arising from the trashcan elevator, he nearly tackled him to the floor.

"Where is Zim?" he demanded.

"Dib! You came!" GIR seemed deaf to the overwhelming urgency in his voice. He sprang towards him and grabbed the tail ends of his coat in both hands.

Dib couldn't tell if his energy stemmed from ecstasy or panic. He peered into the kitchen, still searching for any sign of Zim. A bad feeling formed in the pit of his stomach; he had the sensation that something was terribly wrong. The Irken was nowhere in sight. Not even the security system seemed to be running; otherwise, he would have been booted back outside in an instant.

Pulling GIR off his jacket, he rigidly bent down so that he was eye-level with him. "Where is Zim?"

"Oh right. He's downstairs sleeping on the floor!"

Dib's heart sank. "Look, I need you to take me to him. Right now."

GIR hurriedly directed him over to an elevator entrance beneath a nightstand in the living room. Once they were both in, he turned to Dib. "Master's still all badly. Are you gonna help me make him breakfast in bed for when he wakes up?"

Dib stared at him blankly, heart thumping loudly in his chest. He couldn't even bear to humor him. He just continued to shuffle his feet and rock anxiously from side to side as the lift unhurriedly made its way down.

Finally, they stopped at one of the bottom floors and Dib peered out at it. It was the medical bay, familiar and just the same as when he had left it, complete with its ominous, unsettling aura and smells of disinfectant. The same computer monitor he had used to look up terms in the Irken database was lowered and glowing slightly, Irken characters bolded on the screen.

Beneath it, however, something odd and nondescript lay on the platform. At first, it looked like a pile of scrap metal. As Dib drew closer, though, he noticed the long rods, joints interlocking at strange angles, half-covered something small and pale green.

Dib's eyes, always large behind his glasses, grew larger still as he rushed towards it. Dropping to the ground, he quickly worked his way through the tangled mess, pushing the PAK legs aside, and immediately began shaking Zim's shoulder roughly.

"Zim! Zim?" His voice quavered slightly.

The Irken didn't so much as stir. Dib began to break into tremors as panic shot through his veins like ice water. Grabbing hold of the same shoulder, he rolled Zim onto his side and took a closer look at him.

Both eyes were shut, and his face was almost peaceful in a desolate sort of way. His antennae had lost their usual bounce, the once expressive stalks wilting like dead flowers on the floor. Just as before, his skin was a pale, deathly hue.

Dib lifted one limp arm and tried to feel a pulse. When he couldn't detect anything, he pressed two fingers into the sides of Zim's throat. His hands were shaking too much to get any sort of reading, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

He wracked the corners of his mind, working to look past the growing fear bubbling inside him and threatening to cloud his judgement.

CPR. CPR was what you did in these kinds of scenarios, right?

He tried to recall the unit at skool when they went over it in health class. At the end of the semester, the students took a test on what they had learned and those who passed were certified by the American Red Cross. Dib had failed the final assessment, having spent the entire night before watching a Mysterious Mysteries marathon. Now, more than anything, he wished he had paid even the slightest bit of attention.

Glancing back down at Zim, he hesitantly centered his hands over his sternum and interlocked his fingers in preparation to begin chest compressions.

Suddenly, a booming voice came on overhead. "Expiration imminent. Two minutes remaining on lifeclock."

Dib startled, shaken from his concentration. "Whuu?"

He glanced around for the source of the voice. It seemed to emanate throughout the entire room, as if the base itself were a sentient being.

"Irken Zim's PAK is no longer functioning. It must be connected to an outside source of life support," the computer directed in a deep monotone.

His heartbeat picked up anew in his chest as he tried to process this. "I-I don't know what that means." A bead of sweat trailed down his forehead and dripped from the tip of his nose.

"In order for a chance at survival, Zim must be connected to the manual charging cell located in the southeastern wing of the medical bay."

His hands began shaking again, and he fleetingly balked at the idea of picking him up despite having done so only hours before. Then, with a surge of determination, plus some well-placed clumsiness, he pulled Zim up by his arms. Wrapping one of his own arms around the Irken's skinny shoulders and the other beneath his knees, he scooped him up bridal-style.

"Biological shell has exactly one minute before expiration."

Dib grunted as he attempted to sling the deadweight of Zim's body over his shoulder. "And…what does that mean?" he demanded, taking a few shy steps towards the room the computer had directed him to.

"Zim has less than a minute of life left," the computer said, undertones of impatience seeping through its voice.

Dib nearly dropped him as this set in, eyes growing as wide as saucers behind his thick glasses. "What…?" the word came out as if he had been kicked in the stomach.

Then, hitching Zim up higher on his shoulder, he booked it across the room and pushed his way into what he presumed to be the "charging cell".

Blocked off from the rest of the medical bay, it was a curiously constructed monochromatic cubicle. The inside consisted of nothing but a thinly upholstered medical examination table and a couple of monitors. Nearby was a substantially thick cable, which trailed from somewhere up above, amid the tangle of cords and wires that made up nearly every ceiling of the base.

The second Dib heaved Zim's body onto the table, the cable attached itself to the top port of his PAK, as if through some sort of magnetic force.

Dib lurched backwards, startled.

At once, the other two blank monitors lit up and a high-pitched alarm began to resound. Cupping his hands over his ears, Dib clenched his jaw and began searching for the source of it. The noise reverberated throughout the base, sounding remarkably like a heart monitor flatlining. Zim's eyes remained tightly closed, deaf to the world around him.

Then, the noise ceased and the trio of pink ports on Zim's PAK lit up. In a steady rhythm, they lit up brightly then faded down to a soft glow, illuminating off the hard metal walls of the room and the surface of the exam table.

The charging cell was a last resort to preserve an Irken's vital functions until another form of medical expertise could be accessed. A secondary jolt of life support.

Dib watched the entire process, entranced, despite not understanding what was going on. Eventually, his eyes fell to Zim, scrutinizing him for any changes. He remained unchanged, his face still an unnatural, chalky white. The silence lasted for only a couple moments before the lights on his PAK flickered out and the ear-splitting alarm returned.

"What is that?" Dib hollered over the noise. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, it cut off once more, and the ports lit up in its place.

"The PAK is experiencing inefficiency keeping it's host alive. The charging cell serves to act as an auxiliary source of life support for such events. Because Zim's is in advanced stages of declination, however, the charging cell is experiencing difficulties indicating its presence," the computer said.

Dib could decipher just enough of its needless technological jargon to vaguely understand what it meant. Zim's life support was only working in bits and spurts—leaving him hanging on by a thread as this "auxiliary source of life support" struggled to keep his vitals functioning through the barrier that his PAK posed.

In the meantime, Zim hadn't moved an inch, nor had he shown any signs of life aside from breathing.

Even that was a good sign, though. Right?

A minute had come and gone and Zim was still alive, if just barely. The technicalities of Irken mechanics were still something that eluded Dib, but he would take comfort in whatever he could.

"Well…where do I go from here?" he asked the computer, trying to calm his nerves. "What else does he need?"

"In addition to PAK deficiency and weakened immunity to illness, Zim is suffering from extreme dehydration, critically low glucose levels, hypertension, and concussion."

He winced as the memory of Zim's head smacking against the floor of his lab surfaced in his mind. That could explain the vomiting and disorientation Zim had experienced afterwards. And as for everything else…

"What do I do for all that?"

"Fluids must be administered to him intravenously and vitals should be monitored intensively for any sign of change. The necessary supplies can be found in the main wing of medical bay. Constant rest is required until a PAK specialist can be contacted or medica—"

Dib's brain slowly drowned out the rest. The severity of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. Zim was essentially in intensive care, at the hands of a fifteen-year-old boy who understood absolutely nothing concerning medical know-how. He had no experience inserting IVs, or attaching monitoring pads, or really taking care of anyone but himself. Not to mention, any Irken equipment that was in the base would most likely vary drastically from its human counterparts.

He shuffled his feet nervously, heart stuttering at the idea of the alternative—watching Zim die a slow, needless death without proper care. He glanced back down at him and pursed his lips.

Zim was still drenched in sweat, causing his clothing to stick to him and leave smears on the stainless-steel edges of the table. He was resting awkwardly on his back, the cable from the charging cell jutting out on one side and the tangled array of PAK legs swept off to the other.

What he was lying on was not a bed, and it certainly didn't serve to provide any sort of real comfort. It was merely an examination table, head piece propped up slightly and the surface covered with a very thin layer of cushioned fabric. And Dib hadn't seen anything resembling a bed or a cot in the entire medical bay.

Stupid Irkens with their damn pride. It was as if they earnestly believed that honest-to-God debilitation was so far out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe that was just Zim.

Sighing, Dib reluctantly left the room and began to search the rest of the med bay for linens. He could feel himself beginning to sweat through his down coat. He pulled the zipper down and shrugged out of it. He was getting overwhelmed quickly with all that was going on and how much he had to do.

Shortly after ordering the computer to take him to the main floor, he thought of something else.

"Hey…why are you taking orders from me?" he asked, directing his words towards the wall across from him. "Not that I'm not thankful or anything, it's just…"

The computer took a moment before answering. When it did though, the voice was as dry as ever, echoing around the walls of the tiny space. "I don't have a choice. After you hacked into the base, Zim brought the vocal interface back online, but not the security system. And basic programming protocols dictate that I follow any orders that work to benefit the mission."

Wording it like that made Dib pause for thought, a growing pit in his stomach.

Keeping Zim alive was part of the mission.

He was helping the enemy. If the world fell to the clutches of the Irken Empire after all this, he would have only himself to blame. Him and his damn sentimentality. Regardless of what he knew about Zim at this point, this idea didn't sit well with him. He still felt like he was playing with fire. Dancing with the unknown.

He kept silent after the computer's reply, stepping off the elevator and stoically into the main room. GIR was in the kitchen, pulling something that smelled burnt and acrid from the oven.

"Is Master all better?" he asked. He proudly held out the tray he was holding. "Looky! I made him tater tots for when he wakes up!"

Dib barely glanced at the smoking, charred lumps that were presented before him as he made his way briskly into the living room. He scooped up the blankets and pulled pillows off the couch, mind elsewhere. Carrying the pile back towards the elevator, he groaned slightly at the sound of tiny metallic footfalls behind him. He sighed and rolled his eyes as GIR followed him back to the med bay.

With the computer's help, he gathered up the other things he needed—a shapeless piece of fabric he was told was a medical gown, the equipment to set up an IV drip, and a tangle of wires and pads. Weighed down with the lot, he carried it all to the charging cell and glanced apprehensively at Zim from behind the mountain of linens and supplies. He was just as he had left him, and the dreadfully loud alarm from the charging cell had started up again. Dib dumped the blankets and pillows on the floor and walked over to him.

He felt sheepish and stupid as he tugged at the sleeve of Zim's damp shirt, like a child playing doctor. He had no idea what he was doing and there was so much that needed to be done. As he let go of the shirt, the alarm stopped again, leaving a long stretch of silence in its wake.

It took some time and a bit of cutting at the thin fabric with a pair of scissors that he found in a first aid kit in the main wing before Dib was finally able to remove Zim's shirt. With the cable deep in one port of his PAK and the PAK legs awkwardly crammed around it, the feat of removing the last shreds of his military clothing was absurdly difficult. Not to mention, in the midst of it, Zim went from being deathly still to shivering mercilessly. At last, though, he peeled the top off him, bending his elbows inward to free them from the fabric.

Through the entire ordeal, the charging cell had continually dropped connection and regained it, emitting that awful alarm each time. Every time it stopped, ringing in Dib's ears took its place.

He rubbed his temples, eyes closed. When he opened them again, they fell upon Zim. Dib stared at him for a moment in something most aptly described as scientific fascination. Like his father, he was enamored with the unknown and its implications. His focus, however, went far beyond what Earth's science could feasibly explain. Zim was just that.

Three tiny ribs protruded from either side of the delicate skin on the alien's chest, becoming more defined with each deep breath he drew in. Other than that, he was void of anything on his torso that would bear any semblance to a human's anatomy. He had no navel, nor nipples, and not even the slightest blemish was visible on the pale, jade-green skin.

Dib tilted his head and looked back at Zim's face, which was pinched tight in distress, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Guilt for ogling at him like a freakshow attraction, regardless of that being more or less the truth.

Zim was a prideful creature, obsessed with maintaining an impeccable appearance. Not only that, but he was so persistent on staying covered up in the presence of others, he wouldn't even change into his gym clothes at skool. Dib distinctly remembered him receiving a failing grade in 9th grade PE for his "refusal to participate."

It felt invasive and dirty to see him in such an undignified state. Suddenly, all those reveries in days past of seeing Zim strapped to an autopsy table seemed entirely unappealing. In fact, unappealing was an understatement. It made Dib feel nauseated.

He wished it didn't. He wished his convictions were as strong as they had been, if only to give him some sort of stability. A moral compass to cling to. Afterall, why should he care?

The Zim he knew was egotistical. Cruel. Perpetually small and pissed-off, the Irken had been constantly poised for confrontation and bursting with distrustful vigor since the day he had arrived on Earth. Intensive military training on Irk had made him that way. He had worked to take advantage of Dib's weaknesses in every way possible. It went far beyond their own battles for the Earth, too. He had always been there to laugh at Dib's defeats in every facet of his life.

Getting rejected by the girl he had been infatuated with all year long? Zim was there to add insult to injury, pointing and cackling from across the cafeteria while chastising him on his "pathetic human need for affection". Getting a 98% on his chemistry final? Of course, Zim had gotten that token 100%, making him "exactly 2% better".

But it had also pushed Dib to be better in the process. To prove his nemesis wrong. To prove everyone wrong. And he was gradually beginning to realize just how much he had depended on the alien to be that anchor, in an ironic symbiosis that had been left unspoken between the two.

A deep sigh shook Dib back to reality and, with a melancholy air, he picked up the tangle of telemetry leads.

Would now be a bad time to Google what this stuff does?

Then he remembered the computer.

"Uhh…where do I put these?" he asked pathetically to the empty room.

"Each color goes to a different part of the chest," came the voice from up above. "Place the brown pad at the bottom of the sternum."

Dib did as he was told and waited patiently for further instructions.

"The white goes to the right side of the chest." The computer sounded like it was directing a brainless child to do some rudimentary task.

Dib complied like such, making the process painstakingly tedious and slow. The next several minutes were spent with the computer blandly guiding him where to place the pads and how to set up the IV.

Yet another problem arose when Dib had to insert the needle into a nearly invisible vein inside Zim's inner arm. He had absolutely no idea how such a task was performed on a human, never mind an extraterrestrial. It took a painful number of jabs and pricks to Zim's delicate skin before Dib shakily set it down and begged the computer to help him. Even once he'd successfully inserted it, took even longer to stop the consequential bleeding that had occurred from all the failed attempts. As he dabbed at the swollen area with a gauze pad, Dib felt bile rise in the back of his throat, threatening to make an appearance.

By the end of the debacle, though, the painstakingly inserted IV had begun administering much-needed fluids into his system and one of the many monitors was up and running, displaying a staggering variety of information on Zim's cardiac stats.

Dib moved on to slipping pillows beneath Zim's head and around his PAK to try to relieve as much pressure from his back against the table as possible. That done, Dib drew a thick quilt from its spot on the floor and quickly covered up his shivering body. He tucked the woolly fabric around him to trap his body heat and stood back to examine the results of his meticulous handiwork.

Zim looked pathetic.

His antennae were pinned awkwardly behind him, the little flexes on one bent outwards towards Dib and the other pressed between the table and his head. His partly open mouth drew in ragged breaths with unsteady timing and his long, segmented tongue stuck out from between his lips at an odd angle.

"Jeez, Zim. You're a mess," Dib muttered, sighing deeply.

The alien, of course, didn't respond. He had, however, quieted his tremors just slightly under the warmth of the blanket.

Finished with these tedious and emotionally draining tasks, Dib slumped to the floor beside him and pulled his knees to his chest. He tilted his head back against the wall and squeezed both eyes shut. All the worries that had churned around incessantly inside his mind were slowly being drowned with exhaustion. He couldn't for the life of him remember when he had slept last. The entirety of the last couple weeks had been nothing but stress, anger, and frustration.

Gradually, his heavy eyelids began to draw to a close. Before he knew it, he had fallen into a sleep just as light and shallow as the breathing of the sickly alien beside him while the endless beeping of the monitors droned on.

"Send an outgoing transmission to Invader Tenn."

Larb's low, nasally voice pierced the air from within his Zhook, where he had been trying to simultaneously track Zim and sidestep any inquiries from the Tallest. He sounded tired and infuriated, with just a hint of stifled fear in his tone.

More than anything, he was enraged with himself. He had grown weak over the years following his enslavement of the Vortians, and it was beginning to show in the most humiliating way possible.

No longer did he bother to retain information about physical combat with such vigilance with time gone by. All of that was pushed to the back of his PAK's encoding to make room for fond memories of celebration with the planetary convergence team on the Massive, launching the cannon sweep, and pretending the Tallest cared about his rising success.

Years of training had gone seemingly forgotten, to the point where he couldn't even take down an unsuspecting screw-up of a soldier in the beginning stages of PAK deficiency. It was clear even then that the toxin was beginning to affect him. It had showed in his stride and troubled breathing.

And Larb had let the defective get away just like that, with his pathetic little robot no less. To say that it had wounded his almost impenetrable ego was an understatement.

Following the incident, he had had no choice was to return to his ship and wrap his flesh wound tightly with gauze from the med kit in his ship, cursing under his breath as his PAK whirred and worked to repair the bleeding tissue.

That had been almost a week ago. Now, the injury was no more. The smooth, healed skin in its place only served as a reminder that Larb was running out of time, though.

Larb was nothing if not persistent, though.

The transmission screen on his dash beeped for a few moments and then lit up as the transmission was received. In an instant, a familiar stoic face emerged, accompanied by light pink eyes and flippantly curled antennae, presently pressed back in hostility.

"What do you want, Larb?" The words were spat out without any greeting to predate them. Tenn glared at him from the screen, not bothering to conceal her blatant annoyance.

"I require your assistance with this matter," he said through gritted teeth.

She cackled lightly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Assistance with what? Can't handle your 'special mission'? Maybe you shouldn't have been so overzealous. You always were."

Larb and Tenn had been a part of separate smeet clutches, trained in different squadrons, had specialized in different invading tactics, and yet they had always been rivals. Competitiveness and hostility were a constant with them and had only increased with time. When Operation Impending Doom II had been announced, they had both been assigned the two most controversial planets in the mix marked for Irken conquest, serving only to intensify it further.

"I shouldn't even be wasting my time with someone who hasn't even conquered her first assignment after three years!" Larb spat back at her. "But you have information that could prove useful to me regarding this particular task."

"Invaders work alone," she said icily, "Besides, I know better than to get involved with this mess. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a planet to conquer."

"Wait!" Larb shouted before she could end the transmission.

"What?"

Larb glanced around, scrounging for a way to coerce her. Finally, after a second, his eyes narrowed, and he regained focus. "If you knew what was good for you, you would provide your aid."

She didn't bother to stifle the laughter that burst forth at his statement. "Oh? And why is that?"

Larb didn't flinch. "Because you are the one who brought the toxin back from Meekrob. And you are the one who agreed to use it against the defective."

"I was ordered to by the Tallest," she briskly corrected, eyes hardening. "What's your point?"

He tried to formulate his next words to work in his favor. "You already are involved in this. If I fail in this mission, it compromises all of us. Especially you."

She crossed her arms, continuing to glower at Larb.

"Who do you think the Control Brains will suspect as the instigator?" he went on. "Their beloved leaders… or the only Irken sent to infiltrate Meekrob, masquerading as a chemical engineer? They will suspect you far before they suspect them.

"Help me or risk losing your credibility…your reputation…."

Tenn kept up her rigid glare, but her arms slowly dropped to her sides as she considered this.

"Your mission…"

She suddenly frowned and glanced up quickly. "What do you want, Larb?" she hissed coarsely.

"I need to know about the nature of this toxin. And if you happen to have coordinates to this 'Earth' planet."

She sighed deeply, eyes full of malice and contempt that only an Irken could pull off so concentratedly. Finally, she spoke. "The defective was only exposed to a very small amount of it, which is likely just prolonging the outcome. He shouldn't be contagious and if he's even still alive, his PAK has likely stopped many of its functions. He should be an easy target."

Larb listened intently. "And this planet?"

Tenn pulled up a map of the known Irken galaxy on his computer. "It's located on the very edge of the Stultus quadrant. Good luck finding any exact coordinates, though. The Irken Intergalactic Research team hadn't even confirmed its existence before The Great Assigning, and after the defective was 'assigned' to it, they didn't bother."

He nodded sharply as Tenn's image returned to the screen.

"There. You have your information. Now, will you do me the honors of ending this wretched transmission?"

"With pleasure." His antennae lay flat against his skull. He grandiosely brought his hand down upon the button to end the call without any show of gratitude or even a parting statement. Her steely face vanished from the screen.

Larb sat back in his chair and fully immersed himself in the wave of silence that followed. He reveled in the satisfaction of how easily he had been able to bend her to his will. His lips tugged upwards in an ugly sneer, exposing the upper row of zippered teeth. It was nothing short of a personal triumph, and he relished it with all the pride his spiteful little body could muster.

After a mere moment, he dropped his smirk, and an expression of cold determination took its place as he set his coordinates towards the approximate direction of planet Earth.

Chapter Text

The machines in the medical bay bleated away rhythmically and the dim lighting of Zim's countless monitors cast shadows that stretched across the room, touching down upon its occupants in a sickly blue light. Dib lost track of time as he hunkered down in the little room, sitting beside Zim. Continually, the latter would break into oscillating shivers but otherwise remained asleep as the hours passed them by.

Surely it must have been hours, if not a full day. It was as though time had stood still, though, deep in the bowels of the base. Not even the slightest inkling of sunshine nor moonlight could gleam through, and Dib couldn't be certain whether it was night or day.

Just as static was the scene within the med bay, where every movement was trapped within its own delicate cadence. Zim's shaking and shallow breathing mingled with the constant beeping of the charging cell, which still occasionally dropped connection with the PAK and shifted into that same blaring alarm.

Dib could have done any number of things, he supposed, but instead, he spent a perturbing amount of time simply staring at the other end of the room and allowing his thoughts to eat him alive. He had put his talent of overanalyzing to good use, pondering every little detail that had transpired. His prior confliction of whether to even help Zim, however, was a mere afterthought compared to his current state of mind. This time, his thoughts held a peculiar emphasis geared towards how to help him.

All the while, the idea of exploiting Zim was nonexistent. Not once during that period of time did it even cross Dib's mind to wander the base again or use any of Zim's current disadvantages to his own benefit. At this point, he was far too busy feeling trapped within his own emotional limbo, consumed with pessimistic speculations about the Irken's condition and fear of the unknown.

When he last checked, Zim looked to be showing more signs of life, but these things did little to reassure him.

A slight flush had crept across Zim's face over the last hour or so, and when Dib reluctantly brushed a hand over his forehead, he was burning to the touch with fever. Despite being wrapped thoroughly in blankets, he still shivered violently.

What would happen if and when Zim woke up? How could he even begin to understand Dib's motives when he was presumably clueless to what had happened to him? Did he even know he had been poisoned? Or was he so immersed in denial that he couldn't grasp that his life was in very grave danger?

Dib looked down as his shoes dejectedly.

How had I gotten into this?

What a stupid question. He knew the answer. He had dedicated his entire life to learning everything he possibly could about Zim; it was only a matter of time before he would get more than he'd bargained for.

It was his own choice to cling to the alien and he knew it was outrageous, selfish, and perhaps even…morally wrong. Zim was not to be trusted. Leaving him to the hands of fate was the rational thing to do, and yet Dib would not allow it. He couldn't live his life in good conscience having done nothing.

What a goddamned shit show, he thought bitterly.

-x-

It was hours still until Zim gave any further indication of consciousness aside from tremors and some indistinct muttering.

Dib was sitting on the floor next to him, staring straight ahead and lost in thought, when he detected a vague stirring from the corner of his eye.

Poking out from beneath his heavy head, one long antenna twitched a little, trying to pick up vibrations from around the room.

Apprehensively, Dib pushed himself up onto his feet and made his way to the bedside.

Zim's eyes were still screwed shut, but the lids were quivering ever so slightly, as if he were fending off a nightmare. His lips parted and he mumbled something under his breath.

With the back of one hand, Dib grazed his forehead again, fresh worry washing over him when he realized how hot he still was. When he removed his hand, Zim shifted and let out a soft whine in the back of his throat.

"Zim? Are you awake? Can you hear me?" Dib asked hesitantly.

In the back of his mind, he was fearful of Zim's reaction to seeing him in his base again and, for a split second, he even considered fleeing the room. The Irken simply didn't look like he could take the stress a second time around.

Zim, however, didn't seem to see much of anything as his lids slowly rose halfway and revealed glassy, unfocused eyes. He blinked, looking dazed and exhausted. He didn't respond to Dib. He didn't even seem to be aware of his presence.

Dib began to wonder just how much this "PAK deficiency" was suppressing his cognitive abilities. Part of him tried to rationalize that his obscenely high fever was likely the culprit, but he really couldn't be sure. Zim seemed disconnected with reality, as if he had just been lobotomized…

Just as soon as it had arisen, he tried to push the thought away.

"Zim?" he asked. "Zim? Can you hear me?"

Zim's antennae flicked briefly, but his face didn't change. He seemed to stare directly through Dib. "Whuuu?" His legs shifted a bit beneath his blankets.

Dib sighed. Keeping one eye on Zim, he shifted to brainstorming what he should do now that he was awake, at least in the most rudimentary sense. As if in answer to this question, he suddenly heard a muffled grumbling from the Irken's belly. A flicker of pain reached Zim's face and he groaned his displeasure quietly before curling up a bit more, weakly clutching his midriff.

"Are you hungry? Do you need to eat something?"

Zim didn't respond.

Dib looked deflated. He had no idea when Zim had last eaten, or how often Irkens needed to eat in general. Processed, sugary snacks certainly seemed to hold a lot of importance to them, though.

"Hang on, I'm gonna get you some food."

Turning to make his way back upstairs, he shot one last hesitant glance over his shoulder just as Zim broke out into a coughing fit. He didn't really want to leave the room. Not while Zim was conscious. The fact that he was so unalert was deeply unsettling, and part of Dib was fearful that he might fall back asleep and never reawaken.

Nevertheless, he reluctantly found himself walking back to the elevator, somewhat relieved at having an excuse to leave the little room for a couple of minutes. As he rose to the main level, he was immediately hit with blinding light from up above. He had spent far too long in Zim's private catacombs, surrounded by the shadowy, low-lit interior of the base's underbelly. The combination of sun and florescent lighting in the kitchen was unbearably bright by comparison.

Once he had adjusted his eyes, the first thing he saw was Zim's robot. Dib had almost forgotten about his presence entirely. GIR was in the living room, staring intently at the television. At the sound of his arrival, however, he perked his head up a little in acknowledgement.

"Hiya! Ya wanna watch TV?" Then, in a childishly impish whisper, "I's watchin' the Moose Network…"

"Uhhh, no thanks. Actually, I need you to tell me where Zim keeps his food. Do you know?" Dib asked the question slowly and carefully, as if addressing a toddler.

"…In the kitchen," GIR said in an obvious mockery of Dib's tone. He hopped off the couch and walked towards the refrigerator, smiling sweetly and gesturing to it as if he was Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.

Feeling stupid, Dib grumbled something under his breath and brushed past him. He was so out of his element, he couldn't even remember basic know-how.

The first thing he saw upon opening the fridge was an overabundance of brightly colored packages, as if someone had been on a mission to collect as much processed, artificially flavored junk food as possible. The freezer, as well, was nearly filled to the to the top with boxes of frozen taquitos, Drumstick ice cream cones, chicken nuggets, and nearly anything else that one may find in the frozen food section of a grocery store.

Taking up little more than a third of the space were a small cluster of burgundy containers, stacked one on top of another and varying in size and shape. Lifting one off the top of the shelf and lightly shaking its contents, Dib noted the familiar black Irken symbol emblazoned on the front of it.

Military food rations, he concluded. They were separated from everything else almost anally, and most certainly by Zim, to indicate that they were off-limits to his little robot. The sight was somewhat bemusing, giving the deranged little house a sense of normalcy that he had always tried to disassociate with the alien.

Shifting from the fridge to the cabinets nearby, he found even more of their hoard. One shelf was devoted entirely to storing enormous, bulk-sized packages of waffle mix and another contained a large box filled with Zim's "Fun Dip" cartons. A few bags of half-opened Cheezos and a full two-liter of Poop Cola were wedged in there as well.

Finally, he opened the second set of cabinet doors and was immediately met with a stark overabundance of little black Irken insignias decorating almost everything within. Despite appearing similar to the other little containers he had come across, these packages were apparently able to withstand a long shelf life and did not need to be refrigerated.

Dib took one out and examined it closer. It looked like a bag of chips and, upon being lightly shaken, sounded like such as well. After a moment of contemplation, though, he carefully replaced it on the shelf and turned back to the fridge.

He figured that whatever he brought downstairs for Zim to eat should be soft enough to avoid becoming a choking hazard. He was still very much out of it, which was disconcerting in and of itself. He honestly didn't know what he could and couldn't handle.

This time, he reached in and pulled out a tiny carton from the top shelf, apprehensively peeling off the lid to examine its contents. It looked just like pudding and smelled almost sickeningly sweet. Upon getting a rather sarcastic confirmation from the computer that pudding was indeed what he was holding, he shrugged and deemed it acceptable.

Searching the drawers below for a spoon, Dib offhandedly realized that it had been quite a long time since he had eaten anything, either. He snatched a nearly full bag of Cheezos for himself before trekking back down to the med bay.

-x-

Upon exiting the lift, the first thing Dib noticed was a soft gleam of glowing cyan light emanating from around the corner, in the little room that held the charging cell.

That little robot…

Between the time he had emerged upstairs and finished rifling through Zim's food supply, GIR could have done a world of damage. The last thing Dib needed was for him to make matters worse, and mess with any of the medical equipment that was currently keeping Zim alive.

As he hastily made his way back to the room, however, he was somewhat surprised by the sight he was greeted to. Absolutely nothing looked to be out of place. Zim's IV catheter was still in place, as were his telemetry leads, and most importantly, the cable connecting him to the charging cell.

The only difference was that Zim had broken out in another weak bout of coughing and Dib had appeared just in time to see GIR comfortingly patting him on the back. When he noticed Dib, however, GIR immediately stopped and stepped off to the side.

Dib walked in quietly and looked it all over nonetheless, convinced that surely the robot had tampered with something. Neither said a word, but Dib continually snuck quick sideways glances at GIR between inspecting levels on the IV drip. The latter just kept eying Zim inquisitively.

Dib supposed he had just grown accustomed to ignoring Zim's "sidekick." With his painfully grating little voice and manic personality, GIR had always been more of a nuisance than an actual threat. At this very moment, though, he was strangely lacking in his usual antics. Something in his demeanor had abruptly shifted; it was somewhat reminiscent to a sort of stoic innocence, like a child gazing upon a gravely ill parent.

Dib quickly averted his eyes and stared off into space. He clutched the pudding cup tightly in one hand.

"Mastah's going to be okay?"

The tiny voice broke the silence and caused him to fall out of his brief reverie. He dropped his eyes down to the robot. "What?"

GIR just stared back, waiting for the answer.

"Mast-I mean, Zim will be fine," Dib said. "He just needs to rest." The lie sounded stupid and unconvincing, even to him. GIR nodded stoically, though, then looked down at the floor.

The two were quiet for a moment. Then:

"Oooh! Pudding time!" GIR pointed jubilantly to the little cup.

Dib looked puzzled as he watched him dash out of the room and back upstairs. He stared after him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the bed.

Zim looked slightly more awake, which wasn't really saying much. He was still curled into his blankets, head propped up just slightly as he gazed dimly at the doorway GIR had run through.

Dib walked around to the side and looked down at him.

"Hey, space monster. Time to eat something." He shook his shoulder a bit and frowned when Zim shrunk away from him.

"Here." He held out a spoonful of pudding so that it was hovering right in front of his face. Zim eyelids fluttered, and his eyes briefly peeked out from sunken, dark sockets before shutting. He recoiled and his zipperlike teeth clenched together tightly, obstinately trying to refuse the food even as Dib attempted to pop the spoon into his mouth. This went on for a few minutes, this struggle between the two, before Dib exasperatedly threw up his arms and turned away, scowling.

Despite his best efforts to remain composed, he could feel his patience wearing thin quickly. For all his intelligence and intuition, at the heart of it all, he was still just a kid. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He wasn't a doctor and he possessed no natural instincts to care for another living thing. His entire life thus far had been spent fending for himself and scouring the city for whatever paranormal phenomena had demanded his scrutiny at the time. He was innocently void of any sense of gentleness, instead sliding with ease into a state of blundering awkwardness. It was an artform that only a teenager could eloquently achieve and unsurprisingly, Dib was a master at it.

When he looked back down, Zim was nodding off.

"Come on, don't fall asleep!" he said, shaking Zim's shoulder again and even going so far as to flick his right antennae with his thumb and middle finger.

A weak squeal of pain burst from Zim's lips.

Immediate regret replaced irritation, and Dib guiltily withdrew his hand. He'd gone too far with that little move. Instead, he simply glowered at Zim for a moment, trying to figure out how to get him to eat.

After a while, Zim relaxed again and eventually opened his eyes. Taking the opportunity, Dib snatched up the container again and stuck the spoon into Zim's mouth before he could protest. Zim accepted it this time, albeit dazedly.

Dib spent the next several moments poking spoonfuls of pudding into his mouth and jostling his shoulder when he began to doze. Finally, Zim sank back into his pillows and firmly turned his head away, refusing any more. Figuring he had had enough for the time being, Dib set the mostly empty cup down in reluctant satisfaction.

The second he did, Zim began to shudder.

Dib raised an eyebrow. "Hey. You good?"

His confusion deepened as Zim reeled in and began to bristle. Then, to his dawning horror, the Irken started to dry heave, just hardly at first, but with steadily increasing austerity.

Dib's first instinct was to scuttle backwards in alarm. Then, swiping a wastebin from the floor beside him, he shoved it beneath Zim's chin just in time for him to spew everything back up.

Zim blinked his watery eyes and lifted his chin up when he finished, trying to focus on any one object. Somewhere in the back of the mind, he felt the leery, ominous sense of another person in the room, but he was far too stupefied to hone in on this new threat for more than a moment before falling prisoner to another sudden bout of sickness.

Dib held the bin up again, somberly waiting as Zim lurched forward and vomited noisily into it again. In case it wasn't already evident that he hadn't ingested anything in God knows how long, Dib was able to see it firsthand as colorless bile filled the bottom. He had to tear his eyes away, lest he start gagging as well. He set his face into a stony expression, turning away and fixing his eyes on the corner of the room.

Suddenly, he heard metallic little footfalls from behind him. When he turned to glance behind himself, low and behold, there was GIR holding his own cup of pudding and a spoon.

"Ooooh! You's and Master are playin' the bucket game!" The robot then burst into infernal giggling, the sound colliding with the melody of machines and gagging from Zim.

The disturbing amalgam of noises swirled through the air, fueling the fire of Dib's already raging headache and triggering his own fit of nervous tremors.

His hands began to shake as he held the bin beneath Zim's chin and tried desperately not to descend into utter madness.

A few moments later, Zim went quiet, having worn himself out. Seemingly finished, he curled into a fetal position on his side and whimpered quietly.

Dib's shoulders slumped as fresh defeat crept in.

I hate you, he thought dismally to himself. I hate you so much.

He hated seeing him vulnerable. Hated his lack of fight. More than anything, he hated the power the God-damned alien always seemed to have over him, even now. Out of every feeling he could have towards Zim, sympathy was not one that sat well with him.

Surely if he hadn't been weighted down with pain, Zim would be screaming and cursing, aiming at Dib with any number of the ubiquitous arsenal he kept within the curious entity that was his PAK. He would be a different kind of difficult, a force of stubbornness and vehemence that shouldn't logically exist for anyone his size.

Even so, Dib found he would do anything to have that Zim here. This wasn't his alien. This was some horrible mockery of him. A tasteless caricature. There was no honor in seeing another being slowly become extinguished of their lifeforce, left to struggle in agony. There was no joy or pleasure in seeing even his greatest enemy suffer.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Zim stopped trembling and the sounds of whimpering dwindling, then faded. He went still, curled tightly in a miserable little ball.

Dib immediately started to shake him to get his attention.

"Zim? You need to talk to me! Tell me how I can help."

He moaned, his head lolling. "W-what's…" He swallowed. "Where's…" He gazed past Dib listlessly, the light behind his eyes struggling to shine through. Spittle dribbled down his chin and his tongue had begun to poke out again.

Dib hesitantly moved his hand to his forehead and stared down at him desolately. Zim's face was sweaty and hot.

Frustration quickly melted into anxiety and he could feel himself shaking as it shored up within him. The stress continued to swell up in his chest and he abruptly straightened up and stalked right out of the room, pushing GIR out of the way as he left. He began pacing around the main room of the medical bay, too overwhelmed to do anything but wring his hands like a ninny and stare imploringly at the floor.

This is out of my realm, this is out of my realm! I don't know what to do!

He felt his pulse beat hard through him as he turned away.

I can't handle this by myself!

"What the hell do I do?" he squeaked to nobody in particular, bringing two shaky hands to his temples.

He was immediately startled when his bad habit of talking to himself actually elicited a response from the ever-present computer.

"Without some form of nutrition, expiration will be inevitable. Professional medical intervention must be contacted immediately. In the meantime, bland foods should be given, if possible. If Zim can't keep anything down, total parenteral nutrition may—"

"—Wait." Dib looked dazed. He dropped his hands back down to his sides, leaving his glasses lopsided on his face. "What do you mean by 'professional medical intervention'? Isn't that what this is?"

"Zim's PAK is shutting down. Without medical attention from a trained Irken PAK specialist, expiration will be inevitable."

Dib expected to feel some sort of deep-seated panic well up in his chest, or at least more frustration. He already felt as though he was on the verge of a breakdown. Instead, a strange numbness passed over him unexpectedly, as though his sanity could no longer handle all the bad news and had taken to blocking it all out.

"Excuse me?" he whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Irken medical planet Elixus has the greatest probability of successful treatment for Irken PAK deficiencies."

Vaguely, he could sense a monitor being lowered down in front of him, at perfect eye-level. Lost in disbelief, he stared blankly at what appeared to be map of the planet, in some area called the "Vexer solar system".

That was all it took to snap him out of his spell and immediately burst into protest. "I can't take Zim to a whole other planet!" he shouted, shoving the computer monitor away. "That's out of the question! I-I can't!" His next words tumbled almost incoherently out of his mouth as he began pacing back and forth again. "Look, maybe the charging thing he's hooked up to will cure him before it comes to that."

The computer paused a bit before replying, as if taken aback. "The manual charging cell will not 'cure' him. Its only purpose is to stabilize and maintain the PAK's most basic functions until a medical specialist can be consulted. The host may regain some cognizance as a result, but it is not a permanent solution."

Dib stammered for a moment, both hands gripping his temples as he fought for a rebuttal; he was at a loss. He wanted to argue with the computer, spill his guts and tell it just how much resolve it had taken him to merely walk the four blocks to Zim's house to help him; there was no way he could go to this length to save a destructive space-cockroach.

The deep voice from above merely reiterated what it had said before, a bit more bluntly for the dimwitted human. "Without proper medical treatment, Zim will likely die within the week."

His breath hitched in his throat as he stubbornly held back tears. The harsh words were spoken in a tone so condescending, he could hardly control the surge of indignant anger he felt flow through his veins.

He couldn't do that! Couldn't leave his family and skool for an indefinite amount of time to fly Zim to some unknown planet. He could count on one hand just how many times he had piloted a damn spaceship, for God's sake!

He didn't respond the computer this time, opting instead to hold onto the wall to keep himself up. Swallowing thickly, he allowed his eyes to go unfocused as this new information set in. From the corner of his periphery, he saw the crooked monitor screen retract back into the rafters up above, as though even the computer had officially given up trying to help a hopeless case like him.

He stood there for a while, eventually shaken from his trance when he heard the unmistakable sound of GIR's feet pattering out of the other room. The robot didn't even bother to acknowledge him as he quickly scurried to the elevator, babbling some nonsense about how he was going to miss the next episode of the Scary Monkey Show.

After a few moments of silence, Dib numbly walked back into the room Zim was in.

The Irken was asleep again. His chest rose up and down uneasily and his face, impossibly ashen, wore a very faint frown.

Dib sighed and dropped his gaze down to his shoes. Less than a foot away was the tangle of PAK legs cascading down the side of the bed. They now lay like decrepit scaffolding beside him.

Reaching down, Dib tentatively lifted one of them and gazed at it, a sort of unexpected melancholy bubbling deep in his chest. He had witnessed the appearance of those metal limbs many times, bursting out of the Zim's PAK during their fights. Zim meant business when he deployed them; they gave him height, power, and most importantly, an upper hand. And when he was finished utilizing them to his advantage, Dib would watch them disappear back into the PAK with perfunctory ease. Blink and you'd miss it.

Turning the single metal strut in his hands, he thought about how he had seen them collapse from underneath Zim when he had panicked in his lab. As if they couldn't support his tiny, trembling body. With so much else on his mind, Dib had just assumed that they would eventually retract once Zim regained consciousness.

Dib set the limb down again and buried his head in his hands as he slipped to the floor once more and hugged his knees to his chest.

-x-

He must have fallen asleep, because when Dib woke up again, his back ached and dried tears stained his face. From beside him, the bundle of blankets shifted and Zim mumbled something in the same harsh language he had been speaking before with the other Irkens.

Gloomily, Dib rose from his spot and stretched his back before walking closer to examine him.

Zim's face was locked into a vague grimace and his lips were trembling as they uttered half-conscious laments and animalistic grunts. He looked so…small. So completely absent of his typical arrogant façade. His closed eyes were rimmed heavily with dark, bruise-like circles.

Dib heaved out a sigh.

Yes, Zim's lifeclock hadn't bottomed out, but his body and mind still weren't functioning properly without the full efficiency of his PAK. How could he not have realized this before? That simply hooking him up to an enormous machine that served only as an auxiliary life support system would not "fix" him?

He hadn't seen Zim in such a washed-out, feeble state since one isolated incident back in elementary skool, when he had stolen the PAK from him in a fit of brash, childish ignorance. He had quickly learned the importance of the object and its repercussions. It was the very entity that kept the alien alive, stored his memories, and retained his personality. The PAK essentially was Zim.

Neither of them had ever spoken of that debacle since that day it occurred, and Dib had eyed the metal dome with more than a little curiosity since then. He understood the basic gist of what it did, but that was it. Nothing more and nothing less. He could make theories on its properties, of course, but none of them were grounded on fact.

It didn't mean he could truly help Zim if he was afflicted with something that went beyond human comprehension.

Dib wiped Zim's face and checked his temperature for the for the dozenth time with the back of his hand. Nothing had improved. Nothing would unless…

Walking almost silently into the main wing of the medical bay, Dib drew in a breath, held it, then let it out in a deep sigh. "Computer. Pull up the coordinates for this 'Irken medical planet.'"

Chapter Text

Daybreak burst across the skies in a sea of pastels as the sun languidly made its appearance over the town graveyard. A nip of cold still lingered, but it added a unique crispness to the air that almost seemed to declare impending vitality in the coming days. It was a promise of wild bergamot and black-eyed susans, greener lawns, and the pattering of rain on rooftops to replace the blustering snowstorms.

Deep within the mass of grave markers and budding springtime grass was the silhouette of a hunch figure. He was barely visible, perched on the hill and sitting cross-legged. An unmistakable tuft of thick, scythe-like hair jutted from his head, ending in a somewhat disheveled point.

Mourning doves cried out with their soulful laments, breaking the silence in the most delicate way possible. Even the wind was gentle, as if it, too, were mindful of the sacred moment it had intruded upon.

Dib's head dipped forward, and an ample breath of morning air filled his lungs as his shoulders slumped. He held it for a moment and finally released it in a long, deep sigh. He was facing a large headstone, wiped clean of moss, grime, and anything else the elements could offer. It gleamed just as it had the day she had been buried.

He had needed a break from the neuroticism and stench of illness that had taken hold of Zim's house. The night before had been its own brand of frustration. Just before the break of dawn, Dib had tried in vain to get some bland food in Zim's system again, only for the half-conscious Irken to alternate between shrinking away and hissing balefully at him. He still seemed hopelessly out of it, too feverish and delusional to do anything but feebly lash out at what he likely perceived to be some unseen enemy. Every now and then, his husky coughing would give way to a fit of gagging and, a few times, the arrival of more bile. Dib would stand beside him vacuously, smoothing the thick bases of his antennae back with one shaking hand to prevent them from falling in his face while he doubled over and heaved into the little wastebin.

Dib had seen enough alien barf in the last three days to last him several lifetimes. He swore he could still hear Zim's throaty, congested coughing ringing in his ears. He needed a moment to breathe. More than that, he needed a sanctuary without sick Irkens or manic robots, so that he could reflect on what could potentially be a fatal decision.

Even if they managed to get to this planet intact, who's to say anyone would even be willing to help Zim? Dib knew the gist; the "invader" was a pariah among his own race. A wanton criminal. What he was thinking of doing was nothing short of a potential death sentence, for both him and Zim.

But…the alternative was certain death. If Elixus was their only slim chance at fixing this, then Dib's piquing idealism would inevitably find a way to get the best of him.

Staring fixedly at the grass and springing dandelions at his feet, he finally looked up at the headstone he was facing. The words CATHERINE MEMBRANE stared back at him, embossed on the front in somber block letters. He glanced back down, chest inflating as he inhaled another deep sigh. He visited this place often. More so than he'd like to admit, especially lately.

Dib wasn't religious. Honestly, it was the last thing on his mind, and the minds of his family members when he was growing up. He didn't know if there was a God, or a heaven, nor had he thought much on the subject. Maybe it was the childlike dreamer inside of him who held onto the hope that the spirit of his mother still existed in some form, though. That, in some way, she was still able to guide him along. He supposed it was wishful thinking, at best. Hell, just turning the idea over in his head sounded rather pathetic. But…well…he wanted to believe.

Stupid Zim.

He clenched his teeth as fresh anger shot up from his heart and filled his veins like venom. It would have been better if the damned alien had never come to Earth in the first place. Or if fate absolutely demanded it, it would have been better if Dib had never even associated with him. Why couldn't he just have been stupid enough to believe Zim's pathetic disguise like the rest of humanity? What should have been a paranormal investigator's dream come true had become the taunting shadow of a nightmare over the years.

Zim was nothing. He was an outcast among his own people, destined to die an unceremonious death in the wake of shame. He wasn't even good enough for Earth. Rather than a real alien invader, the pitiful human race only received the leftovers of a failed soldier. It was nothing more than a cruel joke.

And yet…Dib felt genuine sorrow build up within him. Zim, the defective invader wannabe, was the only person in the universe who saw Dib as he was. The only one who took him seriously, seeing him as a serious danger. Even Zim himself would never earnestly dub the boy insane; rather, smart and cunning. A force to be reckoned with.

And in return, Dib had given Zim exactly what he had yearned for his entire life. He had openly shown both fear and determination, acknowledging Zim as the threat he so wanted to be.

The two had thrived off each other's mutual respect for one another, as surreptitious as it might have been.

And though Zim had been more withdrawn in the last year, it was evident he still cared. It was clear in his eyes and the way he held himself. When Dib would walk past him in the park, away from the cemetery, the Irken always straightened up and stared haughtily at him, as if preparing for a skirmish. It was the only time his eyes lit up with anything more than vague frustration.

Zim cared, and yet he was intimidated. Maybe it was because of Dib's recent growth spurt and the physical reminder he was aging. The pale, skinny teenage boy, now served as a physical reminder of his failures after years on this planet. In his scrambled sense of reasoning, it made more sense to just ignore Dib than confront him anymore…

Dib pulled up some grass absentmindedly and snuck another glance at his mother's headstone, melancholy consuming his heart. He didn't really know why he came here so often. It had only gotten worse in recent time, this strange need to visit her.

His earliest recollections of his mother were faint, flittering, and sprinkled with her bell-like laughter. Nostalgia always has a special way of leaving lingering bliss in even the most mundane of memories.

Pictures alone preserved that happiness. However, much like that long-forgotten feeling, nearly all of them had been buried out of sight years ago. Only one remained, hidden away in one of Dib's notebooks and unbeknownst to his father and sister. A single photo of the entire family, all beaming with bright-eyed optimism. Gaz had only been a baby at the time, and she was half-concealed in a sling strapped to her father's chest. Dib was sitting on his mother's lap while she looked down at him. His chubby little legs blurred in the photograph, in the process of kicking out gleefully, and he smiled widely from around the blue pacifier in his mouth. It was bittersweet to gaze upon something so long lost, this familial innocence frozen within an old photograph.

Years wore on and the rose-tinted shades had slowly been pulled from Dib's eyes. His mother's cancer, which had been in remission for years, had returned with a vengeance, plaguing the rest of his memories of her with pain and confusion. Her once voluminous hair thinned and wilted until, one day, nothing remained. She grew emaciated over time and often spent her days in bed, too weary to even stand on her own.

She still smiled, though. She always smiled, even though it was obvious she was hurting. She hugged her babies with thin, practically skeletal arms and turned her eyes lovingly towards her husband with a far away, dreamy look as if she had already entered a different plane of existence. The Professor, though, could only watch the cancer eat away at her until she, herself, eventually ceased to exist one day.

After her funeral, he threw himself into his work. His first order of business had been to find the cure to cancer. And he succeeded. After three years of extensive research. It had won him his first Nobel Prize and launched him to his current position as one of the most powerful minds on Earth, giving him his credibility and fame. It was also the beginning of his workaholic career. To this day, he spent countless hours at his lab, seldom seeing his children, and immersing himself in the delusion that he alone could make the whole godforsaken world a better place.

And Dib…he was left to make sense of the situation at the ripe old age of seven years old. His little sister, simultaneously impressionable and standoffish, sought desperately for a distraction. She picked up video games early on, starting off simple and steadily working her way into a full-blown gaming connoisseur before the age of ten. It gave her an escape from the situation. And Dib supposed that his obsession with the paranormal was his.

It was just how his family coped with loss. Ignore the problem. Hide the evidence. Fling yourself into passion and put on a carefully placed façade of apathy. Don't cry. That's what his father always said. "Don't cry, son. Crying solves nothing."

And Dib obeyed dutifully. Lately, though, his walls had slowly crumbled. He found himself at the graveyard more and more often, just sitting in front of his mother's headstone and pondering whatever quandary had been festering in his mind that day. As he grew older, he was beginning to remember less and less of her, and it saddened him deeply. He could already hardly remember what she sounded like. He feared that one day, he may even forget her entirely. It was often the driving force that prompted him to pull out that photo, despite the sharps pangs of sadness it evoked. Just to see her face. Her gently curled purple hair. Her laugh lines. Her eyes downcast as she beamed proudly at her son. And that's exactly where Dib's eyes always managed to travel as well. To this day, he often tried to recall a time when he had been able to smile the way he had in the picture, so freely and without a care in the world.

Why did you have to die?

Dib had never experienced such excruciating pain before; the agony of loss, there to remind him of how temporary every little aspect of life was. How delicate. Now, though, he felt a peculiar fear build up in his chest; a stabbing feeling of despair that told him he was going to face that very same pain yet again. It manifested itself in the most twisted way; by revealing the source to be none other than Zim.

Now, he felt desperation build up and a sense of spiraling control as he tried to imagine his days without the person who, for better or for worse, had had the biggest impact on his life thus far. Even if said 'person' was an alien. And even if said alien was his self-proclaimed mortal enemy.

There was nothing he could do for his mother. There never was. But he could do something for Zim.

Dib shivered a bit as he concluded this. It was bitter for him to swallow such a harsh truth. Yet, he stared up at his mother's grave marker and allowed himself to feel it with all the fervor in his heart. No excuses or hidden doubts.

I don't want Zim to die…

For the first time in almost a month, Dib felt sure of himself. And before his confidence could wane like the remnants of yesterday's night sky, he touched the engraved ridges of his mother's name lightly with his index finger and took comfort in the certainty that he was making the right choice.

Larb gazed laconically at Earth's growing outline through the windshield as he drew nearer and nearer to it. He had gotten the proximity warning not long before and was now close enough to see it with his own eyes.

Earth was small—smaller than Irk, at least—and quite ugly. It was blue with strange green splotches and looked to be on the verge of decay. After seeing his share of enemy civilizations fall victim to overpopulation and general stupidity, he could identify the signs surely enough.

A twinge of pride crept in and tried to convince him that nothing could possibly be worth stepping foot on this useless, backwater planet. The defective may as well have been "assigned" to a toxic waste dump.

Larb immediately reminded himself that his future depended on the success of this mission. Not only his future serving the Empire, but his future existing within it. He didn't know what methods the Tallest possessed, but he didn't dare question their power. They reveled in their authority and exercised it with casual indifference. It was every Irken's dream to have that kind of control.

Being on the receiving end of it left something of a bitter taste in the midst of his otherwise expected reaction. He was like a well-mannered child who had been disciplined for the very first time. He could only respond with hot-tempered frustration and the sheer belief that he didn't deserve such an indignity.

I conquered Vort for Irk's sake! Single-handedly!

With angered resignation, he turned his attention back to the planet. His new mission as a begrudging hitman not one he was adequately trained for, and it upset his pride more than anything.

Since Zim's ship was offline, he had no real way of tracking him. All he could guess was that the little parasite had made it back to his base of operations, which had to be somewhere on this dirtball.

Standing up quietly from his pilot's chair, pulled something from the pocket of his tunic. A SIR unit's memory drive. Zim's SIR, to be exact. It had been extracted from the robot during their debacle on the desert planet, almost as an afterthought.

In hindsight, Larb was quite satisfied he had thought to do it. It was an invader's trick of the trade; take anything that could potentially lead to valuable information or intelligence. And in a bizarre twist of fate, this particular situation involved stealing remnants from his own race—exploiting one of its few weaknesses.

For a while, the development and introduction of the SIRs had caused a certain amount of controversy. Yes, they held a distinct and valuable purpose; to gather information and assist their Irken proprietors in any way that would benefit their respective missions. It was a smart way to ensure a planet's demise. Creatures of flesh and blood were often forgetful while these robots were specially designed to be hardy, intelligent, and lethal.

At the same time, though, they could also single-handedly destroy an invader's cover if they were to fall into the wrong hands. They essentially held all information gathered by their Irken master, making capture by an enemy force extremely dangerous. It could give away an entire ploy and subsequently reveal the presence of the Empire to outside forces.

Larb hoped the information on the memory drive could give him leads to tracking Zim's location on this pitiful excuse for a planet.

Popping it into a slot on his dashboard, he watched stoically as the computer read it and accessed GIR's memories. They appeared on a screen in front of him, one by one, starting from the most recent that had downloaded. Through GIR's eyes, Larb boredly watched his own snakelike expression flash into view before roughly cutting to black once he'd deactivated it.

From what he could discern, nearly everything preceding that was an endless sea of twaddle. The same images popped up repeatedly. Zim's angry face as he yelled at the robot. Strange, pink creatures with odd appendages jutting out from the middle of their faces and on the sides of their heads. A bizarre, green house wedged awkwardly between what should have been the alleyway of two larger buildings.

And a boy. He saw this boy appear a lot.

Unlike the other strange Earth creatures, this one seemed keenly self-aware. He had a long black coat and strange, jagged hair. His eyes were almost comically amplified behind two round pieces of glass that covered his face (whatever that contraption was, it looked absolutely primitive).

Larb watched with faint bemusement as Zim and the weird Earthenoid chased each other around, engaged in battles, and taunted one another back and forth. As he flipped through memories impatiently, he saw the Earth creature grow smaller and smaller until the two were roughly the same size.

So, this is what the defective has been wasting his time on, Larb thought with a sneer. Frolicking around with this planet's equivalent of a smeet. Pathetic.

He continued browsing through the memory drive, trying to find anything that could be of use to him. Any indication of Zim's location on this planet. He saw lots of Earth creatures, lots of TV, and lots of bizarre, greasy-looking foods. The SIR unit was about as useful as he would have expected it to be.

Then, as he was flipping through the data, he caught sight of something strange. It was the boy with the black hair again. He was standing in the gateway of a metal, rectangular building in front of an Irken Spittle Runner. He and Zim were yelling at each other and quickly resorting to physical combat. The puny, high-pitched voice of the SIR unit cheered them on, watching as they clawed and punched at one another.

"That ship is property of the Irken Empire! Return it at once!" Zim hollered, before receiving a harsh slap to the face.

"No way! I found it, so it's mine!" The Earth thing reeled his arm back to repeat the gesture. Before he could, though, Zim swiftly recovered and flung one clawed hand out, leaving three angry slash marks across his face.

Larb felt a pang of anger shoot up inside him.

He had let a member of the indigenous species take possession of Irken property!? And he had revealed his identity!

There was a reason he hadn't been assigned to a real mission, and the proof was right there. Defectives couldn't be trusted with anything.

"Return it, you disgusting piece of excrement!" The Irken darted forward and lunged for the ship, about to deploy some sort of weapon, or maybe a shrink ray. Some piece of equipment that had inevitably been purchased with the Empire's monies.

Pah.

Before he could succeed, though, the "piece of excrement" in question tackled him to the ground. His PAK hit the dirt first, effectively knocking the wind out of him. While his combatant was standing over him and enjoying his short moment of victory, though, Zim jerkily reared his leg back and roughly kicked him in the groin with the last of his energy.

The boy sank to the ground beside him, and the anticlimactic brawl appeared to come to an end. The two curled up and groaned, mumbling insults at each other as they favored their respective hits, Zim hugging his middle tightly and the Earthenoid clutching the area between his legs.

How pathetic, Larb thought for the shmillionth time, pausing the memory. He had seen more than enough of this disgrace to his Empire.

He hesitated for a moment, though, staring at the faces of the two on the screen, locked in pained grimaces, before letting his eyes waver to the partially concealed Spittle Runner in the background. He zoomed in on it, and his annoyance subdued a bit as a thought took hold of him. Wherever this piece of Irken equipment was located, the Earth creature must be close by and, therefore, the defective as well. If he could lock onto the signature of the ship, he could find him…

With renewed vigor, Larb cockily flicked a few buttons on his dash and watched as the monitor scanned for Irken vehicles nearby. As to be expected, the Voot failed to pop up. The Spittle Runner, however, appeared almost immediately, coordinates and all. It was still online and fully functional.

Satisfied with his lead, Larb curled his lips into an ugly sneer and steered his ship in the direction of Dib's home.

Zim yawned, then shuddered in the midst of it. It dissolved into a fit of coughing. Once it finished, he opened his eyes halfway and let his mouth hang ajar while he sucked in deep, ragged breathes. He looked like a fish moments before being gutted.

Dib breezed through the room, walking around him carefully and picking up his backpack off the floor. He hadn't been back at his own house in almost two days, and he needed a shower desperately. He also needed to prepare for his trip.

Just the mere thought of it filled him with a mixture of dread and anxiety. He had made up his mind the night before that they would be taking Tak's ship, primarily since he didn't have any experience flying Zim's. It was also bigger—big enough to hold two passengers and a fuckton of medical equipment, at least. Even so, Dib had limited experience helming it. He had flown it by himself before, on rare occasions, but other, more leisurely times were spent with Gaz. When he could manage to bribe her, she would give him brief, terse flying lessons while standing over the control panel and staring disinterestedly out the windshield at passing stars.

The idea of embarking on a long mission like this terrified him to his core. If only he could get her to come along.

Dib sighed, imagining the conversation that would follow that request. Especially when he couldn't really put into words why the hell he was going on the trip in the first place.

On his way out, he shot a final glance over at the sickbed. Zim didn't look like he would be going anywhere anytime soon.

Late into the previous night, he and the computer had discussed both the trip to the medical planet and Zim's care for the days preceding it. This led to more monitors entering the room and more tubes and needles entering his arms.

He brushed absently past GIR as he crossed the threshold, not even acknowledging him. So far, the robot hadn't accidently shut off his master's life-support, nor had he done anything worse than just be a general annoyance. Dib was still slightly wary of him, but he had more or less grown to trust him alone with Zim.

Once Dib left, GIR wandered over to where Zim lay. After a brief moment of hesitation, he climbed up and settled himself on top of the Irken's head.

Master doesn't like it when I sleep here.

But his head was so warm today! And, besides, he didn't seem to mind.

Zim's hooded eyes slid closed again and he drifted back into his world of hazy fever dreams. GIR, in turn, decided to follow suit while he waited for the big-head boy to return. He obediently closed his eyes and napped to the rhythm of Zim's heart monitor.

Dib pushed another flat of plastic water bottles into the Spittle, eyeing the growing supply warily. Just an hour before, he'd been at the store, buying up as much as he felt he could feasibly fit. He still had no idea if it would be enough, and his faith in finding fresh water out in the middle of space was naught.

With a nervous grimace, he piled the last one in and closed the storage hatch. The sound echoed through the garage.

Dib's father was in the living room, on the phone with someone when he walked into the house. For a moment, Dib assumed he was in the middle of some conversation regarding his latest study over at the lab, or perhaps in a debate over some groundbreaking scientific discovery.

As he closed the door behind him, though, he was mildly surprised to hear that he was the subject of his father's conversation.

"Ah yes! That son of mine shot up like a root almost overnight! Quite the growth spurt! Now just you wait until he fills out; I'll bet he ends just as handsome as his amazing father! One can only hope that by then, he will have seen the light and followed in my footsteps…"

Dib rolled his eyes as he slunk furtively through the living room and towards the pantry. He could still hear his father talking in the other room. He guessed the recipient was some relative, or maybe a coworker. Whatever. Dib had bigger things on his mind.

"Yes, well—who? Gazlene? Ah yes, Gaz! She's doing just fine! Just beat the final boss in Dank Souls if I'm not mistaken…"

Dib rifled through a cupboard of non-perishables, half-listening as he gathered food for his trip. With a pang of worry, he began to wonder just how long he would be gone. What would happen if he were to run out of human food? He grew more and more nervous as he thought about it. His clammy hands continued to shove bags of chips and packages of Top Ramen into his backpack while he tried to gauge the length of this journey. As it had with the water, worry crept up on him. If he ran out of supplies, he didn't know if or when he would be able to find any more. Slowly starving to death in space wasn't exactly ideal.

Humorlessly, he remembered that he had an almost boundless supply of Irken food on Tak's ship, leftover from her attempted invasion. They looked exactly like Zim's and were stacked in neat little canisters in the back of the storage compartment. Oh, and they were totally useless to him.

At one point, almost immediately after claiming the ship for himself, Dib had opened one of the rations and curiously sampled its contents. Bad idea. The sickeningly sweet, but indiscernible substances inside had wreaked havoc on his body, causing him to spend the next day and a half camped out on his bathroom floor, sicker than he'd been in years. Irken food was clearly not meant for human consumption. After that incident, they'd sat dormant in storage, slowly gathering dust.

Dib's backpack bulged with his hoard as he quickly gathered anything that could be preserved for long periods of time. Boxes of mac and cheese, peanut butter, granola bars. Into his bag they went. Just as he was struggling to zip it all up, he eyed something else on the top shelf, right next to Gaz's box of Coco-'Splodies: several large, unopened bottles.

His father, having entertained quite a few world leaders in his day, had a plentiful supply of hard liquor; enough to open a fully functional bar in their very household if they so desired. These ones, it seemed, had been stowed and forgotten about after the last soirée.

Hesitantly, without really knowing why, Dib reached one pale hand forward.

"Son?"

Spooked, he wrenched it back in. "Yeah, Dad?" he called back, his voice cracking a little. For a split second, he was worried he had been caught red-handed.

"I must get back to the lab! I believe Gaz is still out at the video arcade. There should be dinner in the fridge!"

"O-okay, sounds good!" he stammered. He felt a pang of guilt when he realized that he was essentially leaving his family for an untold amount of time without a proper explanation. Oh God, what had he gotten himself into?

As soon as he heard the front door slam, he hastily snatched a bottle at random by the neck and shoved it into his bag before he could think too hard about it.

After relentlessly yanking the zipper closed on his overloaded backpack, Dib filled up a stainless-steel water bottle with the tap and scurried upstairs to collect more items into a duffel bag.

Laptop. Spare clothes. Earbuds? Will I need these? No! Only pack the essentials.

Dib glanced around nervously, wondering how Zim was fairing back at his base.

Items made their way into his duffel, a mixed bag of "essentials" and impulsive choices that grew more impulsive with each passing minute. Chargers, toiletries, a book he'd left half-finished three months ago, his spare glasses with the thick and unflatteringly blocky frames, a tube of lip balm he found behind his desk. He was in the midst of shoving several pairs of socks into his overstuffed bag when he heard a sudden crash from downstairs.

No. It was more than a crash. It felt like a goddamned earthquake. Dib was promptly knocked to his knees as the entire house shook beneath him. He could hear glass shattering from the floor below and several photos tumble off the walls in the hallway.

What the hell?

He scrambled to grab the duffel. His backpack was still securely placed over his shoulders. When he flung open his door, he immediately let out a frightened yelp. Smoke and dust from the drywall flooded into his room as he raced down the stairs, heart pounding.

When he reached the bottom, he stopped dead in his tracks. His heart lurched in his chest as he took in the sight before him.

Where his front door had stood just seconds ago was now an enormous, gaping hole. Torn wires and insulation oozed out of the obliterated walls like pus from a wound. Thick trails of black smoke immediately found their way into his lungs and his eyes watered and stung. He coughed harshly and staggered forward a bit, trying to see past the haze.

The smoke dissipated, little by little, and he could make out a figure looming no more than twenty feet away from him. Then, as he realized what he was looking at, his burning eyes widened, and his knees nearly buckled from beneath him.

In the midst of the wreckage was the silhouette of an Irken, bolstered up on PAK legs and standing slightly taller than Zim. It was wielding an object in one gloved hand; something that glowed and pulsated like some sort of demonic searchlight.

And as it slowly sharpened into focus, Dib found himself staring right into the barrel of a loaded plasma gun.

Chapter Text

Dib's muscles went rigid. The dust swirled around the both of them in thick, choking billows, thinning by the second to reveal an icy stare in the large pupilless eyes.

The Irken slowly lowered himself down to the ground on his PAK legs, aim on the gun never faltering. As soon as his feet touched the floor, the metal appendages rose back up, surrounding Dib from four different sides with lethal, razor sharp tips that expertly pointed themselves directly at his neck.

Dib kept his eyes pinned on the plasma gun, caught somewhere between crippling shock and the distinct brand of terror that made one's surroundings feel like nothing more than a hazy dream. His heart thumped in his chest, as if trying to beat its way out, while his mind sluggishly worked through the fear that held his fragile rationality in its grip. Slowly, without so much as turning his head, he glanced over the Irken's shoulder, towards the gaping hole that was once his front door.

"I wouldn't try that if I were you," the Irken said, blue electricity igniting the tips of the PAK legs. His voice was unpleasantly high and nasally. "If you know what is good for you, you'll tell me where your little friend is hiding out."

The PAK legs closed in on Dib's throat just by a hair, prompting his already-rapid heart rate to surge impossibly faster.

A little voice in the back of his head screamed at him to run; to find an opening and make his move. His feet stayed concreted to the carpet for another moment while he fought to make sense of it. Then, as if every instinct honed in his years fighting Zim had come flooding back to him, Dib snapped out of it.

He nimbly ducked down to the ground, away from the PAK legs, and quickly rolled onto his side just in time to miss a blast from the gun.

Once freed from the weapon's aim, he jumped to his feet and dashed to the doorway. Behind him, he heard another blast of the gun, and its lethal contents whizzed by his face in the blink of an eye. Plasma connected with the wall beside him, sending an explosion of powdery drywall through the air and nearly blinding him with the dust. He scrambled away from it and continued lurching towards the threshold. His bulging backpack slowed him down and he could feel his heavy overnight bag slip from his clammy fingers with each jolting footfall.

As soon as he made his way into the bright, dazzling sunshine and turned the corner to the other side of his house, he realized he had no plan.

What am I supposed to do? Run back to the base? Lead this psychopath straight to Zim?

As he was searching through the limited possibilities in his mind, he heard the very familiar sound of PAK legs engaging behind him. He had heard it a million times, from a million different angles. Only now was he realizing just how often Zim had bluffed when he used those against Dib; for this Irken seemed to see no repercussion in annihilating him if he didn't obey. Also, unlike Zim, it was increasingly obvious that he didn't care if he was spotted in his true form.

Dib's heart dropped to his stomach. He took off running down the thin strip of walkway nestled between his house and the neighbors'.

The sound of encroaching PAK legs only grew louder behind him, metallic scuffling that he knew so well. Just as he turned the corner to his backyard, in the direction of the adjoined garage that held Tak's ship, his left foot sank into the dirt and twisted sharply to the side.

Sharp pain erupted from his ankle. He flung forward, glasses flying off his face and tumbling elsewhere in the grass in front of him. He landed with a grunt as his knees hit the ground and briefly skidded along the sod. Dib's face, twisted into a tight grimace, fell in an instant as he opened his eyes—eyes that could see nothing beyond a ten-foot radius.

Oh God, oh God.

He was half-blind without his glasses. He blinked a few times in vain, only to see a pale green blur standing over him. He tried to get up, but immediately fell back down with a cry as fiery hot pain began to course up his leg.

Slowly, a single PAK leg dipped downwards, the tip sparking blue once again. It lowered over Dib's throat, hovering above his jugular. He felt the heat rise, burning his skin without even touching it.

"I'm giving you one last chance to cooperate. If you don't, I'll be forced to kill you and extract the information from your pathetic brain meats instead. Now where is the Irken Zim?"

Dib struggled, the petrified expression returning to his face. "I-I don't—" he stammered.

The Irken growled. From his fuzzy gaze, Dib could see one corner of his mouth lift into a sadistic, zipper-toothed smirk.

"Very well, then!"

The tip raised a bit, heating up even further in preparation to extinguish his life in one fell swoop.

Dib clenched his eyes shut, grit his teeth, and waited for the onslaught. For the sound of his own screaming before the blood poured from his throat and he doomed everyone. Doomed himself by being so shortsighted in everything but his own qualms. Doomed the Earth by meddling with Irken affairs and leading this monster straight to his planet. Doomed Zim in his abandonment…

Suddenly he heard it. Horrid shrieking erupted through the air, quickly followed by the sensation of something wet spreading across his body and saturating his shirt.

He felt as though he were having an out-of-body experience, seeing his own downfall from far beyond, off in some other realm.

Wailing screams continued, relenting only long enough to suck in another strangled breath. He waited for the pain to hit him next. It didn't. He waited a second longer. It still didn't. Something else was off, too. This wasn't his screaming.

Reluctantly, Dib cracked one eye open, only to see the Irken a few feet away from him, writhing on the grass in agony. His tunic was soaking wet and the flesh on his exposed skin was beginning to suppurate as tiny billows of steam rose up in the air.

He looked down at his own shirt, equally drenched and sticking to his chest. But it wasn't wet with blood.

It took a moment before he realized what was happening.

The sprinklers…

They went off around this time every day.

Dib's mind suddenly switched from despairing solemnity in the face of death to an uncharacteristically goofy brand of euphoria in an instant. He wanted to celebrate. Wanted to fall back into the wet blades of grass and laugh his happy ass off until he couldn't breathe. Luck didn't favor him often. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time it ever had. But he didn't laugh, nor did he even crack a smile. He didn't have time.

Sodden with sprinkler water, Dib fumbled around until he found his glasses a few feet away. He just narrowly avoided poking his eyes out as he threw them over his face, snatched up his overnight bag, and booked it to the garage once again.

Something was horribly wrong with his ankle; tears squeezed out of his eyes with every bit of pressure he forced on it. Each step caused searing pain to shore up to almost unbearable levels. He had to keep running, though. Had to get to Tak's ship.

Throwing up the garage door and clumsily swiping the tarp off it, he glanced behind him once more to make sure that he wasn't being followed. He wasn't.

He piled in after his two impossibly heavy, waterlogged bags and anxiously started up the ship. It had been an embarrassingly long time since he had driven it by himself, and he struggled to maneuver it out of the garage before he caught the whole building on fire. As soon as he managed it, though, the ship whirred in faint protest and rose shakily into the air. So far, so good.

He could see an aerial view of his neighborhood now. On the ground below, he caught sight of the Irken lurching towards the bushes in an attempt to escape the unexpected onslaught of acidic pain the sprinklers continued to rain down upon him.

Dib had but one option. He had to get back to the base. He had to get Zim out of here.

In the darkness of the medical bay, GIR was sitting on the floor, propped up against the sickbed and lightly humming to himself. Beside him hung Zim's unsprung PAK legs, slightly tangled up within each other and trailing down to the ground in a heap.

He picked one up began playing with it, listening to the metallic, tinkling noise it made as it bumped against the others. Almost like windchimes. Or music. GIR's humming suddenly morphed into full blown singing, in a painfully off-key tune no less, as he rattled the limbs together and tried to harmonize to the noise they produced. Then, he took two in his hands and began to drum them on the floor, kicking his legs along with them.

Growing bored of this after a few moments, he climbed up onto the bed and peered at Zim's face.

Even in slumber, he looked faintly pained and was trembling noticeable beneath his blankets. Like he was having a nightmare. Or maybe he was cold. Or perhaps his tummy still hurt.

GIR sympathetically patted him on the head, right between his antennae. At the sensation, the delicate feelers peeled back, then bobbed up slightly when he moved his hand away. Zim stirred uncomfortably in his sleep.

He began to wonder when Dib was coming back. Master wasn't much company. In fact, he was even more boring now than when he was hunkered down in his lab working. At least when he was doing that, he would still occasionally take the time to pace around and yell out orders, demanding some little errand or a piece of equipment…or a snack. Mmmm. Snacks sounded pretty good right now…

GIR hopped up, already dead set on running upstairs to raid the fridge. Before he could even cross the threshold, though, he smacked headfirst into someone charging full speed into the room.

"GIR! GIR, I need your help!"

The robot sprawled roughly onto his back from the blow, making a metallic pinging noise that echoed throughout the med bay. He recovered remarkably fast, though, and leapt to his feet at the sound of his name.

Dib leaned against the wall for a moment, gasping for air before he continued. His clothes were still wet, and he had dirt smeared across his left cheek. GIR watched in silence as he made his way to the other end of the room, limping badly, and began meddling with the monitors by Zim's side. "Hurry, we don't have much time, and I need you to grab Zim's medical equipment and get him to the ship before we're found and—"

Dib paused again, breathing heavily. One of the lenses on his glasses were cracked, leaving spindly, spiderlike veins across the surface and vaguely obscuring the vision in his right eye. He was barely coherent.

The jumble of demands was immediately lost on the robot, who continued to gawk at him inquisitively from the doorway. "Whuuu?"

Dib felt his heart jump in his chest as a fresh wave of anxiety wracked its way through him. He tried again, this time attempting to push down the growing plethora of dread and hysteria that was welling up inside him so he could form a proper sentence. "GIR. Listen carefully. I need you to help me take Zim's equipment and load it in the ship. We have to get out of here now! D-do you understand?"

He almost choked on the last words, and fretfully turned to look over his shoulder. He swore that he could hear his pursuer, ready to burst into the base and annihilate them all in an instant.

When he turned back around, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the close proximity GIR had created in just a split second. He was standing directly in front of him, the cyan blue ports on his body lit up to a vibrant and rather malicious-looking crimson.

"Yes, Sir!" His right arm was bent stiffly into a salute.

Dib stared at him for a beat. The worried crease in his brow quickly vanished, replaced by an oddly dumbstruck expression. But like everything else, he simply didn't have time to question it.

Instead, he nodded curtly, stunned silent, and busied himself with gathering their most vital belongings while GIR obediently followed suit.

A flurry of voices and shuffling surrounded Zim, coming at him from all angles and mingling unpleasantly with the already sickly presence of malaise.

He didn't remember where he was, nor how he'd gotten there. He'd been flittering in and out of consciousness, alternating between feeling physically miserable when he was awake and being plagued with fleeting, repetitive nightmares when he wasn't. It was like an accursed carousel that never let up.

Now, though, the disruption in the ambience was enough to rouse him from his current onslaught of woozy fever dreams. His antennae twitched faintly as they picked up on the vibrations around him.

Heavy eyelids followed next, raising just high enough for him to see his world; dim and clouded as though he had woken up in the dark. He may as well have kept them shut. Dull pain hit him from all angles. His chest ached from coughing, the nausea shored up, and every weak breath he pulled in was an agony all its own. He almost instantly began rocking back and forth in his nest of blankets in an innocent effort to distract his mind from it all.

Something was very wrong; muted beeping and ringing noises were assaulting his antennae and he smelt a revolting mixture of vomit, plastic, and the Lysol disinfectant spray he used in the subterranean levels of his base. And…and something else. Like sweat masked behind the stench of cheap, drugstore cologne. Every time he awoke, he experienced these unpleasant sensations anew.

Voices, too. They were always around, echoing around in his head as if he were in a crowded ballroom of people, but he couldn't focus enough to acknowledge them at any more than face value. Like everything else, they were clouded and stifled, drifting through an in-between land where they might not even be real at all.

This time, though, the voices were accompanied by vague, jittery movements in the air and rushing footsteps that surrounded him and then dissipated out of hearing range repeatedly.

It wasn't right. Nothing about this was right.

Then, he felt something new. A slight tugging at his wrist. Then, shortly after, a firm pair of hands that attempted to lift him into a sitting position.

Somewhere in his imaginary world of haze and listlessness, a dim flame of fright began to take hold. He forced his eyes open wider, seeing the silhouette of a person standing in front of him, waving a hand over his face and trying to rouse his attention. The only feature that stood out was an odd scythe-shaped lock of hair that bobbed crookedly atop his head.

Dim recognition, in the loosest sense of the word, dawned on Zim, followed by a jolt of belated perturbation. For this being, too, had melded in with his nightmares. His understanding of consciousness and unconsciousness, both purgatories in and of themselves, suddenly frayed around the edges in their delicate separations of being. They clashed into one another and left his mind adrift with aimless terror. "N-no. Leave me alone."

Something in his right antennae began beeping faster and faster, louder and louder. Frantically. His heart monitor as panic shored up inside him.

The hands that had tried to lift him paused for a moment, and then released him again. Zim felt a new kind of tugging at his chest, then the bothersome noise ceased completely as he disconnected with the monitor.

"Come on Zim, I know you're having a hard time and all, but I really need you to work with me here."

The hands were back, lifting up his limp, heavy body. Zim tried to withdraw, parting his lips just enough to release a strangled, weak hiss.

When he opened his eyes again, though, he simply saw the same shape standing before him, unshaken by his warning signs.

"I need you to stand up and walk with me to the ship. Then you can fucking sleep again, okay!?"

The edges of the figure warbled and faded in and out in his delirium. Try as he might, Zim simply couldn't place this being or its significance—only that it surely must be a harbinger of doom, materializing there to taunt him. Some piece in the fabric of his existence that had wrought with it only conflict.

He felt his body fall back into the pillows for a second time as he was practically tossed into his nest of blankets. He heard an exasperated huff, followed by the sound of disappearing footfalls.

A few brief moments passed in which he almost drifted off again before the same process started up again. This time, though, he felt himself being roughly jerked upright by a strategically placed arm beneath his back while another wormed its way under his knees.

He was crudely lifted up and moved elsewhere, still tangled up in his blankets. His spooch protested the movement, roiling queasily. Another beat and he was resting on some sort of hard surface. Paired with it was the strangest sensation of floating.

Up and down, up and down.

It was soothing, somehow, and before he knew it, his eyes were drawing to a close once more. The last thing he felt before slipping back into sleep completely was the sound of muffled yelling, wind whipping past his face, and doors slamming behind him. It all felt like nothing more than white noise, though. The meaning of it was left to his dreams to decipher.

Dib scurried up to the main level, strange cargo in tow on something most aptly resembling a hovering gurney. It was circular and rather simple in design, levitating about a foot off the ground. Zim's PAK legs, the only objects that weren't heavily enveloped with blankets, jutted from either side of it and skidded lightly along the linoleum floor.

He needed to get out of here. He was almost there…

Just as he was about to cross the threshold of the door, however, the computer's vocal interface unexpectedly rose up from above. "Before lockdown orders can be initiated, all data taken from biological lifeform must be transferred to the Irken Control Brains as per protocol."

"What?" Dib panted. He didn't have time for the computer's weird jargon right now!

"Zim's medical records. They must be sent to Irken authorities."

"Okay, fine! Whatever! I don't care. Just make sure nobody enters the base." He didn't wait around for the computer's response, instead bursting out into the light of day and leaving the bizarre house behind without so much as a second glance.

Seconds later and the sound of an engine puttered to life. A few more moments still, and eventually, the base was nothing more than a speck in the distance as they hurtled off into space.

Larb must have blacked out from the pain, for when he opened his eyes again, the attack had ceased, and he was curled beneath some bushes nearby. His exposed skin was scorched, and the child—along with the ship—was gone.

Nothing could compare to the humiliation that burned through his body. Not the snare he had found himself caught in by his very own Tallest, nor his prior failure on an unnamed desert planet not long after. Not even the blistering pain that spread across his entire form and left his PAK whining as it tried to repair the tissue could compare to the knowledge that he had been bested by something so simple-minded as an Earth smeet.

One moment he had been bluffing in the face of the strange alien child, and the next he was attacked by an endless onslaught of toxicity. It scalded his skin like acid and left him reeling with its relentlessness.

He seethed in rage, let a few expletives in his own dialect tumble out of his mouth, and shakily staggered to his feet.

He had to find this human. He was perhaps the only link to the defective he had on this worthless backwater planet.

Beelining to the direction of his ship, Larb began to cringe in pain at his sudden movements. His uniform was still soaked, and it had caused the tender flesh beneath to blister.

The first thing he did upon clambering into the ship was quickly pull off his tunic and pants to address the weeping burns. They marred nearly every inch of his skin, leaving him with splotches of damaged flesh in varying states of severity.

His PAK was working overtime to heal them, steadily releasing a stream of painkillers into his body as it did so. He was beginning to feel the repercussions of it, too; his mind flittered and blurred around the edges as he accessed the monitor screen on his dash. The growing sensation of lethargy threatened to swallow him whole.

Stubbornly, he pushed on. "Computer, locate all Irken vessels within the proximity."

He waited, fearful that it was already out of range. Then, "One result shown. Model: Spittle Runner."

"State its occupants…" His voice was beginning to slur somewhat.

"Two lifeforms aboard and one registered SIR unit."

…Two lifeforms?

Larb took a sudden interest to the hologram of the ship before him, his warbled brain finding it oddly mesmerizing. The painkillers may have been doing an adequate job at numbing his physical pain, but they were progressively numbing his judgement as well.

He needed to focus. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he asked another question. "Would one of these lifeforms happen to be Irken?"

He waited a beat.

"Affirmative."

Excellent. On to the next course of action.

"Computer, track the sh—"

Suddenly, the display on his dash, of the ship and its coordinates, changed abruptly to an incoming transmission screen.

Larb, taken aback by it, simply stared dumbly at the flashing monitor. "No! Decline call! Track that ship! I don't have time for this!"

Nothing changed, though. The screen continued to flash in his stupefied face, accompanied by a soft ringing that pattered throughout the cockpit of the Zhook.

"Decline call!" He stood up unsteadily, clinging to the dash with one hand and gripping his wet tunic with the other. The sedatives that were gradually working their way into his bloodstream were making him drowsy and belligerent.

"Unable to compute."

"Unable to compute?" he parroted. Every passing second meant he was gaining distance between himself and the defective! He needed to track that ship before it fell out of range and his Zhook could no longer pick up its signal.

The screen would not go away. It remained, awaiting his orders to answer the incoming transmission. The irksome beeping continued to blare into his antennae. He didn't have a choice but to slam the button and take the call.

For the love of Miyuki…

"WHAAAAAT?!"

Two stunned faces lit up the screen. They took in his haggard, hysterical appearance, his glazed eyes and naked torso.

Larb's eyes widened to the size of saucers as a heavy silence fell over them.

He gulped.

"M-my Tallest?"

After a while, the feeling of blood pumping through Dib's head had simmered down, leaving him exhausted and slumped over in the command chair. He stared vacuously down at the console as his breath whistled in and out, the remnants of a sore throat still lingering from smoke inhalation and overexertion.

An endless assemblage of stars peppered the dark sky ahead, as small and infinite as the grains of sand on a beach. More closed in around the ship, zipping past it fervently and with delicate grace.

Dib had always treasured the sparse moments in his life when he was able to admire space up close, rather than from the mundane confines of his rooftop at home. He wished he were able to appreciate it to its fullest extent now.

Instead, he felt only a dull throbbing in his left ankle, his sore muscles, and the bothersome visual impairment from his busted right lens.

Reluctantly, he scooted back and hitched his leg up to examine whatever the hell had happened to him. A sharp pain ran up his calf as he did so, prompting a soft whimper to slip from between his teeth.

He pulled off his boot to reveal a puffy, swollen ankle that was steadily casting an ugly purple bruise over the side of his foot.

Dib cringed a bit at the sight, then very gently touched the tender area with one finger. He tried pivoting the joint. Despite the flare of pain the movement elicited, he was able to do so.

It's not broken. Just sprained. Badly.

There was nothing he could do for it. He just had to deal.

He tried to digest all that had just happened in such a brief span of time. His narrow escape, the hasty loading of supplies—he hoped to God he hadn't forgotten anything in the rush—and finally, the state of the Spittle Runner's other two occupants. For the last several minutes, the ship had been eerily quiet.

Zim was tucked into the back of the ship, in an absurdly tiny space that could only arguably be considered a cabin. As before, he was hooked to various machines, drips, and even a smaller, simpler variation of the charging cell he had been attached to back in the med bay.

Beside him, propped in the corner, was the object Dib had transferred him out on. It was a round, hovering platform that must have acted as the Irken equivalent of a gurney.

Examining it closer now, Dib realized it held a certain level of familiarity. A beat later, and he remembered: he'd been strapped to this very same contraption a few years before by his own sister when they were fleeing Zim's space station.

He let a bitter, somewhat shaky laugh slip. The ugly noise was alarmingly jarring in the silence of the cockpit.

Propping his ankle up on the dashboard, Dib twisted around so he could rifle through his backpack. He pulled out a steel water bottle, filled to the brim with fresh water. It sweated just faintly with condensation.

Dib pulled it out and took a lengthy gulp, allowing the cool liquid to dampen his dry throat before screwing the top back on and glancing back out at the passing stars.

He could see his own reflection in the windshield, looking dazed. His eyes were gaunt and sunken with sleep deprivation and his face was pale. His clothes were disheveled and stained with turf. He absently wiped the dirt smear from his face and frowned a bit. Then, he noticed something else in the reflection; a tiny robot standing beside him expectantly.

A bit spooked, he pivoted in his chair and turned to face GIR.

"Did I do good?"

Dib blinked. He had almost forgotten about him entirely.

It took a second before the gears began turning in his head and he actually considered the question the robot had asked him.

Heh. Yeah. GIR had obeyed the orders he was given.

Hell, he'd even done that…thing. The one where his ports turned red, and he became inexplicably serious for a fleeting moment. Dib had never seen him do that with anyone other than Zim.

And not only that, but after he'd saluted and faded back to normal, he'd set to performing the task Dib had asked of him without a single hiccup. It could have been a complete fluke. Or perhaps he had underestimated Zim's so-called sidekick.

After all, for the last few days, Dib had generally regarded GIR in the same way a disappointed parent may regard their hopeless fuck-up of a child. His very low expectations of the robot to actually provide him with useful assistance was evident in every action he took to avoid the little menace. And despite that, GIR still retained an innocent level of trust and affection for him.

"Yes, GIR," he replied at last. "You did very well."

GIR squealed shrilly and leapt towards his face, causing him to nearly topple out of the pilot's chair. His water bottle fell to the ground with a loud clang.

"Uhh, yeah," he mumbled as GIR latched onto him in a rather tight, uncomfortable hug.

Dib pried him off after a moment and fished around in his backpack again. He didn't want to waste food when he didn't know how long he'd be gone. But…

"Here." He handed him a crushed, deflated bag of potato chips.

The robot accepted the gift exuberantly and proceeded to roughly rip the packaging in half, instantly showering the cockpit in a confetti-like burst of sour cream and onion. Then, shooting Dib another dopey smile, he launched into an extensive scavenging venture along the floor, stuffing handfuls of crisps into his mouth.

Dib returned the grin half-heartedly and turned back around to gaze at the passing stars beyond.

As the hours ticked by, he attempted to ignore the aching in his foot and the unpleasant smacking noise of GIR's chewing in favor of withdrawing into his own thoughts. More than anything, he tried to find comfort in his moment of peace. Bad omens of the coming days led him to believe that it would be the last for quite a while.

He couldn't afford to take peace for granted anymore.

Chapter Text

Considering the two intergalactic leaders had the mindset akin to a pair of dull-witted fraternity brothers, it should come as no surprise that Red and Purple were quite inept in the ways of patience. Quite inept in many respects, as a matter of fact. It hardly mattered, though.

They were among the few Irkens who had the privilege to flaunt the incredible power that genetics alone had bestowed upon them—height. And with that privilege came the ability to push the boundaries of brashness, indolence, and any other undesirable trait that would besmirch the reputation of a lesser Irken in the eyes of their heavily stringent, militaristic society.

The ship's extensive crew were prime examples of the "lesser Irkens" in question and often took the brunt of their leaders' abuse. Time had eventually conditioned them to hold their tongues unless spoken to, remain presentable at all times, and carry out their assigned tasks without so much as a single blunder. They took on a submissive stance in the name of self-preservation and therefore made it their collective undertaking to stay under the radar. And given that the two ends of Irken power distance were still forced to mesh in the midst of the spacious control room, it had led to a rather peculiar dynamic between the two parties.

Those who worked aboard the Massive quickly became desensitized to the unpleasant sounds of smacking lips and belches, crinkling snack wrappers, and loud conversations between Red and Purple. They kept to themselves and saw no reason to pry in their Tallest's private affairs.

In a strange turn of events, though, the past two weeks had seen something of an anomaly in this unspoken mentality. Suddenly, guards were dropped, glances were exchanged, and shifty-eyed gossip spread between crew members on the state of their race's politics.

It was all in the name of their Tallest's inexplicable change in attitude. Within the last week, a heavy and unexpected hush had fallen over them both, manifesting itself into a reasonable cause for worry. Out of the blue, the two had fallen into a state of total disengagement. The two had slowly lost their once insatiable obsession with snacking and partying, instead partaking in brooding conduct and private discussions with one another. It left a leery silence that hung heavily in the air and went so far as to distract those who worked aboard the Massive and strike them with a lingering sense of paranoia.

The uneasiness stemmed from the fact that nothing at all seemed to be amiss. No wars, no threats of rebellions… nothing. Why else would Irk's rulers be acting so uncharacteristically serious?

When Red and Purple did speak to one another, their voices were hushed and unmistakably argumentative, leading to vicious sessions of bickering that only seemed to get more and more intense with each passing day until it was nearly impossible for it to be ignored.

None of the crew members could have feasibly guessed what the source of their frustrations was: Larb.

Despite allotting him a specific deadline—a deadline that hadn't yet arrived, no less—neither Tallest was taking well to his lack of communication between them. As far as they were concerned, the job should have been finished promptly and cleanly within a matter of days. Instead, they had endured nearly two weeks of radio silence, made even more troublesome by one outlying factor—Zim's continued survival.

Purple had regularly checked the documentation of all newly deceased Irkens, poring over it at the same time every day. The Control Brains routinely updated such information and had it on standby. Each time, though, Zim's name was not on it. His PAK was still functional, and he was still harboring a deadly toxin that should have never seen the world outside of the laboratory in which it was created.

The most recent perusing of this list had seen the last of their patience ebb away. It was enough to prompt them to demand answers from the unwitting little pawn they'd chosen to do their dirty work.

"Send a transmission out to Invader Larb." Purple's voice rang through the air for the first time in hours, breaking the silence in the room and startling a few of the navigators.

As soon as they recovered, a quiet shuffling rippled through the station as they fulfilled the command. The large screen at the head of the Massive flickered to life and began seeking connection with Larb's Zhook Cruiser.

The Tallest stood before it, stoically waiting for Larb's face to appear. For a length of time, waiting was all they did. It was considered uncouth for a soldier to leave their Tallest in anticipation. Under the staunch belief that one ring alone should be long enough to summon Larb, both leaders narrowed their eyes in mutual irritation.

Red was about to speak when,

"WHAAAAAT?!"

The screen lit up, displaying Larb's enraged face. The hysteria in his voice was enough to rouse even the most seasoned of the Massive's crew into snapping their heads in the direction of the source. Everyone in the Massive stared up at the screen, wide-eyed.

To say Larb looked worse for wear would be an understatement. Large, rash-like patches of blistered flesh blossomed across every square inch of his body, which was displayed quite broadly for all to see. Having cast aside his sopping wet tunic in a hurry, he was left bare-chested and disheveled before the entirety of the ship's crew and his very own Almighty Tallest.

Given that he was in severe discomfort, his PAK had evidently provided him with pain relief—which in itself possessed a number of unfortunate side-effects that only managed to contribute to his dishonorable appearance. The drugs had left him visibly impaired, and it was all too obvious in his demeanor.

His glazed eyes seemed to clear a bit, and then they bulged in their sockets. "M-my Tallest?"

He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, which was cut off as his legs buckled beneath him. He nearly collapsed to the floor before catching himself at the last moment. Gripping the dashboard with both hands, he wrenched himself upwards again and stared meekly into the screen.

Several uncomfortable seconds passed in silence on both sides of the screen, Larb's glassy stare locked unwaveringly with that of both Tallest.

Though he seemed painfully aware of his current situation, Larb's shoring levels of horror repeatedly clashed with the equally unfaltering grips of dissociation. It continually tried to drown his brain into the murky depths of drunkenness while simultaneously fighting to heal his wounds. All the while, lingering billows of steam floated off his body and began to cloud the camera he was using to communicate.

At last, Red cleared his throat and turned to the crew. "Leave us to speak to our soldier in privacy."

A beat passed. Then, the navigators rose from their seats and scrambled towards the exit.

Once the last one had departed, Red returned his eyes to the monitor. "It has been quite some time since we assigned this very straightforward task to you, Invader Larb. We demand to hear a progress report. Now."

On the other end of the screen, Larb shrank away at the terse edge to his voice. He paused to collect himself before straightening up again, attempting to sneak in a faint ghost of his old self-assuredness. "Err, of course, sirs. After much time spent pursuing the defective, I have determined—"

"—Wait, wait, wait," Purple interrupted, waving both hands out in front of himself. "Forget that. Just answer this one question: have you or have you not completed your mission?"

Red shifted a bit beside him, gazing into the screen.

Larb's face dropped, and he began to fidget. "Well, it appears, given recent circumstances, I may req—"

"—No excuses. I want to hear a clear-cut answer."

"…No, my Tallest."

The two exchanged glances. Then Red spoke. "Yes. That's what we thought. In fact, that's what we both knew. We examined the latest census from the Control Brains and Zim was not among the deceased. His PAK is still online. He's still alive. Did you hear that? Still alive!"

Both glowered at him once more, trying to gauge his response with shrewd, wolfish eyes. The target of their abuse merely bowed his head reticently. Larb's antennae were pinned so hard against his skull, the little flexes on either end hooked forward beneath his jawline.

"…I understand, My Tallest… If I could only have a second chance to prove to you my worthiness… I-I would be forever indebted."

He looked as he had long ago, at The Great Assigning, when his fate last hung in the balance of his two leaders. They'd had mercy on him then; they'd changed his planet assignment at the last moment, pinballing him into a position of honor once he'd achieved his invasion of it. He wanted to cling to the faint scrap of hope that they'd have the same mercy on him now…

"This was your second chance, soldier," Purple said. "It was our way of offering you an opportunity at redemption after your failure on Conventia, and you've only proven to fail us yet again. What is stopping us from discharging you right now?"

Red cut in before Larb could respond. "We fully intend on holding true to our promise…"

Larb closed his mouth and lowered his head again. Deadline be damned, he had no doubt they would do just what they had proposed, and he would have no say in the matter. Holding on to minuscule scraps of integrity mattered very little to beings who held almost omnipotent power. He merely waited for their next words to come, which would undoubtedly seal his fate.

For several seconds, there was complete silence on the other end. Then:

"… Once the mission has been completed, alert us immediately."

It had been Red's voice to break the stillness. Larb's left antennae perked up, followed by his head as he raised it in disbelief. "T-t-thank you, my Tallest!" he breathed. "I shall work to absolve the issue at once! I assure you, I will work tirelessly in the name of the Empire to deliver!"

Purple rolled his eyes and crossed both arms across his chest.

"Soldier?" Red said, interrupting the beginning of another gushing tirade.

Larb's grin faded a bit around the edges as he glanced up "…Yes?"

"Just remember: you're walking a very thin line."

His eyes dropped back down to the controls. "Yes, my Tallest… It won't happen again."

Without another word, Red ended the transmission. Larb's face was instantly replaced with a projection of the Irken military insignia, and the two leaders turned their backs to it.

Red spoke first. "We must take more drastic measures before this entire debacle implodes in on itself. Larb has proven he cannot be trusted to handle the problem in a timely manner."

Purple glanced up at him inquisitively. "Then why didn't you just put an end to it? You did tell him you 'would hold true to your promise.'"

Red rolled his eyes at Purple's mocking tone. "Instilling a bit of fear never hurts. I didn't realize how incompetent he was. I never stopped to consider that he would fail in this mission."

"You didn't? Zim is a walking disaster. If we couldn't kill him, what made you think he could have?"

Unable to give him an answer, Red merely shook his head and stared down at the floor. The following silence cast over them like a shroud, achingly unapologetic in its foreboding nature.

Feeling no better about their current situation, the two realized they could only return to what they'd done before; they were destined to continue treading lightly upon illegal grounds while uncertainty and the bitter taste of vulnerability plagued them. Nothing could be spoken of the matter and they would be enraptured in constant paranoia until proof of Zim's death reached them.

It was in the midst of this shared contemplation that the two enormous double doors burst open without any forewarning. Both Tallest whipped around.

Expecting a rogue crew member who had entered the room again without permission, Red was about to demand they leave. Instead, however, their unexpected visitor turned out to be none other than Rarl Kove, longtime political advisor to the Tallest since Miyuki's reign.

The slight Irken was typically within easy access when his services were required, which wasn't terribly often, and he knew proper etiquette when addressing the Tallest. In fact, he'd been well-conditioned to blend into the woodwork during major affairs, seldom making appearances unless it was necessary to impart important information along to his leaders. Therefore, his abrupt presence was rather out of character for him, eliciting a ripple of anxiety to pass through both Red and Purple.

Not only that, but he looked utterly spooked. His dull, moss-colored eyes were the size of saucers and both antennae were ramrod straight, bobbing along with him as he loped down the slightly leveled platform and towards his two superiors. When he was just a foot away, he skidded to a halt and began panting.

"My Tallest." He bowed before them, attempting to wiggle his taught antennae in respect. As soon as he rose back to full height, though, he set that distressed gaze upon them once more.

Red and Purple regarded him silently, waiting for him to give his message. He took a few seconds under their scrutiny to catch his breath. When he finally did speak, his hasty words spilled out a bit wheezily.

"The Control Brains. They just received an Irken medical document from an unnamed…" he took another gulp of breath, "an unnamed planet… It claimed to have identified a case of the Meekrobian J-636 virus. They…" Rarl Kove paused again, covering his mouth with one fist. He must have run clear across the Massive at breakneck speed.

"They what?!" Red demanded. Beside him, Purple took a step back, mouth falling open.

"They… they are prepared to announce war with Meekrob as soon as you give the word." Letting the fateful words finally slip, he timorously stared at both rulers, awaiting their reaction.

Such did not disappoint, for both Tallest immediately locked eyes in a mutual terror unlike any they'd experience in all their lives.

After a few days, it didn't take long for the awe-inspiring beauty of space to slowly but steadily dissipate in the eyes of its beholder. Following the endless hours spent watching stars, galaxies, and various intergalactic marvels through the windshield, Dib had managed to grow bored.

No. Not bored. Right now, he felt as though he were going mad.

If he thought being tucked away in the dark confines of the med bay was bad, it was nothing compared to sharing a minuscule cockpit with both GIR and a sick alien. At least when he had been back at the base, Dib could sneak infrequent trips upstairs or even go outside for some fresh air every once in a while. Those luxuries were no longer available to him. The med bay now felt like a shoddy warm up for what he was facing currently.

The cockpit was warm and stuffy, filled with recycled air and a fine array of unpleasantries. He had never experienced such overpowering claustrophobia before in his life. It made him nervous. Fidgety. He tried to keep his direction to the front of the ship, attempting to find solace in the boundless reaches of space. Even this, though, proved to evoke some strange sense of unease, bordering dangerously on panic.

He felt trapped in the tiny enclosure, breathing in the same air as Zim and trying to keep his constant flurry of misgivings at bay. Sweat gathered at the back of his neck from the sheer heat of his surroundings, adding to the rank cocktail of sickness and body odor that suffocated him more and more with each passing moment.

The coordinates had been set during their liftoff and the Spittle was currently on autopilot. Dib tried to reassure himself that the hard part was over and he could simply rest while they made the journey. He quickly found, however, that doing such a thing was nothing short of impossible.

So many little things were going wrong, crumbling away like the dilapidated remains of an already poorly constructed hovel.

One of the most discerning qualms that gripped him was the strange Irken assassin who was after Zim, and now him by association. The ship's radar was constantly on standby, and though it hadn't shown any signs of another Irken vessel within proximity, he still remained rigid with anxiety. It was the same sort of unease that consumed one in the dead of night after staying up too late reading horror novels. It shored up his senses to unbearable levels and left paranoia to trail closely behind. Every breath belonged to someone else, every heartbeat in his own chest was an invading force beating down the walls of his ship.

Yet another problem that continually enjoyed presenting itself in the form of dull, aching throbs was that of his ankle. He had decided to keep his boot off and elevate it, but his pitiful efforts had done next to nothing as far as aiding its healing. Quite the contrary, it had actually begun to swell further. Great.

Occasionally, he tried touching it, lightly brushing his fingers along the hot, purple skin where it protruded outward. He could manage a little weight on it, but he sensibly preferred not to aggravate the injury and had simply taken to lounging in the command chair as the hours passed him by.

Zim, in bluntest terms, was no company. Curled up in a mound of blankets and pillows in the back of the ship near the storage hatch, he was little more than a braindead green lump. He hadn't so much as twitched an antenna since their departure. And despite the rather cozy onlook of his nest, nothing could quite distract from the fact that he was, indeed, forced to ride out his agony on the floor of the cockpit.

What worried Dib most, though, was the subtle but undeniable digression in his current state since they had taken off a number of days before. It couldn't possibly be ignored when he was in such close proximity to him; the alien's breathing had become ever shallower, his coughs growing more and more feeble. When his eyes opened, which was starkly infrequent at this point, the once-brilliant orbs appeared almost filmy in their dullness.

Time seemed to be nothing more than a construct as it passed. The only telltale sign that they were making any progress, in fact, was the blurb in the corner of one radar screen, so minuscule it looked as though it had been added to the ship's design as an afterthought. Despite the Spittle soaring through space in hyper speed, the tiny dot only managed to creep along at an excruciatingly slow pace as it leisurely closed the length between the Spittle and the medical planet.

According to the computer's timetable, the three would touch down to Elixus' surface in approximately twelve hours.

Dib sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair, attempting to find some consolation through sleep.

-x-

"Reactivate."

The word sounded garbled and muted, like a child's toy that was low on batteries. Nevertheless, it jerked Dib from his light slumber in an instant. He glanced wildly around the console, trying to find the source of the noise. Was it a warning? Was the ship about to combust or something? Had… had they been found?

But everything on the dash appeared to be normal. All was running smoothly.

No, the noise had come from Zim. Or more specifically, from his PAK.

Like a timid animal, Dib hesitantly crept to his side and peered down at him. The tiny body was deathly still from beneath its pile of blankets. Not even a faint whistle of wheezy breathing was detected, nor the telltale rise and fall of his chest.

Just as Dib was about to reach out and touch him, however, the Irken jolted abruptly, his previously limp antennae standing on end. His back arched up off the ground, almost as if his body had been possessed by some demonic entity.

Dib toppled backwards, letting out a startled yelp. A strange mixture of dread and adrenaline coursed through him.

A few short seconds went by before whatever had gripped Zim's body finally ceased. Then, his mouth opened, and he sucked in several deep breaths, gulping up the stale cabin air with all the fervor of a drowning survivor breaking through the surface of the water.

Dib untensed slightly, though his eyes were still wide. He waited a few seconds. He waited a few more. As soon as he was sure Zim wasn't going to explode or something, he reached forward and tentatively placed a hand over his chest. The heart lurching within felt weak and overworked.

What the hell just happened?

Dib didn't have a computer or a database to ask anymore and he was none the wiser to the mysteries of Irken body functions. He suddenly felt very alone, trapped on his own island of ignorance.

Not knowing what else to do, he began to check Zim over. The Irken was cool to the touch, save for his PAK, which was alarmingly hot when his fingers grazed against its metal surface. It was like an overheating computer, whirring gently as the unsprung PAK legs guarded it like a decrepit prison cell.

He unrolled the blankets down just enough to reveal Zim's bony sternum and overabundance of visible ribs. Besides the fact that Zim was much too thin (which was nothing he didn't already know), there didn't appear to be anything amiss. No internal bleeding. No disconnected medical equipment. Everything seemed fine, physically speaking.

"Hey, Zim." When he didn't get a response, Dib raised his voice. "Zim!"

Nothing.

Dib called his name again, then flicked at his antennae with an impatient, borderline panicked air. He remembered how Zim had reacted when he'd done this back at the base. This time, though, it only elicited a faint combination of squirming and disgruntled moaning. Dib began shaking his shoulders. "Open your eyes!"

Zim struggled to obey the command. Either that, or the commotion merely prompted him to rouse from his uneasy sleep. Dazed, dull eyes revealed themselves at last.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Dib raised four digits inches from his face.

Zim didn't respond. Just gazed at his hand blankly while slowly blinking in the dim light of the cabin.

After several seconds, the arm dropped exasperatedly down to its owner's side. Dib glanced around for a moment, then scooped up GIR just as the robot was in the midst of abducting his backpack again.

"Zim! Hey, space monster! Who is this? I know you know who it is!"

Zero recognition registered on Zim's face upon seeing his little robot sidekick. He looked vacant. Dead-eyed. The only feeling that still managed to show through was exhaustion.

Dib dropped GIR back onto the ground and sat down beside Zim, burying his head in his hands.

Had he been always been like this? Had it been happening over the last few days, or did that… episode do something to him?

He looked back down at him, but Zim had shut his eyes again.

Alert would have been a poor word to describe Zim's demeanor before. Rather, he had been more responsive, even in his hallucinations. He mewled, muttered, and cursed while batting at the air and pinching his face up in distress. Occasionally, a pale green fist would feebly rise to his chest when he coughed, or he'd sometimes clutched his midriff in his sleep.

Now, there was none of that.

Dib was beginning to realize he had severely underestimated Zim's exact state—that this virus was not only tampering with his body, but his mind. More specifically, his PAK. Whatever had just happened… it surely must have come from the PAK. It was so simple to write off Zim's previous delusion with fever and pain, but now he wasn't so sure.

Those PAKs… they functioned as brains. Within the precious metal contraptions, perched precariously atop the backs of every Irken he had ever seen, was the entity that held their personalities, memories, and intelligence. Perhaps more. Neural functions. And Zim's had almost just shit the bed.

Dib was constantly reminded that he had no idea what he was doing. Every little thing pertaining to Zim at this point, from his motives for helping the alien, to the actual "care" he was attempting to provide him was nothing more than a shameful indignity on his part.

He thought only long enough to bother with Zim's physical state, pumping him full of fluids and nutrition, peppering him with telemetry leads and resurrecting a force of monitors that alerted him of his every function and guarded him against the looming entity of demise. But it wasn't enough.

As this was boiling up inside his mind, Zim feebly began to hack. Dib dazedly pulled a crumpled Kleenex from his coat pocket and held it to his mouth.

He wondered if—and only if—Zim somehow made a miraculous physical recovery, his entire personality would all be wiped cleanly from the slate. If he would be a sallow husk of his former self. The long-term effects of his condition where something Dib had never considered.

When he took the tissue away, tiny flecks of green covered the surface. He felt a pang in his chest as he laid eyes upon it.

Somewhere in his periphery, the radar screen lit up and began to emit a light, trilling alert. Far too distracted with his own thoughts and current task at hand, he hardly paid it a passing glance. GIR, on the other hand, happily clambered towards the source, shoving some pilfered Oreos into his mouth as he did so.

Dib soberly waited until Zim stopped coughing before wiping his mouth a bit more thoroughly. Then, with another one, he dabbed at Zim's wet eyes, mopped the perspiration from his forehead, and cleaned the rivulets of snot around his tiny nostril slits.

They didn't have much time. The hourglass was on its final grains of sand, and he feared he'd be delivering the cold corpse of his enemy to a planet that neither knew nor cared who they were.

"Heya, Dibby?"

"Just a minute." He sighed dejectedly and rose to his feet, putting as much of the pressure on his good leg as he could. The alert was still ringing away on the dash, demanding his attention.

When his hooded eyes glanced over it, though, they immediately widened behind his glasses. It was a proximity warning—their destination was dead ahead and they should be closing in soon.

"Almost there!" GIR squealed. It was as if he believed this to be a lighthearted vacation and they were on their way to Disney World.

Dib perked his head up.

GIR grinned up at him, and in spite of himself, Dib found himself returning it. He allowed himself to ride on the coattails of GIR's deluded mirth, and with it, the faintest lick of relief melted through him.

An hour later, and the planet appeared, beginning as tiny speck in the midst of an unknown galaxy and steadily growing larger as they closed the distance. Dib held his breath and watched it mesmerizingly, savoring the sight of the brilliant red sphere that was destined to be their final gamble on fate. As if worried it would vanish in the blink of an eye, he kept his gaze pinned dead ahead as he disengaged the autopilot and prepared to land.

Chapter Text

The previous sense of bustle within Zim's base had been long forgotten. Rather than blaring televisions, bright florescent lighting, and slamming doors, the front room was dim and still, just as Dib had left it. The lights were off, and the only noise that could be heard was the ever-present hum of electricity that emanated from the subterranean levels.

In fact, only a few objects remained as evidence of their presence—a few crumpled candy wrappers littered here and there, a stagnant glass of water nestled against the foot of the couch, and the TV remote wedged between two cushions.

The blinds had been hastily strewn over the window in a last-minute attempt to steer away any interlopers, leaving a very minuscule gap uncovered. Through it, a little beam of warm sunshine managed to creep in and settle in a pool on the linoleum. It continually brightened and faded as the clouds paraded on overhead and the hours ticked by. Just as it was beginning to light up the floor once more in its gentle rhythm, however, it was abruptly cut off by a small face that appeared in the window. Shrewd, narrowed eyes scrutinizing the area for several seconds before vanishing out of sight again. Not even a moment later, they were replaced the by the ear-splitting noise of a plasma gun.

The smoldering remnants of Zim's front door creaked inwards towards the house, then unceremoniously fell off the hinges and thwacked against the floor.

The hunched silhouette of Larb appeared in the doorway, smoking gun brandished before him. When he could plainly determine that the base was empty, he lowered his weapon and scanned the room.

Getting past an Irken security system was the easiest thing imaginable. The original manufacturers behind it had never anticipated the trespassing of another Irken who had an understanding of the mechanics involved. Given that Larb had set up a similar system on Vort and was already familiar with the inner workings of standard base security, what would surely be near impossible for an inferior enemy race was a feat he had managed to accomplish with minimal difficulty. It had taken less than a day for him to locate the defective's military base of operations and subsequently hack into his security long enough to disable it.

His ship was still concealed in the woods less than several blocks away beneath an ample amount of foliage while its owner set out to complete a little reconnaissance work.

By infiltrating Zim's base, not only did Larb have his secrets openly laid out for him like a lavish banquet, but he also had an area to take temporary shelter. As much as he hated to admit it, it was a necessity. Not only was he still in lingering discomfort from the burn wounds that had spanned nearly every inch of his body, but he was running low on his own supplies. It had been far too long since he had had a proper meal, and both his legs were quite cramped from extended periods of time confined to the enclosed space of his cockpit.

He stepped over the threshold, the heels of his boots clacking loudly against the floor. The noise echoed upwards to the intestine-like tangle of tubing that made up the ceiling. It was undoubtedly an Irken base, not unlike his old residence back during his early days of work on Vort.

Unlike his base, however, Zim's attempts at disguising his home were far more noticeable. Far lazier in research. And far more…garish. Larb scoffed at the red and brown tiling and loud array of artwork proclaiming phrases so stark in their obviousness, they might as well be inviting suspicion. He eyed a poster declaring "Earth Food Rocks!" with open disdain. Common sense clearly wasn't a strong suit in those who lacked proper PAK programming in the first place.

Larb continued to wander through the main level in search of access to an elevator. Surely, there had to be one.

All Irkens lived burrowed beneath planets' surfaces, much like they did during ancient times. As generations passed, the colonies of old had been conveniently transformed into tech-filled labyrinths and warm nooks, but the essence remained the same. Primal instinct had ensured that Irkens replicated the same living conditions that they'd always known.

He finally found the entrance to the actual base in the form of a blue wastebin in what he assumed to be the foodening quarters. As the elevator delivered him down, he could plainly see that the base design was standard for all invaders—it replicated his own down to the last detail. Finding the main lab was effortless as a result, and he boldly strode out of the elevator as if he were, indeed, back at his base on Vort.

He immediately began scanning the area for any clues as to where Zim and the Earth creature had gone. The entire concept seemed entirely too puzzling to him. The defective was harboring a deadly disease. What could he possibly be doing, off playing with the native inhabitants while his body was slowly deteriorating from PAK deficiency? Was he as numb to illness as he was to reason?

Rather than offer a smidgen of insight, however, the laboratory only served to baffle him further. Larb perused the area, eyes glinting in the darkness. The room was in disarray, with multiple tools and pieces of equipment scattered across the floor. He gazed aloofly down at it as he tromped through the mess. At the same time, his antennae repeatedly raised and lowered, catching any and all vibrations in the vicinity. It wasn't long before both hitched upwards, and Larb paused, cocking his head to listen further.

Beyond the whirring of power that surged throughout the base, he could hear something else in the distance. A persistent beeping that just barely managed to reach his sensitive feelers.

Drifting back to the elevator, Larb pondered the nebulous familiarity of the noise. It sounded as though it belonged in a hospital, but he was rather uncertain; he hadn't been near an Irken medical facility in years. Nevertheless, he made his way down the biological repair bay on a hunch, still eying his surroundings.

Following a common trend he'd seen throughout the house, the med bay showed a few signs of previous occupation, and accompanying evidence of a hasty retreat. The dead giveaway of the latter was the PAK charging station, having been disconnected without being properly powered down thereafter. The high-pitched bleating it emitted in the absence of a host was enough to make his antennae pull back in discomfort.

His brow raised as he struggled to put the pieces together. He knew the most logical steps to take would be to look through the history of orders given to the computer, and perhaps do more research on the intentions of the Earthenoid who had departed with Zim.

Who knew where the little menace was heading?

The more frequently Larb's thoughts lingered on the defective, the more resentment he held. The more his blood boiled. It was like a splinter buried beneath the skin's surface, unimaginably irritating and impossible to ignore. Menace was, indeed, an apt word. Zim was a menace to society. He'd blindly plunged Irk into countless horrors, evaded banishment, and had undoubtedly cost the government a fortune in damages through the process. And for what?

Rather than his deserved punishment in the form of a death sentence, he had been gifted accommodations, funding, and an articulate ruse from the Tallest to keep him in a cozy state of placation on the other end of the galaxy. He had manipulated all Irken officials with keen obliviousness and blind persistence until his grubby little hands received all he had desired. He had—

Larb's next bitter thought was cut off with a loud moan of hunger from his spooch. The angry sneer plastered on his face melted a bit as he glanced down at the source of the noise.

He was reminded of how drained he was from the sheer amount of energy it had taken for his PAK to heal his burn wounds. As much as he despised veering away from his job of tracking Zim down, he found himself glancing back at the elevator. He would have to allow his priorities to momentarily waver into his own wellbeing.

With a twinge of reluctance, he turned away from the med bay and began to head back to the foodening quarters in search of the defective's snack reserve.

Dib's awestruck face peered out meekly from behind the tinted windshield as the ship touched down and was promptly swallowed up by the endless sea of docked space vessels. An even larger array careened overhead, boasting of vibrance and ceaseless bustle. He gaped at them with huge eyes that appeared even huger behind the magnification of his glasses as they zipped across the violet sky, onward to destinies unknown.

The sight was enough to give anyone sensory overload. Countless shades of brilliant color—far more vibrant and plentiful than anything he'd seen on Earth—assaulted his vision and caused his pupils to dart every which way as he pressed his hands against the windshield. His breath hitched in his throat for a moment, then proceeded to cloud the glass. He closed his open mouth and cleared the area with the hem of his jacket sleeve.

The very concept of what he had infringed upon managed to both overwhelm him and leave him mesmerized. He would have loved nothing more than to continue staring at it all. It was witnessing was positively incredulous—something no other human had laid eyes on. But he couldn't. He had accepted the task at hand not as an onus, but as a mission. A mission he couldn't bear to fail when he had already come so far.

He glanced back down at Zim, catching a glimpse of his pale cheek peeking from beneath the blanket. A sad strand of wilted antenna was strewn across the floor.

Dib knelt down beside him and, with uncharacteristic tenderness, rested a hand on his shoulder. The alien's body was curled into an impossibly tight little ball, eyes pinched firmly shut.

"Zim? Hey, Zim. Wake up. We're here." He shook the tiny wing of a shoulder blade gently, lips tugging down in a frown at the lack of response he received. Granted, he wasn't expecting very much from him at this point. Perhaps a faint movement of an antenna or a mild stirring at having been awoken. Instead, his form remained deathly still.

Dib paused awkwardly for a beat, then gently unattached the IVs and limped towards the little hovering platform that had been propped in the corner.

He had already done his research on where to take Zim. The ship's computer had directed him to the sector of the planet devoted to PAK repair and government-regulated modification. The monitor had offered him a series of letters in the Irken language that Dib had committed to memory, naming off a suitable hospital nearby and supplementary directions to it. In case his own mind failed him, he had also copied the strange characters to the best of his ability on a scrap of paper and buried it deep within the right pocket of his trench coat.

At this point, it was simply a matter of getting Zim from point A to point B.

When Dib attempted to activate the little gurney, though, the contraption only emitted a series of rattlings then fell dead. He turned the platform over in his hands and tried again. Same result.

He shot a nervous glance at Zim just as a weak bout of throaty coughing and congested gurgles spluttered from the latter's throat. Dib's mind was clouding with fresh worry as his eyes dropped back down to the gurney. He stared dumbly at it for a few seconds, chewing at his bottom lip.

After a several more moments spent tinkering with it, all he had managed to do was make it hover a few inches over the ground before it died yet again. The clang it made against the metal floor caused Zim to jolt slightly.

He sat back and released a heavy sigh. In any other instance, carrying Zim would hardly be a difficult plight, especially considering the alien was roughly the size of a fourth grader. Dib's ankle, however, was still visibly swollen and continued to sport an ugly collection of bruises. The injury had been the sole reason he'd even bothered with the gurney in the first place. He had barely been able to put his boot on that foot when they landed.

He was roused from his frustrations by a hitch in Zim's already wheezy breathes. Dib pursed his lips and stood back up. Then, before he could give much thought, he promptly scooped Zim's body from the ground and into his own arms, blanket and all.

Straightway, a sharp stab of pain tore through his swollen ankle and ran up his leg, causing him to yelp out in agony. Tears sprang into his eyes and he squeezed them shut and gritted his teeth. When he opened them again, his glasses had fogged over. It took all of his willpower to keep himself upright as he simultaneously bit back pained grunts and forced deep breaths into his lungs.

The pain subsided into a dull throbbing after a moment, and Dib managed a shy step forward towards the ship's exit.

Zim's bony form slumped heavily against his chest while the tangle of PAK legs scritched against the floor beneath him. Dib held the bundle close, feeling his hot, shallow breaths against his neck.

"GIR, guard the ship. Don't let anyone onboard, okay?" He turned his head slightly to sneak a glance of the robot, who was struggling with the zipper on his backpack. "And stop trying to eat my food!"

He released a surly grunt through his discomfort and let his eyes drop to the blanket. He warily reached out a hand and unwrapped part of it, peering down at the ashen face. Zim bled sweat and struggled against his heavy eyelids. They parted for a mere moment, revealing dull eyes that seemed to stare straight through Dib, then rolled back and closed again.

Dib's pained grimace shifted into something a bit more defiant, with a touch of uncharacteristic sympathy playing around the edges. He covered Zim back up. Then, pausing to take a deep breath, he resolutely pushed open the hatch and stepped outside.

The Massive was enroute back to Irk. More specifically, it was heading back to the capital city, where the Tallest had previously resided before Operation Impending Doom II had required their presence upon the Irken mothership.

Now, it was essential they return to their home planet to partake in discussion with nearly every other Irken official who had a say in military operations. Along with them would undoubtedly be no less than a dozen Control Brains, there to monitor the assembly and finalized any decisions.

In the meantime, the Tallest had taken to their private chambers. Aside from the occasional rapping at the door from a meek servant to deliver snacks, the rest of the Massive's crew had left them to meditate in privacy.

"What are we going to do?" Purple's voice arose out of brooding silence. It hadn't been the first time he'd numbly asked this question, and it almost certainly wouldn't be the last.

For the last few hours, Red's response had simply been a vague shake of his head as a show of mutual sentiment, but this time, he didn't even look up. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I…I don't think we can do anything." He heard his words as if someone else were speaking them. "It would be best to just stay silent."

"You're suggesting we…" Purple started, trailing off midway through his thought.

Red couldn't determine whether he was too afraid to finish it, or if he genuinely didn't understand what he was getting at and was attempting to coax the answer out of him. "We cannot afford to reveal anything that would damage our reputations. Not in front of the Control Brains."

Purple's antennae twitched uncomfortably at this.

"If playing dumb is the only way to do that, then so be it," Red continued.

"So, you're saying we should just let whatever happen, happen?"

"What other choice do we have?" Red snapped. There was an unmistakable crack in his voice as the words spewed forth.

Despite years of enjoyment in pushing the boundaries of the law, they were not exempt from them altogether. They were still at the mercy of the Control Brains along with every other Irken citizen, height be damned, and their crime was one punishable by death. Even if they weren't executed, they would still undoubtedly be imprisoned. Their titles would be stripped from them, along with their royal garb and credibility. They both knew this.

Purple paused for a moment, considering his next words. "Why can't we just explain ourselves? We took care of the defective for good. Getting rid of Zim was the best for everyone."

"The defective?" Red parroted. "You mean 'The Most Incredible Irken Ever'? Because that's what he was labeled at his existence evaluation! His entire record is just one enormous gray area as far as the Control Brains are concerned!" He scowled angrily, rubbing at his temples with two slender fingers. "I don't understand why you aren't taking this more seriously! Thinking more logically! Don't you care about our positions? Because those are on the line if we let anything slip!"

Purple stood up and perched both hands on his hips in defiance. "Don't you care about the possibility of a war? Between us and Meekrob? You know, the planet responsible for some of the greatest technological advancements in the galaxy? That Meekrob?"

Red opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

Unlike Vort, Meekrob had never been an ally of Irk. The former had been easily overtaken and conquered in a period of time when their guards were down, but the same principles would not apply in this instance. Meekrob had been constantly poised for battle for over two hundred years. The strain to keep their relations civil were already hanging by a thread, resulting in countless terrorizations and a civil war that had caused intractable tension on both sides.

To declare war against them would be a risk, for it wouldn't be a clear-cut Irken victory. And once again, they both knew this.

Red didn't say anything. His silence was answer enough, though.

Purple returned to his seat and buried his head in his hands. "What are we going to do?" he muttered again, more to himself this time.

"I…I don't know…" Red finally admitted, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "I really don't know."

The trail of PAK legs had been quickly snatched up and concealed as much as possible beneath a combination of the blanket and the trench coat, as to not draw more attention than necessary.

Each pounding footfall only served to aggravate the already-throbbing pain in Dib's ankle. In the back of his mind, he feared the possibility of his entire leg giving out beneath him. No doubt, those who surrounded them would sooner trample the both of them than offer help.

A vast majority of the planet's occupants looked to be Irken, and the glut of bright mauve space vessels within the docking station confirmed as much. Everywhere he looked, Dib was assaulted with the familiar insignia that had been proudly branded on every bit of Irken paraphernalia. It was more than a symbol of the Irken race—it was a silent reminder of their superiority and ubiquity. Zim's race owned this planet, and they were entitled to the respect of anyone who dared tread upon it.

He couldn't help but eye various passerby with the anxiety of a felon on the run. He pulled the quilt over Zim's face in an effort keep him out of sight. He didn't want to draw any suspicions by revealing a half-dead member of their society hidden within the folds of his coat.

As it was, though, none of them appeared to be paying much attention to what he was carrying. Instead, they had directed their attention to Dib himself. Heads turned as he streaked past them, eliciting mutters and the occasional scoff. His mere presence was garnering far too much unwanted attention.

As they gawked at him, his eyes couldn't help but linger on them in return. He observed their mannerisms as surreptitiously as someone in his position feasibly could, taking note of the characteristics they all seemed to share—from the long set of antennae that bobbed along with each dignified footfall, to the varying shades of jade skin they sported, and finally down to the bright metallic PAKs fused to their spinal columns. Not a single Irken was without one. And up close he could plainly see that Zim's fellow kind resembled far more than just his physical appearance. They all seemed to carry themselves in a similar way that boasted of pride and poise, as if they were constantly prepared to show hostility at a moment's notice. He was torn between awe and helpless insecurity as their eyes passed over him.

Though a vast majority were far taller than Zim, Dib still towered over each and every one of them in all his awkward glory. His beige skin contrasted peculiarly with the various hues of green and his small eyes nervously met large, bug-like ones that swallowed almost their entire faces. Some widened in dismay and other narrowed dangerously in response to his presence. Countless pairs of slender, insectoid antennae reacted accordingly in turn.

Within the sea of green and crisp, gaudy uniforms, he could occasionally make out other alien races. He couldn't stop to spare them more than a passing glance, but from what he could make out, these beings received similar, if not worse treatment from passerby. He could hear nasally taunts passed in their directions, and even witnessed an Irken spitting in the direction of another alien out of the corner of his eye. It was only then that he began to fully understand his standing.

He was intruding on a planet owned by those who lived to conquer worlds. Unlike humanity, these creatures were aware of life beyond their own planet and despised the very existence of other aliens. And that's what Dib was now. He was the interloper. He was the alien.

As he pushed onward through the crowded streets, he was able to make out a large building looming ahead. The exterior was no different from the majority of Irken architecture, rather nondescript in its curves and bright colors, giving no more air of importance than any other building. The Irken writing on the front matched what the computer had offered him, however, and reassurance flooded through Dib at the sight.

Just as he was about to ride on this second wind and break into a hobbling sprint, Zim's body tensed and arched in his arms, then went slack. From beneath the fabric of the blanket, he could feel the PAK begin to heat up and whir just as it had before when Zim had stopped breathing back on the ship.

What had begun as the warmth of relief at getting to the hospital quickly transformed into panic. Dib skidded to halt as his heart flipflopped. Hardly aware of the reactionary pain that ran up his entire leg, he hastily unwrapped the blanket again and pressed his index and middle finger against the clammy skin on Zim's throat. It was only after a few seconds of excruciating stillness that he could feel a faint quivering of a pulse beneath his fingertips.

Even so, he made no move to continue walking. He stood motionless in the middle of the busy street as others pushed past both him and the unconscious Irken in his arms. Several grunted their malcontent and a few even offered some irritated words in their native dialect that Dib did not wish to translate.

"Zim?" he murmured urgently. Of course, he received no reply. "Listen to me. I'm taking you to a hospital. An Irken hospital. Just hold on."

He swallowed thickly, then burst into a breakneck speed towards the entrance of the building. Each footfall caused his ankle to scream in protest. It was a miracle it hadn't given out on him yet.

Shoving through the double doors, he immediately caught sight of an Irken in a drab, plum-colored uniform sitting primly at the front desk and lunged towards him. The receptionist gaped openly at the sight. Dib ignored his stares and shoved the heavy parcel before him.

Zim's dead weight continued to strain against his arms and bear down on his injury. For a fleeting moment, Dib feared his imminent collapse against the cold floor. It was adrenaline alone that kept him upright.

"Listen…" he wheezed, "I need help! He's sick…or something. His PAK isn't working, and I don't know what to do, and—"

With one hand, the receptionist cut off his stuttering and peered down at the shapeless mass that was thrust in front of him.

Within seconds, Zim was promptly removed from Dib's arms and placed on a levitating gurney nearby. He was still wrapped tightly in the quilt, and all Dib could see of him was one ungloved hand and his antennae peeking out. Another moment, and he was whisked away into a backroom.

Dib watched his alien disappear, the heavy doors slamming shut and preventing him from seeing anything on the other side. He stood there stupidly, caught up in a whirlwind of shocked disbelief.

Was…was this it? Could it have been this easy? This anticlimactic?

As he gradually caught his breath, he became increasingly aware of the judging gaze of the receptionist. The Irken cast his large purple eyes upon him, taking in the greasy strands of hair, his filthy pair of boots, and the disheveled clothing that hung loosely from his frame. Dib shot a weak glare back, displeased by the blatant scrutiny he was under, but his attempts at retaliation didn't faze him. The Irken boldly locked eyes and continued staring.

"Is this it?" he asked meekly after a moment. He felt like he was asking himself the question. It was like he'd entered another plane of existence. As if everything from culture shock to Zim's departure were just now catching up with him.

"Is what it?" the receptionist asked. There was an evident hint of venom in his voice.

"Zim. What's going to happen to him?"

The Irken grunted. "I'm a reception drone. How would I know? They'll probably run some preliminary tests on his PAK before they do anything. Now run along, you… you… whatever you are."

"Human."

"Whatever."

Dib scowled and let his shoulders drop. He limped away from the front desk and wandered towards what he presumed to be the waiting room. Plopping down heavily into a mauve, levitating chair, he heaved out a sigh.

He had done everything he could, and now whatever happened was left to fate and the unknown forces of Irken medicine. He didn't know what would come next—hadn't bothered to think that far ahead in the first place. Every ounce of physical and emotional energy had gone into simply transporting Zim to a place where he would be in more capable hands.

I guess my work is done.

That final thought filled him with a reasonable wave of solace. And with solace came a heavy shroud of exhaustion that had been pent up and waiting for this very moment. Seeing no reason not to, Dib allowed his heavy eyelids to flutter closed. The gnawing anxiety inside him had waned just enough to allow him some respite.

He was on the verge of falling asleep, in that in-between state when the world feels as though it's being viewed through a tunnel, when he was jarred awake by the abrupt slam of a door.

Whirling around in the chair, Dib caught sight of two Irken guards walking towards him. He stood up, blinking away his disorientation. As they approached, he realized that one of the guards had something slung over his shoulder.

Words of questioning rose to his lips, but before any of them could be spoken, the guard dumped what he was holding onto the ground at his feet. It flopped onto the floor with a sickening thud then lay still, looking broken and contorted. It took Dib a moment to realize what he was looking at.

It wasn't something, but someone.

Zim.

His arms were splayed out as if awaiting embrace. A trickle of blood oozed from the swollen area of his arm where his old IV had been removed and his spine was bowed unnaturally as his full weight rested upon his PAK.

In that instant, utter horror swept over Dib. He tried to find those words again, but they had been swept away in an instant. Nothing came, and he merely pursed his lips and gazed up at the guards with wide eyes.

"His kind is unwelcome here," the first guard explained curtly. He leered at Dib, looking him up and down before narrowing his eyes. "As is yours, for that matter."

"Wh-what? Why?" Dib found his voice buried somewhere within his shock. It came out as a croak and intermingled with the cracking, deep voice that he had started to develop in the past few years. He felt like he was going to be sick.

It was true. His worse fears walking into this situation were being realized, and he suddenly knew what the guard would say before the words even left his lips. Nevertheless, he still heard him utter them from afar, as if this entire debacle was nothing more than a vague and flittering dream.

"He's obviously defective. Worthless."

The other guard nudged Zim's prone body with the toe of his boot. "His PAK ID code has him labeled him as a convict, sentenced to exile. And besides, he doesn't meet the regulations for medical treatment, anyway." He wordlessly pointed to a sign near the entrance.

Dib numbly stood up and approached it. It merely looked like a height chart. After a beat, he turned back around and gave the guard an agonizing look of confusion.

"Irken health code 843 states that any patient beneath a height requirement of 122 centimeters is deemed unworthy of the hospital's time and expertise," the first said.

Dib didn't move. Couldn't. He felt rooted to his spot in the middle of the room, trying to take in what was happening.

The guards stared him down, waiting. Then, in a haze, Dib watched the first guard lift Zim's body up again and toss him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. There was a rough, clawed grip on his upper arm as the other guard stoically towed him towards the exit.

"Leave the premises immediately. Or we will be forced to use higher reinforcements," the first guard said from beside him.

Dib stumbled forward in a terror-driven stupor, nearly falling flat on his face as he was pulled towards the door they'd come in through. It wasn't until they were nearly through the threshold that he finally snapped.

"STOP! You can't do this! He'll die! Doesn't that mean anything? PLEASE!" Even as the words left his lips, though, he realized somberly that they were in vain. That Zim's life truly meant nothing to this coldhearted race, and that even the most desperate of pleas on his behalf would only fall on deaf ears. Even so, he dug his heels into the ground and began thrashing against the firm hold on his arm. The unfaltering grasp left bruises as he tried to pull away.

The guards ignored him and quickened their pace and burst outside, stopping when they got to the sidewalk. Dib was roughly shoved to the side, his bad ankle failing to take the brunt of the impact. He crumpled to the ground crookedly, groaning as he did so. Zim's body was deposited callously beside him.

"N-NO!" Dib burst out with renewed vigor. A despairing sob tore its way from his throat as he staggered back to his feet. He could feel the scuffs from the pavement burn through him. The guards both made a move to go back inside.

"I'm not leaving! Not until you help him!" Somewhere in his periphery, he began to notice a crowd beginning to form on the pathway.

Both Irkens turned back towards him, exchanging a cold glance with one another.

"Please," Dib cried, "He needs—"

A gloved fist connected with his cheekbone.

He staggered backwards and nearly lost his footing. Before he could comprehend what had just happened, though, he was hit with another punch. This time he went down. He could feel his head swing back and slam against the hard ground, and stars burst behind his closed eyes.

Despite being nearly as tall as them, he was at a major disadvantage in strength and stamina. A tough, black boot kicked him in the stomach, and he felt the air leave his lungs. He opened his eyes, only to see that his glasses had been knocked clear off his face.

The hazy figure of one of the guards held something that most aptly resembled a cattle prod, then shoved it into the crook of Dib's neck. A shock rippled through his body, incapacitating him instantaneously. He felt his muscles seize up, preventing him from making a single voluntary movement. The feeling was peculiar, like a cramp, but spread throughout his entire body. When it finally ceased, his cheek was pressed against the pavement, and his blurred gaze stared helplessly in front of him. He could see the boots of the two guards disappearing back into the building.

Then, darkness.

-x-

He had no idea how long he was out. Though likely seconds, it seemed more like hours had passed by the time he resurfaced from unconsciousness. The crowd surrounding them had long since thinned, leaving only a few onlookers before dispersing altogether. They simply diverted their path and continued on with their days as if nothing had happened.

When he could finally will his muscles to budge on their own accord, Dib slowly raised himself to a sitting position. His head swam. Everywhere he looked, Irkens went about. Some glimpsed at him and Zim with morbid intrigue, but none offered any assistance. There, amongst the bustling streets and amid the throngs of green-skinned creatures who held unfalteringly to their own affairs, he felt truly alone.

He hugged his midsection with shaking, feeble arms and wilted on the sidewalk. He could taste the sourness of blood in his mouth and his vision warbled nauseously. Everything ached.

What was once his greatest adversary was nothing more than a lifeless heap, getting stepped over and pushed against the walkway less than ten feet away from him. Dib weakly shuffled over to him on his knees.

A desolate sob escaped his lips, and he wept bitterly over Zim's body while life went on around him. Every ounce of aching and exhaustion began to manifest itself into the familiar sensation of failure. Failure was something he'd grown accustomed to. It was the one pain he could always take in stride. This time, though, it practically paralyzed him in his own devastation.

He hardly noticed when a pair of boots tentatively approached the twosome and came to a halt on the pathway in front of them.

Dib shook violently with grief, reaching out a scuffed, bloody hand to wipe his nose. There was no doubt that Zim didn't feel the cuts and scrapes that had etched his skin when he was tossed onto the sidewalk outside the hospital, nor did he feel the teardrops sizzle upon his cheek as his greatest enemy knelt over him and cried.

All the while, the newcomer stood there, squinting down at Zim with tiny, garnet eyes until, at last, Dib reached out a trembling hand to fish around for his glasses.

When he finally set his dull gaze on what he perceived to be nothing more than a shameless onlooker, something suddenly caught in his throat.

Unlike the other Irkens he'd seen, who all appeared rather indistinguishable to his untrained eye, this one somehow seemed vaguely familiar. From its small stature to its stained tunic, it looked irrefutably like someone he had been acquainted with before, once upon a time.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to say something, the short Irken spoke instead. "Zim? Is…is that you?"

Chapter Text

Dib stared in dumbstruck wonder at the new Irken. His vision was still blurred, leaving an iridescent, hazy sheen tinging his line of sight. Despite his inability to properly focus in on him, though, he was able to make out a few defining characteristics.

This Irken was somewhat lighter, his skin an almost mint green compared to Zim's deeper tone. He was also a rather corpulent specimen, which was only exacerbated by his shortness.

As Dib continued to gawp, the Irken knelt down to further inspect the unconscious body curled up on the pavement. His eyes were locked on Zim with morbid curiosity, as if still trying to determine whether or not it was truly him.

Dib sniffled wetly, then swiped the back of his hand across his nose. Either at the noise or the motion, the Irken snapped his attention away from Zim and stared instead at him. At once, recognition seemed to flood his eyes, and both antennae twitched noticeably.

"I know you…" he began, echoing the nagging thought pounding through Dib's mind. "Dim?" he asked hesitantly, as if he were a foreign traveler tasting words of the native language for the first time.

"Dib," he corrected, his voice hardly more than a murmur. He was still trying to place him. He knew that he knew him from somewhere…

It stirred in Dib's mind slowly and agonizingly, before suddenly hitting him all at once. They were thoughts long suppressed, deemed unimportant after years of having never been addressed—back when Dib was finishing out his tail end of junior high, and Zim had abruptly, and without any explanation, began going about his life with another Irken in tow. No introduction. No explanation. Nothing.

All Dib had been able to pick up on from observation was that Zim seemed to resent his new addition to an extent. This was nothing surprising, seeing as Zim appeared to be stuck in various states of irritation with just about everything, from GIR, to his schemes, to the color of the goddamned sky.

When Zim wasn't outright ignoring his new "sidekick," he usually chose minor roles for the squat little Irken to follow. Some of those had resulted in Dib meeting him firsthand, but never once had he caught his name. It had also resulted in him learning that this new Irken was rather submissive by nature, preferring to hang on the outskirts. Nothing about his chubbiness or meek personality was particularly threatening.

Regardless, Dib's sharp attention had still been piqued. Before he could uncover much more about the new Irken through private reconnaissance, though, the new arrival mysteriously disappeared overnight. Evidence of his existence had been wiped clean and was never discussed again.

Right now, though, merely recalling his brief, lackluster acquaintanceship was enough for Dib to ride the coattails on. He'd cling to the mere idea of an ally, especially when he was on an entire planet that eyed him with nothing but disdain. Without so much as a name to place him, he uttered a few choice words. Short, simple, and to the point:

"Please help me."

The Irken's feelers hitched upwards inquisitively, then his eyes dropped back down to Zim. A million questions seemed to dance across his face, and Dib could very well guess what many of those questions were, given the circumstances. He felt the need to press further.

"Something's wrong with his PAK. I don't know how long he has left." His voice cracked on the last few words. He waited, willing his eyes to focus in further on the Irken in the hopes of gauging his thought process. Everything was mildly hazy, and in the back of his mind, he began to worry it wasn't just his busted glasses to blame. He was feeling fainter by the moment. He tried to remember the last time he'd had a drink of water but couldn't quite draw a sufficient answer. Everything had been all but buried with stress.

He dropped his chin to his collarbone and stared at the ground. A few droplets of blood dripped from somewhere on his swollen, aching face and found their way to the pavement. A bloody nose, perhaps. He stared at them blankly, simultaneously trying to even out his breathing. Then, amid the other noises of walking and shuffling, he heard the Irken stand up from his kneeling position.

"Follow me."

Dib perked up in disbelief. Catapulted in a state of awe and confusion that he couldn't quite comprehend, he immediately found his way to his feet and swiveled to face the Irken. As he put weight on his right leg, though, the agony of his injury flared up with a vengeance, even more so than before. Despite nearly buckling beneath the pain, he didn't spare a glance downward at what had become of his ankle—he'd undoubtedly irritated it further with his running. He preferred to not even look.

Bracing himself, he lifted Zim's small, lifeless body and held it against his chest. Ignoring the ensuing flurry of lightheadedness as best he could, he hobbled silently behind the Irken as the latter hurried down the street.

The portly Irken weaved through the crowd, easily making his way through the horde of identical little green people with minimal effort. Dib, on the other hand, struggled to keep up, nervously glancing around himself as his uncoordinated strides navigated their way through it all for the second time.

Eventually, the Irken ducked around a corner, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he was still following. Dib dove after him, suddenly finding himself in a quiet alleyway, obscured from view. When he paused to take in his surroundings and catch his breath, one of Zim's PAK legs came loose and hung limply beside him. Dib quickly grabbed it back up and hastily pulled an edge of the blanket tightly around it.

The Irken, still leading the way, slowed down and shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily. Dib nearly sprinted to catch up. As soon as he did, the two continued on.

Somehow, being in an isolated alleyway with someone he didn't even know did not activate the alarm bells usually associated with such a scenario. If anything, it was unexpectedly comforting—more so than sticking out like a sore thumb in the sea of judging fuchsia eyes, at least. Dib knew the hostility in their demeanor was not a bluff. Nearly every Irken he'd ever come across was a ticking time bomb of hatred and violence, and he was treading on dangerous territory. Quite literally.

They reached the end of the alleyway and burst out into yet another crowded sidewalk, filled with Irkens purposefully walking along. As he spared a few nervous glances here and there, Dib couldn't help but be immediately drawn to the PAKs displayed proudly upon their backs. They were there without a second thought. They were so easily overlooked, and yet they practically served as a physical embodiment of their souls. How had such a marriage occurred? How had Irkenkind grown to rely so heavily on machinery for basic life support?

Nestled in his arms, he could feel the heat from Zim's own PAK, making itself known even beyond the buffer of fabric separating them. It truly was both a blessing and a curse. The PAK provided Zim with perks that humans could only dream of, and yet it was such a delicate and precarious arrangement. Dib hitched his Zim's upper half up, trying to listen for breathing. He was somehow both relieved and frightened to hear a vague wheezing from deep in Zim's chest. He was still alive, if just barely.

Dib's own chest swelled with a sudden aching of remorse that mingled along with everything else. Had he truly discounted the severity of the repercussions of bringing Zim here in the first place? He was an exile. Had that sentence applied only to his home planet, or to the entirety of all Irken-populated regions? What happened to Irkens who broke exile? If the hospital workers had known who Zim was, rather than taking a glance at his height and judging accordingly, it could have gotten them both killed.

He wanted to cling to the hope that this new Irken could offer something. Even if that thing was nothing more than shelter from the hostility of the rest of the Irken race.

More than anything, though, he hoped he could trust him.

He had no one left to trust.

After ducking from alleyway to alleyway and occasionally making their way through more bustling crowds, they finally arrived at a nondescript metal door directly off the sidewalk. There was no front stoop. No decorative indication that this was anyone's home or business. Simply a door attached to an equally nondescript cube-shaped structure.

Just as the Irken was pausing to do a retinal scan, Dib leaned his chin forward, speaking directly into his antennae. "What is your name?"

He had to know. It had been gnawing at him this entire time, without so much as a hint of an answer tucked in the back of his mind.

As soon as the door locks could be heard giving way on the other side and the door began to rise on heavy hinges, the Irken turned and muttered something hastily, in a voice Dib had to strain to hear.

"It's Skoodge."

The capital city of Irk was better known as Altua. It boasted itself as the central location of Irk's political affairs, frequent visits from the highest nobility born from the Irken Empire, and most importantly, the home of the crowned Almighty Tallest. Though the Tallest very rarely visited their dubbed "home," the enormous, skyscraper-like building was a constant reminder of their presence in spirit on Irk. On this day, though, unbeknownst to the general public, the Tallest had returned.

Within a grandiose chamber reserved specifically for matters of utmost importance, an assembly of Irken officials were seated. It wasn't unknown for them to be gathered here, as they had done so many times in the past. On a regular basis, they would discuss potential threats, strategies, and possibilities of attack from other planets. It was quite normal for both Irkens and Control Brains to come together to discuss such matters. However, never before had they been present for a situation that could prove to be a genuine harbinger of devastating failure for the Irken race should they lose.

On this day, a peculiar air of restlessness masked by the impression of cold, detached pride hung heavily in the room. It was like a bad odor, deeply unpleasant and altogether unignorable. In a sense, it wasn't unlike the very distinct attitude of the Irken invaders during their time spent in the presence of one another at the progress convention. With any sense of fear, there came a visceral need to cover it with the façade of confidence, or nonchalance, or any combination of emotions that hid their true desperation.

Irkens very clearly had a well-intended but overall poorly executed sense of self-preservation in the face of conflict. In this case, uncertainty was an ever-present feeling running through each and every one of them. It was a stark contrast to the comfortable sense of complacency they were used to when gathered together, confident in their power over the rest of the universe.

As a whole, losing a war was something the Irken race generally scoffed at. Propaganda was shoved down the throats of both soldiers and civilians alike, keeping them in a warm and comfortable state of surety at all times.

The meeting, which comprised mainly of Irken military leaders, was not complete without two other parties, one of which had yet to arrive. Nothing could be conducted without the presence of both the Tallest and the Control Brains.

With any gathering of this nature, no less than ten Irken Control Brains were required to be in attendance, including Irk's one Supreme Control Brain. Impossible to miss, and several times larger than the others, it sat front and center eternally in this room, glowing fully in gossamer mauve light as it continued to obtain all Irken information fed into the collective. Only so often was it awakened, and only in situations of dire need. It was a large and ostentatious presence, demanding the attention from anyone and everyone.

Because of this, Irken eyes were trained on it rather than their Almighty Tallest. It subsequently created an ambience of awkward hostility that was all too difficult to ignore. It was like a blacklight on the true state of Irken rankings—that the Tallest's self-proclaimed "omnipotent power" was far from accurate. And as a result, the two melded about as seamlessly as oil and water in these situations. Beneath their nonchalant exteriors in the presence of the Supreme Brain, one could plainly see the dirty looks that occasionally sprung forth. In their own style and posture, they were heavily bolstering the impression of disinterest, but it still managed to fall from time to time.

Enormous, heavy chamber doors opened, breaking the silence in the room. As they entered, the two leaders of the Irken race looked distracted and jumpy, eyes darting. The officials present stood from their seats and saluted stoically, their own eyes trained on the pair.

Red and Purple vaguely acknowledged them, giving each other lingering glances as they glided into the room and stood in their places at the head of the table, directly facing the Control Brains.

"At ease," Red mumbled quietly. The officials, many wearing heavily decorated uniforms, sat back down while the Tallest remained standing. All turned to the Brains.

The Supreme Brain's many ports lit up. "Tallest Red. Tallest Purple."

Both involuntarily straightened out their posture at the sound of their respective names.

"A great threat has made itself known to the Irken Empire. As you are aware, a medical document was submitted that cites a case of infection with a Meekrobian concoction intended for biological warfare: Toxin J-636. An investigation has been opened since then to obtain more information."

A pause. Then, to the left of the Supreme Brain, another spoke, carrying on. "We believe we have found further evidence that points to a potential threat from the Meekrob."

Red and Purple glanced at each other discreetly. Confusion was plastered on both their faces.

"… More evidence?" Purple asked, looking towards the Brain who had spoken the last part. The words came forth in a somewhat strangled voice.

The Brain elaborated. "Following an Empire-wide sweep, trace remnants of an unknown substance were located in a ship repair bay on the planet Conventia."

"The two of you were on that sector of Conventia not long ago," another Brain added.

"We have reason to believe this may have been a failed assassination attempt on the two of you from Meekrobian forces," the Supreme Control Brain concluded, tying the shared and expertly calculated sentiment of the many Brains together.

The Tallest stood stock still, utterly at a loss for words.

"Further cases related to the toxin have not made themselves known, and we are unable to pinpoint the current whereabouts of the infected Irken. Its ID PAK continually goes on and offline, making tracking nearly impossible."

"Our last records show its approximate location to be on the far outreaches of our known galaxy," another Brain piped in, "though it is very well possible that its biological shell has already expired from the complications associated with PAK deficiency."

As the Brains spoke, each carrying on one another's statements, the Tallest nodded dumbly in their respective directions.

"That said, let us explain what measures we have taken, in addition to those we propose to take," the Supreme Brain said.

A Brain to the right began to speak. "It should be noted that we do not know why the Meekrob have chosen now to attack."

Another, more effeminate voice: "Invader Tenn has been alerted of the potential threat and we have ordered her to abort mission and return back to Irk. If she is discovered, years of Irken intelligence and research could be at stake."

A beat. Then the next voice arose, this time from the far left. "We are prepared to call all active-duty military forces back to Irk. In addition, any civilians of able body will be drafted."

A few seconds went by in a pithy attempt to allow the huge amounts of information thrown at them to digest. Then, the Supreme Brain took back over to summarize. "After computing our data and weighing probabilities, we have concluded that these are the necessary measures. Meekrob has made countless technological advancements, many of which put the Irken race at a disadvantage. Without taking these actions, far more lives may be lost. The Empire fares more favorably with a declaration of war."

Not a single reaction arose from the Tallest, aside from their wide eyes and stiff poses. They were frozen in place, like prey who had just made accidental eye contact with a predator poised in the bushes. Several long seconds went by like this. A few times, one would open their mouth as if to speak, then close it again.

"We understand the nature of these matters is… unsettling," the Supreme Brain pressed, a tinge of impatience creeping into its otherwise neutral tone, "but pressing matters call for immediate attention. With your official announcement to declare war, we will proceed with these arrangements."

The entire room turned their attention down the table and towards the Tallest, awaiting their response with wide, anxious eyes.

Dib sat perfectly still, wedged uncomfortably in a little chair that was more suited to diminutive Irken builds. He had taken to coyly peering at Skoodge while he scrutinized Zim's state.

Zim had been taken from Dib's arms and placed on a cot—an actual cot with bedding and blankets—to be looked over properly. Unlike his mediocre and awkward approach, Skoodge seemed to possess a rather breezy and clinical air. His motions boasted of self-assurance in its most stoically nonchalant form, attained only by those who knew their profession inside and out. Whatever that profession was, Dib still wasn't entirely sure.

The Irken still had yet to address him more than absolutely necessary and hadn't so much as made eye contact with him since they entered his dwellings. As a result, he couldn't help but try to fill in blanks about the Irken wherever he could.

Firstly, the area Skoodge had led him to was very much like Zim's base, aside from the façade of it being a typical house above ground. The entryway that led to the streets outside had held nothing but a breezeway and an elevator door. The real structure was completely underground.

"What is this place?" Dib had asked, looking around. He didn't quite think the term "base of operations" was correct. This felt more like someone's home. At the same time, "house" wasn't exactly an apt word, either.

"My bunker," Skoodge said simply.

"Bunker?" Again, that term didn't feel right. Bunkers were for hiding during wartime. Or disasters.

"Subterranean living accommodation, standard for Irkens stationed here," Skoodge said. He still seemed a little on edge.

In the back of his mind, Dib wondered if military terms were just such commonplace, they had worked their way into the vocabulary of all Irkens regardless of applicability. Nevertheless, he didn't press Skoodge further on it, nor did he press him further on what he was doing with Zim. The Irken had agreed to help, and Dib didn't want to push it.

One thing was certain, judging on Skoodges actions down in the med bay, though. Whatever he had done prior to moving in with Zim, it had undoubtedly morphed into something pertaining to the medical field shortly thereafter.

The mere thought of that made Dib's heart flip flop with reluctant optimism.

Skoodge untangled the blanket from around one of the little Irken's claws and examined his limp arm. The area where Dib had endlessly punctured the flesh in his attempts to insert the catheter was swollen and weeping with clearish, pus-like liquid. The catheter itself still hung loosely by a couple of strips of tape, dirtied and frayed.

He looked mildly perturbed. Slowly lowering it again, he turned to the human again. "What was the purpose of this?" he asked uneasily.

Dib, having been sucked abruptly from his thoughts, paused for a moment before answering. "It was for fluids and nutrition. I think something is wrong with his stomach. He hasn't been able to keep anything down for almost a week."

Skoodge blinked. "His…. stomach?"

"Oh, er, sorry." Right. That's a human organ. Dib squirmed even more. "I meant… his…" He wracked his brain, feeling stupider by the second, "squeedly… spooch."

He released a dejected lungful of air and slumped further into his seat. Everything ached, he was exhausted, and he couldn't for the life of him shake the lingering paranoia that continued to torment his every thought. Together, it melded into a vile cocktail of emotional and physical malaise. He wasn't in the proper state to divulge every last detail of Zim's "treatment" at his 15-year-old hands. He needed a nap. A thousand-year nap. And a meal that didn't involve Ritz crackers or uncooked ramen once he woke up.

From his periphery, he could see the Irken return to work without any further questioning. A few moments went by, and Dib slowly lifted his heavy eyelids back up at them. Zim was now propped up against the backrest, looking limp as a ragdoll. With one arm securely bracing his bony sternum to prevent him from flopping over, Skoodge was slowly easing him forward.

He watched on, fidgeting a bit while Skoodge began to meddle with Zim's PAK with that same self-assured air. Unlike the other Irkens he'd witnessed with this particular trait, however, Skoodge's confidence was quieter. He was gentler and paid close attention to detail, seeming to forget Dib was even there.

Several seconds passed in silence. Then, with an ever-so-subtle wheeze, the PAK slid open on its hinges.

Dib perked up a little at the noise. He corrected his wilting posture and raised his chin in an effort to see over Skoodge's partially obscured hands. Unthinkingly, he rose to his feet and crossed the distance to stand at his side.

Dib openly ogled at the depths of alien technology that made up Zim's life support in an almost childlike awe. None of it made a smidgen of sense to him, of course. His understanding of the inner mechanics of an Irken PAK were about the equivalent of a Neanderthal's understanding of an airplane engine. The mere concept of how it worked together, never mind the process itself, was still something Dib could only comprehend at a base level. Somehow, though, that only enraptured him further. For all the shortcomings and outright idiocy he had observed from Zim and the rest of the Irken species over the years, it was still impossible to ignore that this was a race of beings far more technologically complex than humanity.

In an almost comical juxtaposition to Dib's childlike interest, however, Skoodge remained perfectly composed as he pulled a tube from a mechanism built into the wall and easily attached it to a port within Zim's PAK. Another couple of tubes followed, both slightly smaller than the first. Then, a selection of wires joined the ensemble. Dib's eyes flicked back and forth, following Skoodge's every move. Each and every one found their proper spot, nestled within Zim's PAK until the glut of them began to crowd one another.

Then, without a word, Skoodge left the room and disappeared into an adjoining chamber. Dib was left to quietly listen to the noises around him. Rustling from behind the wall. The very same electrical hum that had always been present in Zim's base. His own breathing. Enough time passed that he began to settle comfortably into a sort of tired detachment.

For the second time that day, just as he was on the brink of sleep, he was immediately startled back into focus. The heavy switch flip of a breaker caused him to jump a bit, then involuntarily withdraw into himself a little as the noise of surging electricity traveled through the walls surrounding him.

In that same moment, the PAK released yet another weak shock to Zim's system. A monitor somewhere began to pick up with what he presumed to be the unusual patter of his alien heart rhythm. Otherwise, though, Zim remained inert in his little bed, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

As Dib was processing all this, the hatch from the next room lifted and Skoodge returned. Strict vermillion eyes passed right through him and latched onto Zim instead. Then, he set his attention to examining monitors.

Somewhere in the arid recesses of his wearied mind, Dib began to wonder the motives behind Skoodge's inclination to ignore his existence. Was it merely because he was human? Or could it perhaps be something a bit more mutual to Dib's own paranoia surrounding the other party?

Of course, in Dib's case, he was far beyond desperation. If Skoodge was willing to valiantly meet his effort halfway and ensure it wasn't all for naught, he'd let him. If it meant Zim lived, Skoodge was an ally in his book.

But Dib in relation to Skoodge? He was nothing but Zim's sworn enemy. What had he done to prove his trust?

Absolutely nothing.

As this dawned on Dib, he felt a sudden need to backpedal. To prove some credibility, in any form. Even casual conversation. Just to prove there wasn't any maliciousness in his intentions.

"Erm, what exactly is all of this?" Dib asked in as casual a voice as he could. He knew he had a tendency to sound overtly assertive when he was caught in that horrid place between mental restlessness and physical exhaustion. It took everything he had to dial it back.

Skoodge glanced briefly over his shoulder. A beat passed, in which an indecipherable expression crossed his face. He then turned around fully, looking rather shy. "This is confidential," he replied reluctantly.

Surprised by this answer, Dib's tone involuntarily took on bit of an edge. "What do you mean 'confidential?' Are you helping me or not?"

"Well, technically I'm helping Zim. And the equipment I'm using belongs to the Irken Empire. I'm not at liberty to discuss it with races who aren't established allies to the Empire."

Dib shut his mouth, unsure how to respond. Somewhere in Skoodge's mind was undoubtedly a blindly loyal soldier. His words seemed rehearsed and tinged with pride. It clashed oddly with his palpably soft and trusting appearance.

They carried on in uncomfortable silence, Skoodge turning his eyes away from Dib in favor of monitoring a particular tube trailing from Zim's PAK.

"Don't you at least need to know what's wrong with him? How are you supposed to do that if you won't even acknowledge my existence?" Despite the thread of patience he was so desperately trying to hold onto, Dib couldn't quite put a lid on his rising attitude. The words came out with his trademark surliness, voice raising a few octaves.

"I have the credentials to check the Control Brain databases for his pertinent medical history. I can see if he ran a scan on himself within the last few weeks," Skoodge mumbled, moving to a large screen across the room. "Besides, what you would you know about him? I've seen the intelligence level of your race, Earth smeet."

Dib could practically feel his blood boil at the last part. The statement didn't come out mean-spiritedly—on the contrary, it was expressed as common knowledge, thrown out as nonchalantly as could be. Like a laconic admonishment to a child.

Before he could control himself, he leapt to his feet. Somehow, the ensuing pain in his ankle only added fuel to the rapidly growing fire of rising impatience. "What do you mean 'what do I know?' What don't I know?! I've only dedicated the last three years of my life to obsessing over this idiot! Over your entire idiotic race! And I'll tell you what I know! I know he's dying of exposure to some crazy toxin. A toxin your leaders ordered he be infected with! They went behind your 'Control Brains' and planned it all out!"

Skoodge froze, his back turned to Dib. Then, he very slowly turned around. His eyes were wide and somewhat perturbed as they scrutinized him. "What are you talking about? What toxin?"

Dib tried to wrack his mind for the name. "Er… it was something weird. Just a letter and some numbers. J-something."

"J-636?"

He nodded eagerly.

Skoodge shored himself up abruptly, his beady eyes shining with newfound bewilderment. "You are insane! Just like everyone back on Earth said you were. That toxin is nothing more than a hoax. A scare tactic from an inferior race. How do you even know about it?"

Dib couldn't help but feel himself recoil. Frustration and anger fought against the heavy shroud of fatigue he'd been fighting for what felt like forever. He could feel his entire face heating up, starting with his ears. He probably looked red as a tomato. "Fine, don't believe me! Just look it up yourself, if you're so sure!"

Like a stubborn child, Dib crossed his arms and ducked his head down. Though he could feel the intensity of the Skoodge's gaze boring down on him from across the room, he refused to lift his chin and make eye contact. A moment passed like this, in a pathetic excuse for a stalemate as Skoodge stared him down and Dib staunchly glowered down at his lap.

When the former's voice eventually broke the silence, it had an unexpected twinge of concern to it. "You look…"

Crazy? Stupid? Lay it on me! It's nothing I haven't heard before!

"Tired."

Dib merely shrugged a bit, barely lifting his head. A silent, humorless laugh made its way from his throat.

From across the room, he could sense Skoodge rise to his feet and make his way to the door. "Zim is stable at the moment. Go to the resting chambers down the corridor. Do what you need in order to recharge."

Dib's knee-jerk response was to open his mouth to begin protesting. He wanted to keep arguing. To insist that he wasn't insane, and that everything he'd told Skoodge was true. However, he paused on his sharp inhale of breath. For seemingly for the first time, he began to feel more than just the gnawing enervation that threatened to pull him under every time he rested his eyes. His entire body ached, and he was probably filthy beyond belief. Not to mention, he'd undoubtedly sustained some minor injuries from his altercation in front of the hospital. Minding them had come entirely second to everything else.

"Fine."

Still refraining from eye contact, he resignedly rose from his chair and dragged his feet to the doorway. Just before he crossed the threshold, he gave one final look at Zim, then finally met Skoodge's gaze with weary, heavily rimmed eyes.

The Irken watched as he then turned away and shuffled down the hallway.

Skoodge returned to his work, glancing over at Zim occasionally. He was still swimming in disbelief, coupled with shock that such a happenstance could be infused with so much urgency and so little context.

Now that they were out of the streets, all he could do was try to digest the entire situation little by little. As a whole, it was more likened to a stress-fueled fever dream than actual reality. An injured, insane alien child blathering nonsense. His old comrade, whom he hadn't spoken to in years, inches from death. And finally, him, unable to turn his back on the strange debacle.

He had been relieved when the boy—Dib—retired to his seldom-used resting chambers without argument. Skoodge needed time to make sense of what was going on, and that wasn't going to happen with the human in the room, gawking at his machinery and spouting Irken buzzwords he knew nothing about. Dib evidently needed time to collect himself. Smudges of dirt and dried blood had marred his cheeks, and he had a nasty cut above his eyebrow and another on his lower lip. He also had a noticeable limp that seemed to be bothering him immensely judging by his frequent grimaces when he put weight on it.

Skoodge stood from his chair with a deep sigh. Perhaps he would head down to his reserves and grab a snack. Maybe sit and decompress while he was at it. Despite his restless mind, his muscles were still feeling the aftermath of a long day at work. Just prior to stumbling upon the two in the streets, he had been walking home from the medical clinic, drained from his tasks.

Before leaving the room, he decided to check on Zim in his hospital bed one last time. He ambled over towards him, taking in his features. The little Irken's skin was nearly white beneath a light sheen of sweat, and he was far gaunter than was usual for him. Both his closed eyes were sunken deeply into his head, lined heavily with dark, bruise-like circles. It was somewhat hard to recognize him at first glance. It was indeed him, though.

Funny. By a stroke of fate, it seemed the two Irkens were constantly crossing paths. From basic training when they were young, to their work for the Empire after graduating from the academy, they were consistently reminded of one another's presence. It had been that way since they were smeets, hatched together in the same clutch deep within Irk's underground nursery.

He huffed a bit at the memories, then quietly left the sick room, shrugging the lab coat he wore during work hours.

On his way to his personal refectory, he thought about Zim for the first time in a long time. Their past was more extensive than he'd thought, and it was rather strange that their lives continued to collide. It had been at least a few years since he had been reassigned on this planet, and yet Skoodge was crossing paths with him again.

If familial bonds meant anything to their species, it could be argued that Zim and Skoodge were as close to brothers as Irkens could get. They were born together, raised together, and spent most of their time together while they navigated Irken society.

From day one, Zim had been continually harassed and disparaged by his peers, having barely passed any of the physical requirements to even enter training. Skoodge, even at his young age, could see something about Zim was a little off. He was very clearly a runt, tiny and almost sickly looking in his skinniness. However, for what he lacked physically, he made up for in tenacity.

He did things that proved to be a danger to himself and others, simply to remind the rest of them that he still existed. Otherwise… well, no one would notice him. Zim yelled and screamed himself hoarse throughout training, trying to prove over and over again his capability in a world that had already been ready to dismiss him from his moment of birth.

Skoodge, on the other hand, took the opposite approach to a very similar situation. He had been born rather short, with a surplus of baby fat that he never really grew out of. Just like Zim, he was constantly mocked. More than that, though, he was pushed harder than the others in his squadron—and he played their game reliantly. Eager to please and trusting to a fault, he spent his days of training striving to prove his worth to his commanders. He tried to let actions speak louder than words. He did everything within his power to make his society turn a blind eye to his appearance alone.

Through their own separate methods, Skoodge and Zim somehow made their ways to invader training. Though they typically minded their own business, there had always been a subconscious need to flock to one another when the situation called for it. When their training required a partner for sparring exercises, they drifted to one another's sides. Within the ruthless hierarchy that existed at the cafeteria, they nearly always ended up at the same table. For better or worse, they were each other's sole company.

When they were finally shipped off to their respective missions during Operation Impending Doom II, Skoodge had been sure he wouldn't see Zim again. In fact, part of him was sure he wouldn't see anyone again and would fall prey to the ruthless indigenous species on Blorch. When that proved to be untrue, and he arose valiant after conquering the planet, he expected to be treated differently. His hopeful mind dreamed of becoming Irk's poster child for galactic conquest and proving their society wrong—that anyone, no matter how tall or short, could serve the Empire in momentous ways. Wrong again.

He had been shunned by the Tallest multiple times before he came to his own understanding. During the last time, following his "training" on Hobo 13, he finally made the decision to flock to Zim yet again. Stupid, yes, but it felt wiser than reporting back to the Tallest until they successfully managed to kill him off.

He hid out in Zim's base for nearly a year before he was found. From that point on, Zim begrudgingly allowed him to stay. Zim shared his food, his technology, and even his knowledge on Earth, all without a demand of thanks nor insistence on repayment. With that gesture, Skoodge had been treated with more kindness than he ever had before.

Within a few months thereafter, Skoodge made the decision to return to Irk and do something very few soldiers in sound mind voluntarily set out to do—request a PAK re-encoding. He had accepted that he had no place within the Empire as an invader, despite the prestige the career title brought with it. The Control Brains had been hard-pressed to grant him his wish, especially considering his first successful invasion. Ultimately, though, they relented.

Skoodge's PAK had been scanned unremittingly during that time, his knowledge and personality traits gathered in an attempt to match him with a suitable career pathway. All Irken knowledge pertinent to his new assignment was uploaded. Once it had been completed, he found himself onward to Elixus as a newly reinstated surgical technician for an Irken medical clinic.

Straight away, the new fit proved to be perfect for him. Stoic and rather submissive by nature, he was excellent at following directions and assisting surgeries. He did so with all the diligence and seriousness he possessed during invader training, but with results that brought him the feeling of fulfillment he had searched tirelessly for since he was a smeet. He saw sick patients heal and return to duty. He received heartfelt praise and firm salutes with each successful procedure. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he belonged somewhere.

He was convinced it wouldn't have been possible without his initial decision to seek refuge at Zim's base. In his moment of need, his comrade had been there for him.

He didn't often think about the brief period of his life in which he had been left floundering for a purpose. He remembered the day he had left Zim's base, quite sure that he would never see nor hear from his fellow soldier again. He had been rather casual in this assumption, as if it were basic fact. He was always thankful, though. He never took Zim's good grace for granted, especially when it was so rarely shown to anyone.

Perhaps this was why Skoodge had felt the innate need to help Zim out on the walkway, regardless of sketchiness and red flags. It wasn't even a question. In a sense, they had always had something of an unspoken alliance. Maybe even a friendship, though on the surface it appeared to be unreciprocated by Zim. It was there, though. Not through words, but through actions.

After about an hour spent eating in the lower level of his bunker, Skoodge returned upstairs in a more contemplative state. He was careful to be quiet when he passed the resting chambers. He couldn't hear anything on the other side of the wall, which was enough to reassure him that the human child was asleep.

Good. He could finally do some research on Zim's condition in peace.

A part of him was admittedly wary of Dib. He knew enough through his short time acquainted with him to know that Dib was well-regarded as insane by his fellow species. Even from afar, Skoodge recalled being bemused by the boy's short fuse and terrible persuasion skills in the face of the other humans back on Earth. When he wasn't skulking away from his classmates, he was outright insufferable. He had seemingly devoted his life to blasting falsities, and continually tried in vain to convince literally anyone of his "findings".

Apparently, that hadn't changed.

And yet…

In this case, Dib's words hadn't been entirely nonsensical. There was a small indication of general understanding behind them, which in and of itself was rather unsettling. He knew the name and function of the main Irken digestive organ. He had tossed out certain words like 'Control Brain' and 'Toxin J-636' that he should have no knowledge of whatsoever. As bizarre as his notions were, the mere fact that he understood even a scrap of Irken jargon set Skoodge on edge. It couldn't be true. The human had no idea what he was talking about.

However, when Skoodge finally made his way back to the medical bay, he found himself sitting in front of the monitor, looking up prior medical documents from Zim's records with an unmistakably tentative air.

For longer than he cared to admit, he kept his fingers poised over the keyboard, but didn't type anything. Then, the letter's Zim's name appeared in the search bar. Another tap of the keyboard, and countless pages popped up. Booster shots during his smeethood days, physicals during military training, and every medical scan he had ever received showed up, beginning with the most recent one. His finger hovered over the button. Again, he hesitated.

One click.

And there it was.

Diagnosis: complications due to exposure to Toxin J-636. Prognosis: fatality.

Skoodge couldn't help the reaction that followed. Every muscle, from his head to his toes, tensed. Even his antennae went unnaturally taut atop his head. He stumbled out of the office and into the hall, feeling his heart pound rapidly. His mind seemed to somehow race and go completely numb at the same time, refusing to allow him to so much as form a single thought. He hardly noticed a thin, gangly shadow appear in his periphery, nearby the entrance to the resting chamber.

Dib's voice sliced through the air, causing him to startle. "His PAK and body are failing him. I brought him here because he needs help. Surgery, or a medication, or… or something. I don't know. It was my only option."

"How could it be?" Skoodge asked, in a tone barely above a whisper. His face was white in the dim light.

"I told you. His leaders hatched some sort of plan to get rid of him. I listened to the whole thing through a bug I'd planted. He's not really…" he trailed off, voice cracking a little.

Skoodge sat down, stricken with shock.

"Is there anything you can do?" Dib asked, his voice a soft murmur. "Look, you don't have to trust me. Or even believe what I said about your leaders. But Zim doesn't have much time left. He's going to die witho—" A rising lump in his throat cut him off, and he didn't even try to finish his sentence once he'd swallowed it back.

Several moments passed in which Skoodge merely tried to collect his thoughts. "If this is true… and Zim has this condition… then his PAK cannot be repaired." When Dib didn't respond, he elaborated. "It is slowly and irreversibly failing and taking his body down with it. The only option I could even think of would be a complete replacement: a re-upload of his entire personality and memory into a blank ID PAK."

Dib looked stunned. "Your race can do that?"

Skoodge paused before answering. "I've only assisted in two of those surgeries, both for prominent figures of the Irken military who had undergone extensive screening from the Control Brains."

This didn't seem to affect the hopeful animation playing in Dib's eyes, increasing with each word. He stood more erect, eyes gleaming behind his broken glasses. "Then you have to! If it's the only way, it's gotta be done! I'll even help you! Just tell me how to do it!"

Skoodge recoiled a bit, unprepared for the sudden upsurge, and the onslaught of words that came with it. "Everything about it is incredibly dangerous and risky. For many reasons."

Dib's manic expression faltered for a brief moment, but he otherwise seemed unfazed. "Why? Because it might not be successful?"

"That's only part of it, human." He was flustered. "Do you have any idea what the repercussions would be for an unqualified Irken who performed something like that? There's a reason only a handful of medical drones have access to blank ID PAKs. This is highly illegal to even discuss!"

Dib pursed his lips.

"Not to mention, I don't even work as a PAK specialist. I'm a surgical tech. I assist surgeries, I don't perform them. I-I can't…"

"You can't do it…" Dib finished. He began to look disheartened, with a twinge of what looked like anger boiling beneath the surface along with it. What his actual emotions were, though, Skoodge couldn't quite pinpoint. He had always been bad at reading other species' facial expressions.

"I'm sorry. It's too hazardous. Even if I did manage to obtain a PAK without being apprehended, there's still no guarantee Zim would recover from the surgery. He's not," Skoodge took a breath, looking for the words. "He's not in a good state."

He watched as Dib deflated like a balloon, his optimism disappearing as quickly as it had arisen. A few seconds went by, then he ducked his head down and nodded slowly. Dib shuffled past him and into the room, where he stood over Zim silently.

Skoodge, unsure of how to properly respond, instead opted for slinking away and leaving him to his thoughts.

-x-

Night fell on the rest of Elixus, and Skoodge eventually found his way back to the med bay. It had been hours later, and Dib was still sitting in the same little chair, this time pulled up beside Zim's bed. His lips were moving, apparently murmuring something softly to him.

When Skoodge's eyes rested on Zim, though, he still looked very much comatose. Aside from his pallid face, all else was covered beneath a large white blanket. A cold compress was spread over his forehead.

"He can't hear you," Skoodge said gently.

Dib startled a bit and looked up.

Skoodge pressed on. "All we can do is make him comfortable. He's not in pain. I swear on the Empire he isn't."

This didn't seem to help, as Dib slouched impossibly further in his little chair. Then, after a few seconds of excruciating silence, he nodded.

While the Irken-inhabited planet of Elixus rarely slept, eventually every occupant in Skoodge's dwellings were stowed away in their respective resting chambers. For a time, all was silent, in every level of the subterranean maze Skoodge called home. All, except for a slight shuffling. Footsteps in the corridor. Voiceless mutters and nervous breathing. Then, the shutting of a chamber door as the culprit crept through and made their way purposefully out into the uncertainty of night.

Chapter Text

Dib's heartbeat thudded within his chest, mingling with the steady increase in his breathing as he ran down the sidewalk and away from Skoodge's home.

The chamber door had come to a heavy and unavoidably loud slam with his departure, leaving him out in the open and effectively cut off from his only sanctuary. Here he was, out in the middle of the city streets yet again, only without any guidance from Skoodge or even the pithy scrap of company that came from Zim's presence.

He was somewhat taken aback to see the city just as frenzied as before, but with an overwhelming lot of neon lights accompanying the mayhem in the dark of night. It took him a moment to conclude that Irkens didn't have a need to sleep as frequently as the human race, nor did they even appear to have a timetable for respite.

Every business was still open, their lights spilling out from doorways and enormous windows. Stoic little Irkens marched along walkways with purpose and permanent malice in their eyes, as if rearing for an excuse to start a fight at a moment's notice. They entered businesses, left businesses, ducked into teleporter stations, appeared from stations.

The endless bustle, mingled with lights so bright it made the night sky nearly indecipherable, was almost enough to deter Dib from continuing. He paused to a near halt for a fraction of a second, then pressed on, darting among shadows and glancing around desperately.

He was insane. He was palpably aware of his insanity. It wasn't the first, and most certainly wouldn't be the last time he had that nagging recklessness overtake him. Like a drug, that manic rush surged through his veins. It seemed to operate on its own accord, forcing him into life threatening situations with only a flimsy excuse as justification.

This time, it was pure desperation to get Zim the help he needed.

Skoodge had stated there was a way. Pointblank. Even if it was a longshot, Dib couldn't just allow his efforts to crumble.

If he could only figure out how to obtain a blank PAK, then maybe it would be enough for Skoodge to come around and meet him halfway. Yes. It would have to work. Surely, it would.

As for his plan? What plan? He was acting purely on impulse. All he knew was that time was running short, and if he didn't do something quickly, he would have pissed away everything he had fought for up until now. The very thought of that was something he could not cope with. Dib had never been one to give up, and he most certainly would not be starting now.

Just as he was about to duck down an alleyway, trying to retrace his steps back to the same cluster of PAK clinics he had been to before, he heard a pounding of footsteps. Before Dib could make sense of the noise, never mind where it was coming from, a yelp burst out of his mouth as he was tackled to the ground. He fell roughly on his front and skidded just within the shadows of the alley.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?!"

Dib groaned.

As he turned uncomfortably onto his back, he realized two things straight away. One, he had only made it about a few hundred feet away from Skoodge's bunker, and it was still very much visible from his line of sight. Two, it had only taken that long for Skoodge to discover his little ploy and go after him.

"Let me go!" he hissed.

Skoodge didn't budge. Instead, he pinned Dib's arms down with both hands and settled his entire body weight firmly on top of his chest.

"Not until you tell me what on Irk you think you're doing!" Skoodge whisper-yelled.

Dib grunted and squirmed beneath his hold. "You're… crushing… me."

Perhaps if he wasn't so weak from malnourishment and exhaustion, he would have been able to fight back more effectively. Alas, he merely struggled and writhed, before eventually deeming himself no match for the stocky, unexpectedly strong Irken. He instead opted for flashing his eyes angrily up at him.

"I'm helping Zim! If you aren't going to do anything, then I will! I can't just let him die knowing that I could have done something!"

At those words, Dib could have sworn he felt the grip on his wrists soften a bit. Then, slowly and apprehensively, Skoodge let go and shifted so that he was sitting on the dirty alley floor, propped against the wall.

Now would have been a great chance for Dib to make a run for it, to dash down the alleyway and out of sight.

Instead, however, he found himself reluctantly sitting up and shuffling until he, too, was leaned back against the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and curled into himself, catching his breath. After a while, he spared a glance in Skoodge's direction.

Only the vaguest glimmer of light basked over the Irken from the streets beside him, making his expression difficult to read. Even in the darkness, though, Dib could see his softer features became more apparent, causing any trace of intimidation to immediately become lost in the eyes of his beholder.

"Why are you even doing this in the first place?" Skoodge asked eventually. Resignedly. "You and Zim always hated each other. None of this makes any sense."

Like most Irkens, his voice was somewhat nasally. It held a certain weight to it that seemed to demand attention and authority, but at the same time, the innocent inflections that were ingrained in Skoodge's demeanor managed to subtly derail those qualities.

"It's a long story," Dib sighed. He paused for a moment, then ventured to ask a question of his own. "What are you doing here on a medical planet? I though you and Zim were both a part of the Irken military."

An inexplicably bitter expression crossed Skoodge's face. "It's also a long story."

Another hush passed between them as the two fell into their own respective contemplations. They didn't have time for long stories. Idle conversation wasn't in the cards for them. Not given these circumstances, at least. For a time, they both sat in the darkness of the alley, listening to the patter of booted Irken footsteps and hints of gruff conversation in their native language.

"I'll go."

Dib's head shot up. It was spoken in a tone so quiet, he was sure he hadn't heard it correctly. "You'll what?"

"I'll retrieve the PAK." The words came forth rigidly, as if the pure inanity of the statement was causing him physical pain.

"But you said it was dangerous for—"

"—And it is. But it would be far more dangerous for you to go, human," Skoodge retorted. "Besides, did you even have a method for going about this? At least I have the clearance to enter an Irken medical center."

Dib paused, staring at Skoodge as the Irken stood up and brushed the dirt off his tunic.

"If… if you're sure," he stuttered. He could feel an inkling of guilt seep into his veins.

Skoodge sighed, then nodded. "In the meantime, return to the bunker. I have granted you limited access. Stay there and don't do anything. And by Irk, don't let anyone else in! I'll be back shortly."

With those parting words, the Irken set off down the alleyway. Before he made it halfway, though, he slowed down and turned his head. Both magenta eyes glimmered in the darkness.

"Earlier… did you say something about the Tallest being behind this? Behind what happened to Zim?"

Dib blinked. He was surprised Skoodge had picked up on that among the hodgepodge of other things he had spewed about Zim's predicament. Even more so, he was surprised the Irken would latch on to such an accusation about his own honored leaders with anything more than mistrustful distain at best.

Dib nodded firmly. "Yes. I did."

Instead of the reaction he would expect from a proud, loyal member of the Irken race, Skoodge simply narrowed his eyes shrewdly and cast them to ground at his feet. It was as if he knew something about the Tallest that Dib didn't. Something terrible. But he didn't stick around to offer an explanation. In the blink of an eye, he took off once again.

Dib watched him fade down the dark corridor, then around a corner on the other end.

-x-

Wary of running headfirst into a crowd of irate Irkens, Dib meekly peered around his end of the alley. When the coast was clear, he darted like a cockroach back to the safety of Skoodge's bunker. The system outside the door scanned him briefly, then granted him access in a matter of seconds.

On the surface, Skoodge's home looked like nothing more than a diminutive metal cubby. In fact, many Irken buildings looked this way. And what his front entrance opened into was equally mundane: nothing more than a plain little room that comprised solely of a conduit and a staircase. He headed towards the former.

As soon as the door shut behind Dib, he allowed his stiffened posture to fall. Within his whirlwind of thoughts, he tried to focus his attention on his next course of action. It was hard to do such a thing when one was swimming in disillusion.

Not to mention, he felt… off. Kinda hot. Still tired, despite his sporadic bouts of sleep in the quiet of Skoodge's resting chamber.

In the past several hours, he'd also managed to cross that threshold between being so hungry, his mind had grown accustomed to the feeling. He now didn't notice the emptiness of his belly quite so much, as if he had never been famished in the first place. It didn't help that his slowly dwindling food supply was still back on his ship.

Dib snapped his head up. His ship! GIR! He was still there at the loading dock, along with his backpack and all his supplies! How could he have forgotten?

Caught up in this revelation, he scuttled back against the little wall.

"Elevator! Back up to the ground level! Now!"

The conduit slid to an abrupt stop and stood idle for a beat. Then, Dib sensed it changing direction, and the little lift rose back to the top.

He had to go back and get GIR! Who knows what sort of havoc that insane little robot could have caused in his absence?

Dib fidgeted, hardly pausing to heed Skoodge's strict warning to stay indoors. He had been out in the open before, hadn't he? He'd been met with nasty glares, of course, but his presence alone hadn't transpired into anything too severe.

As he opened the hatch to the outside once more, he tried to remember the paths he had taken to get from first the ship dock, to the hospital, and finally to his current location. His attempts at retracing his steps resulted in him bumbling through crowds and glancing nervously around for any signs that could direct him back to the dock.

As he did so, he took the opportunity to observe those around him in greater detail for the first time. It was interesting how the weight panic could put one's blinders up in such a seamless fashion.

Of course, a vast majority of the crowd consisted of Irkens. However, one could pick out a stray alien here or there. These ones received similar, if not worse treatment from passerby, compared to Dib's previous glares.

A small group of blue slug-like aliens were jostled and shoved aside as they made their way up the sidewalk. A tall creature that reminded Dib of a praying mantis was heckled by a number of Irkens as it walked, all the while staring vacantly ahead and doing absolutely nothing to stop the taunting.

Dib carried himself rigidly as he walked. Regardless, the less this planet saw of him, the better.

At last, he found himself walking along semi-familiar streets, and took on the next task of identifying his Spittle Runner amid the sea of Irken space vessels.

Once he found it, he took a deliberate pause. He didn't know what would be awaiting him when he pulled up the hatch. Would GIR have caused the staggering amount of damage and disaster Dib imagined him to be capable of? Or perhaps made off with his backpack full of essentials? Another, far more jarring thought entered his mind at that moment: what if he opened the hatch and GIR wasn't in there at all?

That was enough for Dib to quit his hesitation and throw up the latch right then and there.

"Hiya!"

He heard GIR's chipper little voice before he saw him. Once his eyes adjusted to the inside of the ship, he saw the robot sitting on the floor and coloring with a box of markers. Where he had gotten them from was anyone's guess.

"You're still here…" he breathed out in relief.

He immediately set to examining the rest of the ship. His heart jolted in his chest, expecting to see his laptop in pieces, or his entire food supply gone. Once again, though, these worries proved to be for naught. His backpack was more or less in the same spot he'd put it, and all else was unharmed.

"Er, what did you do the whole time I was gone?" he asked hesitantly.

GIR paused what he was doing and looked up at him innocently. "Coloring."

"For twelve hours?"

The robot simply stared blankly up at him with unblinking cyan eyes in the darkness.

Dib made his way aboard and pressed a button to illuminate the cockpit further. Once he did, he could see countless multi-colored scribbles all over the interior of the ship in permanent marker. When he glanced down at GIR, he noticed the robot was drawing on the floor rather than using paper.

His mouth parted a bit, anger beginning to boil beneath the surface. Dib took a few deep breaths to prevent himself from disassembling Zim's idiot child of a henchman.

"H'okay," he sighed at last, scooping up his bags. "I guess you could have done a lot worse. Good job, I guess. Let's go."

"YAAAAY!" GIR stood up and ecstatically barreled out of the ship, yelling unintelligibly as he rounded the corner of the docking bay. Dib stared after him for a moment before halfheartedly following the direction he'd taken off to.

-x-

As soon as he entered the room, GIR beelined for Zim and immediately tried to clamber onto the cot with him. Dib's face twisted into a grimace, but he held short of stopping him.

The little robot wrapped his arms and legs around his master's torso in an embrace, all while the Irken remained deathly still in return. Only in a coma could Zim retain his composure with GIR so flippantly disregarding his personal space. Not a single muscle twitched, and his face was perfectly arranged in a peaceful, neutral expression.

GIR, in turn, was alarmingly innocent and childlike in his response to the Irken's state. He hugged the alien tightly, then sat back on the bed to admire him for a moment.

"Okay, I'm done. Now let's go!"

Dib sat down beside the bed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "No, GIR. We have to stay and wait for Skoodge to come back. Can you just be quiet until then?"

The robot dabbed at his chin as he mulled the question over. Zim's heart monitor continued to bleep steadily in the background. "No…"

"Well, too bad," Dib sighed. He slouched in the chair and hung his head back. His thoughts lingered back to Skoodge, and he could feel anxiety creeping to the forefront again.

He knew he should be making a conscious effort to stay awake and hold vigil until he returned. Still, waves of drowsiness continually lapped at his mind, threatening to pull him under. It wasn't long before he fell victim to its hold.

He dozed fitfully, occasionally opening his eyes in confusion and fuzzily recalling his whereabouts. The tiniest hint of anxiety would hit him each time before being quickly forgotten as he drifted off again.

-x-

It must have been hours later. Dib sat slumped in his seat, head drooped forward and snoring lightly. He was still mostly asleep when the sound of scuffling arose from upstairs, followed by the mechanic whir of the conduit. He only comprehended these noises on a surface level, feeling somewhat surreal as his bleary conscious languidly processed them. He sensed the tangible feeling of someone entering the room, accompanied by a gust of wind and the sounds of heavy breathing.

How long Skoodge stayed in the room, or what he did, Dib didn't know. He was back to fluttering dreams within seconds, reality folding in among them and becoming engulfed by the sea of his rampant mind.

Eventually, his restless mind overruled his body, and he remained awake despite his halfhearted attempts to fall asleep once more. He stretched his stiff muscles and adjusted his glasses before sluggishly blinking away his drowsiness.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the room, but when they did, he was aware of a different vibe in the bunker.

From the corner of his eye, he saw something stir near Zim's bed. He rose from his chair and walked over.

Zim was as still as ever, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Right beside him, though, was GIR, having wriggled beneath the covers to snuggle against him.

"Shhhh. Master's sleeping. He dreamin' 'bout ice cream, probably."

Dib turned his eyes towards Zim's face, neutral as ever.

"Did Skoodge come back? Where is he?"

GIR pointed one little hand to the adjoined doorway.

He crept to the next room, where he found Skoodge busily typing on the computer.

Dib scrutinized him, trying to gauge what he was really thinking.

Behind his nonchalant façade, it was clear the Irken was shaken. It was most apparent in his eyes, fixed widely ahead of him towards the monitor. Dainty fingers fled across the keyboard as Irken characters concurrently appeared above on the screen.

Dib recognized very little, aside from universal medical symbols and what looked to be diagrams of PAK innards. "Did you actually get it?" he asked.

Skoodge swiveled in his hovering chair and pointed to a hard briefcase resting on a table near the other end of the console. When the boy hesitantly approached it, the Irken rose from his seat and walked ahead of him. Wordlessly, he typed in a code and opened it.

Within was a dull grey and pink PAK. Inactivated, unused, and without a single blight or speck of dust on its matte surface. It looked so plain. So unremarkable. At the same time, the power it wielded was positively unsurpassed by any other piece of Irken technology in existence. It was the one link that separated them from death, preserved their memories, and armored them with the artillery deemed necessary for their paranoid minds to be brought at a semblance of ease.

Dib sucked in an awe-filled breath. "But how? You made it sound so impossible."

"I have my ways of pulling through. Always have," he replied coolly, shrugging a bit beneath his crisp white lab coat.

Baffled, Dib shut his mouth and straightened up. "No, really. How did you get it? Won't they figure out it's missing? I mean—"

"—It's not important right now. What's important is that Zim gets prepped for surgery as soon as possible."

With that, Skoodge quickly turned his attention away from Dib and returned to the monitors.

"I'll be conducting the surgery myself," he explained as he typed away. More charts and Irken characters scrolled past overhead. "It's our only option. I have seen it done in person multiple times, and I have accessed and downloaded the information needed to guide me through it."

Dib nodded stoically, but his eyes had dropped back down to the PAK lying before him. From deep within his cloistered, stress-filled mind, one thought jumped to the forefront. In the same instant, Skoodge's next words, murmured under his breath, vocalized the very same premonition.

"I only hope it will be enough."

Sometime later, Skoodge stood before the operating table. All had been prepared, and Zim was settled squarely before him.

His skin was still ashy, and his bones protruded disturbingly from it as if they might burst straight from the tissue paper-esque flesh at the slightest of movements.

An Irken wasting away from PAK deficiency was an ugly sight indeed. Whether their life support device had been torn away from their biological shell, or they had succumbed to something like what Zim was suffering, it was a horrific event. Distinct, too, in the way it presented itself.

The pallid skin. The lack of cognitive abilities or motor skills. The hacking coughs and labored breathing as airways narrowed and lungs weakened. The body was shutting down, the organs failing slowly and painstakingly. It made the unfortunate victim nearly impossible to recognize…

More and more became familiar when Skoodge brought Zim to the table and looked him over again, though. He was indeed the very same Irken he had trained side by side with during their adolescence.

He looked for and eventually found a small kink in Zim's antennae, something subtle and difficult to identify unless one was actively searching for it. Zim had been born with it, and it had been something of a source of resentment for him as a smeet. During their schooling, he'd occasionally be seen tugging on the afflicted feeler, trying unsuccessfully to unkink it. Rather than its intended effect, though, this action only manifested itself into a nervous habit that he had carried with him well into adulthood.

Additionally, he took note of the little dent near the right side of his PAK that Zim had sustained in training nearly one hundred twenty years earlier, back when the two were both no more than smeets. Unlike the antennae, though, he had always viewed this flaw with pride. It was a remarkably difficult feat to dent an Irken PAK, and he took it as a testament to his dedication to the empire. A true soldier puts their homeland before anything else, including themselves. It was a shame he would wear this badge of honor no more…

If Skoodge had anything to do with it, though, he would fight to ensure that he returned the gift of a second chance that Zim had given him not so many years ago. He would strive to give him another chapter.

What the surgery entailed, though, was so much more complex than he would ever confide to the human boy. It was not as simple as removing the old PAK and plopping a new one on. If that was possible, then Irkenkind would be facing rampant identity theft indefinitely.

No. When a newborn Irken hatched and was bound to the PAK, the process was so quick, so expertly completed by machinery created for this role and this role alone, it was hard to see all the mechanisms at play. First, a robotic arm lowered and inserted two prongs along the newborn's spinal column, instantly cauterizing the wound it had inflicted. Then, another arm drifted down with the PAK, which was implanted into the two holes that had been created.

Those "two holes," though, were just as important as the PAK, itself. The purpose of those wounds was to insert a permanent fastener between the spine and the PAK. In mechanical terms, it was a female connector that allowed the male connector (the PAK), to plug into the biological shell. This connector was affixed to the spine and only compatible with the PAK it had been issued with.

In short, a PAK replacement surgery involved safely removing the old connector and replacing it with one that would accept the new PAK. This all had to be done without paralyzing the patient.

When that was done, yet more tribulation existed in the reupload of information between the old and new PAKs. Simple error on the part of the surgeon—or even on the part of the computer being used—could wipe a patient's memory indefinitely. When biological lifeforms and mechanics combined, room for error was both prolific and catastrophic.

Taking in a deep breath, Skoodge turned to his tray of instruments and began.

Dib had been instructed to stay away. Despite his protests, no leniency had come of them. This resulted in him nervously pacing the various floors of Skoodge's bunker, exploring wherever he could, and being met mostly with locked chamber doors that proved to be off-limits to him whenever he attempted a retina scan. He finally settled in the refectory, which was one of the few rooms where he was granted access.

It was a small area, vaguely reminiscent of a cafeteria, only condensed down to a smaller size. The entirety of it was rather plain and quite reflective of Irkenkind's fastidious nature. Dib couldn't help but notice how sanitary it all was, without a speck of dust or grime to be found. A spacious kitchen opened out into a dining area, of which the latter consisted of little more than a table and a few high-backed chairs that were built into the ground.

He settled in at one.

For the first time in a long time, he made an honest effort to relax. All that could be done was being done. He was at a refuge, and the safest he could possibly be on an enemy planet.

Still, his attempts at self-reassurance did little to settle his restlessness. He couldn't find it in himself to calm down. Not when so much was still hanging in the balance. Just two floors away, Zim was in the middle of intensive surgery—a surgery that would prove to be either life or death.

As much as he wanted to let the small seed of hope within his chest flourish, he instead found himself vehemently squashing it back with every new reappearance. He knew he had to be prepared for Skoodge to return, bearing bad news. News that could result in Dib traveling in his ship alone, en route to Earth, to live a lonely existence deprived of the sole being who had given his life purpose for so long.

He needed to be prepared for it. And learn to deal with it. Right now, though, the thought alone filled him with rising spikes of anxiety, coupled with the dull pang of heartache in his chest.

He took a sip from his water bottle. Paused. Then took a gulp. At that moment, the instinctual need to eat and drink that he had ignored for so long finally managed to reach the recesses of his dazed mind. He found himself rifling through his second bag in search of whatever food he had left.

It was a large backpack, and had a variety of items that had been hastily stuffed inside. Clothes were tossed out haphazardly, forming piles on the glossy mauve floor. A toothbrush and comb followed. He absentmindedly pulled his laptop out of the bag and set it on the table in his attempt to get to the bottom of the bag.

At last, he took out the first few food items he felt: an unopened package of Oreos, a Cup O Noodles, and some stale tortilla chips that had been retrieved from the very back of his pantry back on Earth.

Immediately, he tore into the Oreos and shoved one in his mouth. Then two more. He continued to scoff them, only pausing to wash them down with the occasional gulp of water. As he did so, his eyes glanced around the room. At last, after several moments, they rested on the laptop sitting askew on the table in front of him.

Dib frowned. Stuck in one of the side ports was something he didn't remember taking along with him: his flash drive. He hadn't realized it was still plugged into his computer.

He swallowed his current mouthful of cookies and pulled the laptop closer to him. The sight of the flash drive shouldn't have been surprising to him. Certainly not enough to disarm him, at least. It would ordinarily be quite a mundane sight for most people, himself included. However, something still managed to nag at him…

A sudden thought reached his mind, and he inquisitively logged in to his computer and clicked on the flash drive's icon. Within were the typical slew of files and journal entries he had saved, most pertaining to the paranormal. One lone folder labeled "Skool Work" was wedged sadly among all the mishmash like an afterthought.

He slowly scrolled through the folders and documents, his heart rate increasing with each passing second. Though he was actively searching for it, seeing the file there amid everything else still sent surges of ice water through his veins.

With a pang of reluctance, he clicked on it.

Voices resounded from his laptop speakers, sounding somewhat distant and fuzzy. The English translation followed tranquility along with the rough tongues that made up the Irken language as they spoke. Dib's eyes followed the words as they careened by on the black screen.

"…Why is it that we have all successfully completed our respective missions, or are at least in the final stages, while you…well, you are struggling to even put together a simple presentation detailing your own conquest?"

"Urrhhgg! SHUT UP! Shut up! As if you had the mental capacity to—"

Dib paused the video and took a deep breath. Hearing Zim's voice, so full of vigor and life, was something he had been starkly unprepared to hear. His hands were both shaking now. Breath whistling audibly from between his parted lips, he clicked further on in the recording.

"—reconnaissance went smoothly, and we can confirm that the defective is now residing within his ship."

"—while the attempt to deactivate his SIR unit was unsuccessful, we do not believe it will hinder the mission."

He subconsciously continued to reach for Oreos as he clicked on and on.

"—has been the reason for far too much destruction…"

"—continuously wastes valuable Irken resources on his joke of a mission!"

"—must take matters into our own hands. His PAK cannot be allowed into the collective. Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

Once he got to the end of the recording, in which only static could be heard, he went back to the beginning and listened to it over again. Then again. Then again after that. Over and over, he clicked through it, reading the words on the screen and listening to the words that were being said. It brought him straight back to where he'd been that fateful night, when he had awoken to the discussion of their ploy.

Finally, after what must have been nearly an hour, he paused it and tore his eyes away from the translated subtitles.

As soon as he did so, he felt a rush of nausea fall over him. He felt like he was going to be sick. Shoving the nearly empty bag of cookies back in his bag, he slowly closed the laptop and leaned forward in his chair.

Between gulping down food after having had none for so long and stressing himself out over the recording, he was left with his stomach churning. He had had too much too fast, in more ways than one.

For a time, he kept his eyes closed, trying to ride out bouts of queasiness. They came and went, sometimes threateningly enough that it would prompt him to open his eyes and glance anxiously at the trash receptacle on the other end of the room.

All the while, the final words from the recording continued to pound their way into his head, repeating over and over again in the strange language of the Irken race. He knew what they translated to, and internally withdrew at the finality of the statement.

"Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

"Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

Even by the time his stomach had settled enough to offer him some reprieve, they still haunted him. So simple. So self-assured. And so spiteful in the events they prefaced. Dib fell asleep, body slumped over the table, all to the lullaby of the Tallest's promise as it rang through his skull in a disembodied flurry of constant taunting.

"Defective Zim's parade of indignities ends tonight!"

Meanwhile, on a planet not so very far from Elixus, the tension already present had only increased with every moment of silence from the Tallest. Silence could be very foretelling, and if those involved weren't so blinded by their devotion, suspicion would have most certainly been raised.

It wasn't within an Irken's nature to shy away from war. A thirst for battle and bloodshed was ingrained deeply in their programming, going hand in hand with the pride they so vehemently held for their own race.

Nonetheless, a recess had been taken after a certain amount of persistence on the part of the Tallest. Once they'd returned to session, the same measures were tediously repeated, and the matter was danced around and debated fruitlessly. Eventually, no further outlet of stalling could be found.

A decision had to be made.

"Have you come to a consensus?" The enormity of the Supreme Control Brain's words weighed down heavily upon the two.

In many instances, the Tallest reveled in the power they possessed over the rest of their servants. They had the world on a string. While the Empire looked down solidly on every other being in their known galaxy, those who had been declared Tallest looked down on their own race, both figuratively and literally. It was a position that they had grown quite comfortable with.

Now, the two could only shrink away from the other end of that power. Now, they were the ones beneath the microscope. Between the maw of a higher force and destined to perish at the first sign of treason.

It was Red who spoke first, his voice uncharacteristically meek as the words spilled from his lips. "Yes. We have."

Purple flicked his eyes sharply in his direction.

Silence carried on, pressing down fully as those in attendance bore their gazes up upon their trusted leaders.

"And that consensus would be?" the Supreme Brain prompted.

"The ability to protect your loyal subjects lies firmly in your hands," resounded another Brain in a low monotone. "Remember that."

Both Tallest nodded, antennae pinned back. Taking in a deep breath, Red stepped forward and whispered his answer.

Deep within Zim's base, in the main laboratory, alarms began to blare from the monitor and swallow the darkness of the room in flashing red.

Upon the screen was an emergency transmission, sent to every Irken in the known galaxy, regardless of who they were or where they resided.

War on Meekrob.

Summons to return to Irk, by order of the Royal Irken Court.

Larb's breath caught in his throat as he stood before the screen, seeing the same message played over and over as the accompanying chaos erupted around him.

How could this have happened? What did it mean for him?

Scrambling to a corner of the room in a futile attempt to avoid the worst of the noise, he summoned his communicator from his PAK and set to contact the Tallest. The snowy screen glitched but offered up no successful connection. A few agonizing seconds passed before he was merely directed to a prerecorded message ordering all soldiers to abort their current missions and return to Irk, effective immediately.

He didn't want to believe it. None of it was connecting.

With every frantic heartbeat, he could feel his own mind succumb to the very same madness that had taken hold of the laboratory. All the while, the flashing alarms basked over him, alighting his glassy stare in a steady rhythm.

Larb dropped to his knees in the middle of the room. All he could do was quietly witness the shock that engulfed him and spirited away the last shred of his sanity without so much as a whimper to forewarn its departure.

Finally, back in a lower level deep within the bowels of a windowless Irken medical bay on the planet Elixus, Skoodge lowered his tools. Standing up and adjusting his mask around his face, he glanced at the screens monitoring Zim's vital functions. All looked to be in check.

A few minutes later, and the little form on the table weakly coughed. Both eyes were still firmly shut. He was alarmingly limp, from the tips of his antennae, all the way down to his bare toes. His body was covered with a thin gown.

"Can you hear me?" Skoodge's voice asked. A brief wave of silence passed, then an affirmative grunt.

The stout Irken nodded curtly, reluctant optimism playing around his features. Perhaps the surgery had truly restored the delicate marriage of Irken PAK and organic brain without any serious complications.

He immediately asked another question, keenly checking him over for further signs of lucidity. "Do you know where you are?"

He stared down at Zim's face and searched for any sign that his words had made their way to the barren recesses of his mind. That small shred of hopefulness began to falter around the edges when he received no response. His face returned to its former expression, rigid with uncertainty.

"Can you tell me your age?"

Once again, not so much as a stir in response. His chest rose up and down slowly.

"Do you remember your name?"

A pause. A tiny inhale of breath. Then, a weak, voiceless whisper that one had to strain to hear.

"…Z-Zim. I am… Zim."

Chapter Text

Zim's brain post-surgery was filled to the brim in a murky fog that effectively shrouded his fully cogent self away from the world around him. What managed to penetrate said fog was only the distant sound of somebody's voice, asking a seemingly endless torrent of questions that held little to no meaning. As if he were detached from his own body, Zim heard the faint sound of his own voice as he made feeble attempts to reply to what he could. He found he could only really answer question one in earnest.

Zim.

His name was Zim.

That was all he could remember.

He must have fallen back asleep shortly thereafter, for when he opened his eyes again, he felt slightly more aware of what was happening around him. He was still groggy, yes, but at least his senses had sharpened somewhat.

No longer was a bright surgical light fixture shining down over his face, and he felt strangely warm and snug. A bleary glance downwards revealed him to be propped in a medical cot, covered in clean white blankets.

Though he couldn't see very much from his vantage point, he could pick out certain things around him. The lower lighting in the room. The sounds of beeping and feet shuffling. Voices, perhaps, though he couldn't quite discern where they were coming from.

As he attempted to blink away the lingering drowsiness, a gloved hand holding one end of a stethoscope came into view and gently pressed it down on his chest. His eyes flicked towards the hand and followed it to its owner: a short, stocky Irken who was adorned from head to toe in the standard white attire of medical drones.

"How are you feeling, Zim?" the drone asked him, still listening for his heartbeat.

He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a muffled groan. It was then that he dully registered the oxygen mask that had been placed over his face.

The drone merely hummed in acknowledgement, moving the stethoscope down to Zim's abdomen. Then, wrapping an arm across his chest, he carefully drew him forward in bed. The ensuing headrush Zim felt, even at this gentle movement, caused him to groan and pinch his eyes back shut.

The drone pressed the stethoscope in various places on his back, listening to his breathing. Finally, he eased Zim back down and settled into a chair beside him.

"Do you feel any pain or discomfort?" he asked, rephrasing his first question to be a little blunter.

Zim grunted in the negative. On the contrary, he felt oddly comfortable. He was wrapped warmly in the weight of several blankets and bolstered up on an impossibly plush assortment of pillows while, unbeknownst to him, the lingering anesthesia from his surgery continued to course through his bloodstream. His brain felt slow and lazy, taking in the world around him with little more than vague acknowledgement of what was around him.

A tiny piece of his cognizant mind still made an effort, though it was no more than a tiny sunbeam fighting to peek through the heavy clouds of his drug-induced haze. Nevertheless, it was enough to prompt his first words. "Whu happened…? W-where—?"

A coughing fit cut him off, and the drone sitting beside him patiently waited for it to pass before answering.

"You were brought here a couple days ago, in the final stages of PAK deficiency. Your body was failing." He spoke these words gradually, enunciating each one, and waited for a few seconds between sentences to let Zim digest what was being told to him. "What you have woken up from was a full PAK replacement surgery, performed a little over an hour ago. I'm sorry, Zim. It was the only option."

Zim faintly sensed the compunction in his voice, causing a touch of confusion to cross his otherwise blank face. One antenna dopily wilted forward.

"You will be experiencing some… unsavory side effects. You see, most Irkens don't undergo a procedure like this, and even fewer undergo it with their biological shell in such a weakened state. It is not an orthodox method of fusion between PAK and host. It will take some time for the new PAK to adjust to your body."

It was spoken in that same agonizingly slow voice, but Zim still found himself struggling to understand. The cogs in his mind were trying to make sense of the statement, working as though they were submerged in a vat of molasses.

It took him even longer to realize his companion had finished speaking. Only when his eyes unglazed and he spared an imploring glance up towards him did the drone continue.

"Right now, you are experiencing temporary paralysis in all your limbs. There are a couple reasons for this. The primary one is the impact the replacement had on your nervous system. It will take time for it to form a proper symbiosis with the new PAK, but you will regain use of your body over time. You've also experienced some atrophy from underuse of your muscles."

Zim's eyes dropped lazily down to one of his skinny arms, sprawled lifelessly next to him over the blankets on his bed. When he experimentally tried to lift it, it wouldn't so much as budge. Perhaps in a better state of mind, he would have felt a pang of fright. In his drugged state, though, he merely responded to the news of his own paralysis with a disgruntled frown.

Everything that had come out of the medical drone's mouth thus far had sounded clinical and levelheaded. However, after finishing with that part, his demeanor suddenly changed. He cast his eyes downward, and it seemed to take some mental preparation before he spoke again.

"Zim. Do you remember who I am? It's Skoodge."

Zim gazed up at him, but nothing about his features looked even remotely familiar. His vacant expression seemed to answer the question easily enough.

"Do… do you remember anything other than your own name?"

A pause followed.

"Not really," Zim whispered finally. His voice was a gravelly, disoriented monotone.

The drone—Skoodge—nodded slowly, antennae drooping a bit. "Please understand. There are certain risks involved with any operation like this one. As we speak, your new PAK should be working to ensure your memories return to you. There's no guarantee that all the data transitioned over properly between the old and new PAK, though. It could… result in some permanent memory loss."

He glanced back up at Zim remorsefully. "If that is so, then I am deeply sorry."

Instead of expressing any hint of emotion, though, his face remained entirely neutral, eyes faraway, trying to grasp at the severity of what he'd been told. He only managed to take in the information thrown at him at a base level.

"For now, it's important that you rest, and avoid doing anything that could compromise your recovery." With that, Skoodge stood up and bunched up the stethoscope in both hands. He returned to checking over some of Zim's monitors, moving around him with practiced ease.

After several minutes, Zim felt himself drifting into a drunken sense of serenity. He blinked tiredly. Blinked again, keeping his eyes shut for a time.

When he opened them, he noticed a shuffling from just beyond the med bay entrance. Then, a tall, lanky figure appeared and meekly peered in at him from the safety of the threshold.

At once, Zim and the figure locked eyes.

Like everything and everyone else, zero recognition came to him at the sight of the new arrival.

His clothes were unkempt, his posture crooked, and his pale face had several visible scuffs and bruises. Nevertheless, he still looked down at Zim with a certain warmness in his broad smile and glinting eyes—an expression that suggested an established acquaintanceship.

Zim offered a blank gaze in return.

His smile waned briefly, replaced by a flicker of deterrence.

At that moment, though, Skoodge met him at the door and mumbled something softly. The boy's posture lowered even more as he bent down to hear properly, sneaking glances back at Zim all the while.

Zim's eyelids pulled down once more, feeling impossibly heavy. When he opened them again, the doorway was empty, and he was alone.

-x-

3 days later

-x-

The streets of Elixus seemed to have acquired a peculiar sense of urgency in a remarkably short period of time. It was palpable throughout the entire city. News screens emanated from every street corner and loomed over buildings, keeping track of the latest developments involving the war. Each update was amply sprinkled with reassurances of a clear Irken victory.

For surely it was impossible for such an advanced, powerful, and ultimately superior race to bend to anyone. Irk would conquer the Meekrob with ease. They would continue to ascend the intergalactic hierarchy, valiant as ever. Of course they would.

And yet, the way the residing Irkens responded gave a clear indication as to just how effective the deluge of propaganda was. They walked stiffly along the sidewalks, looking undeniably on edge whenever they passed a news screen. Antennae twitched, buglike eyes had taken on a glassy stare, and their sense of hostility had only seemed to grow impossibly stronger.

Dib had observed enough of Zim's own mannerisms to know that paranoia was a difficult emotion for Irkens to hide. Typically, he'd noticed, they would attempt to raise a sense of smugness to hide their misgivings. It seemed to be a collective coping mechanism, this strange little habit of putting on airs. Whether it existed to fool others or to fool themselves remained to be seen. It was simply all they knew.

Somehow, though, the unexpected news of Meekrob had managed to shake them to their core, causing that trademark poise to all but crumble at their feet. It was clear in the way they carried themselves.

Dib tried to keep his own morbid curiosity under wraps as he hobbled down the street and to the docking bay. All the while, he could feel the vibes lingering like heavy smog in the heat of the city as he walked past buildings and ducked his head down low to avoid eye contact with the rest of the denizens.

To be an alien on an Irken-run planet was incredibly dangerous to begin with. Now, though, it seemed to have increased tenfold. The tension was palpable. The little green humanoids were ticking time bombs, internalized landmines existing within each and every one of them and threatening to detonate at the drop of a hat.

Two Irkens couldn't so much as brush arms on the sidewalk without conjuring an eruption of lasers and various artillery from their PAKs, aimed precariously at one another and causing the surrounding passerby to dive out of the way.

Dib had been a witness to several such altercations, and each one caused him to scurry down the nearest alley lest he become caught in the crossfire.

Thankfully, no such incident occurred on this particular trip, and the boy made his way through the thick of the city and walked the increasingly familiar path to the docking bay. He glanced up when he saw the shine of the Spittle Runner gleam under the alien moonlight of Elixus.

It had been parked in the same spot, holding whatever supplies he hadn't already carried back with him to the bunker. Over the last week, he had been making these infrequent trips back and forth, usually under the cover of night, to retrieve food and the odd necessity that had been left on board.

He opened the hatch and climbed in, plopping in the pilot's seat for a moment. At once, his muscles untensed, a heavy exhale following close behind.

He stayed like that for a time, hunkered down in the cockpit and out of sight. After a little while, he cracked one eye open from his comfy resting spot, admiring the bright shine of Elixus's two moons overhead. The planet's sky was a deep, wine-colored shade at night, and though the bright city lights made them near impossible to see, it was speckled faintly with stars.

Letting out another sigh, he stood up and stretched until he could feel his joints pop. Then, grabbing the sweatshirt he'd come for, he hopped out of the ship and skulked back the way he'd come, putting on the same poker face as he waded through the persistent unrest of the Irken city.

Back at the bunker, Zim stared blankly at the twists and turns of wires above him on the ceiling, lips parted slightly beneath the oxygen mask strapped over his face. He drank in the air rhythmically, listening to it go in and out. The cadence of several monitors harmonized with it, but otherwise, all was silent.

Even after coming out of the fog of anesthesia, he still felt as though he'd spent every waking moment drifting in and out of dissociation as his mind roiled along on stormy, uncharted seas. The only constant was a tangible sense of unease that coursed through his veins, mingling oddly with his cocktail of painkillers and IV fluids.

Upon asking, he had been told that he was on Elixus, the Irken planet devoted entirely to medicine and biological repair. To his recollection, he had been here only once before, to receive vaccinations and a physical back when he was no more than a tiny smeet.

He had no idea how he'd gotten here now, burdened with his current affliction. All he knew was that he was in recovery and was ordered to rest.

So far, said recovery had mainly consisted of Skoodge goose-stepping into the med bay nearly every hour to check his vitals, flex his useless limbs, and feed him a thick, syrupy mixture of nutritional fluids that always left him twisting up his face in disgust as they made their way past his gums and into his sore spooch.

Occasionally, when he wasn't wearing his oxygen mask, Zim would tiredly ask the same questions, sometimes speaking in Irken and other times drawling out the likes of "who are you?" or "where am I?" in frank English.

His illness and surgery were often re-explained patiently, and he would frown resignedly before allowing the mask to be resituated over his face. It was an odd little thing. His memory issues were not of the anterograde variety—meaning he did not suffer short term memory loss. Rather, the repeated questions seemed to stem from a desire for a different answer. Zim simply couldn't grasp his situation. Couldn't make sense of it.

All the while, his new PAK was still in the process of returning his memories to his organic brain in an excruciating display of graduality. New recollections drifted along as languidly as could be while he lay inertly in his sickbed, unable to move. His gross motor skills were shot and his fine motor skills severely compromised, leaving him weak and hardly able to lift a finger.

Everything had to be done for him, and he was too muddled to put up much of a fight.

Presently, he sighed and turned his eyes back down to the end of his bed. His simple-minded little SIR unit was sitting there, engrossed in whatever was playing on the tiny television screen in the far corner of the room. It flickered dimly from its place on the wall, volume turned down low enough to serve as background noise. Occasionally, prompted by his own excruciating boredom, Zim would watch it along with him, practically feeling his brain revert into mush as his eyes lazily followed the figures on the screen.

At least he'd grown to somewhat remember GIR after the first couple days. Since awakening from surgery, Zim's memory had begun to break through the misty barrier it had been trapped beneath. Slowly but surely, he could remember more than just his name, and he had begun to vaguely recall those around him in turn.

Littered consistently within many of his warbled, foggy memories of smeethood was a tinier and meeker version of Skoodge. Yes, it was his old squadron mate, Skoodge, who had performed his operation and continually cared for him.

And GIR, too. Fleeting glimpses of reconnaissance work, evenings hunched over tables in his laboratory, and mornings sitting down to breakfast were almost always associated with the robot to some degree. The little thing had been practically joined to Zim's hip. And just like then, he had taken to sitting in the med bay with his master almost every minute of every day.

Zim allowed it. He took a small amount of solace in the semblance of familiarity that came with GIR's brand of predictability. Unlike his other visitors, nothing had changed between the memories of GIR in his past and the version of GIR he saw presently. Not to mention, there was a certain comfort in knowing that if his SIR unit was still around, left freely to his own devices while Zim was recouping, then the Irken's situation must not be horribly dire. The little robot didn't do much other than sit mesmerized in front of the television and watch Irken broadcasts anyways.

At that moment, the distinctive tapping of Skoodge's boots could be heard down the corridor. Zim had learned to recognize the footsteps of his visitors, giving himself just the smallest window of mental preparation before they entered.

Right on schedule, the Irken rounded the threshold and traipsed into the med bay, crisp white lab coat wrapped snuggly around him. His small round eyes automatically flicked up towards the monitors hanging over Zim's head, just as they always did. "How are you feeling?" he asked next.

Zim scowled faintly. The question was always the first thing out of anybody's mouth. It had become exasperating. As much as he wanted to give an angry retort, though, all he could conjure up was a dismissive grunt from behind his oxygen mask.

GIR flopped onto his back, jostling the thin frame of the medical cot, and picked up the remote control. He began flipping through channels while Skoodge continued on with his examination.

"Well, you're looking better. It's very possible that, on top of all this, you have also been getting over a viral infection. You might have caught an illness back on Earth due to your PAK deficiency. That would make sense. It does weaken the immune system after all."

Skoodge had a curious trait of rambling, despite the fact that Zim evidently wasn't listening. He had turned his dark-rimmed eyes back up to the ceiling, trying to block out the bothersome noise of the TV as GIR paused on channel after channel.

He took vague note as Skoodge drifted to a panel on the wall and eyed it for a moment. Said panel controlled and reported all substances being fed into Zim's body via his PAK. Over the last few days, the ugly array of tubes jutting out of the top port had progressively decreased, leaving only a few left for painkillers and IV fluids.

"Are you in any pain?" He asked after a moment.

"No."

Skoodge turned back around and eyed the monitors nonchalantly. Then, both antennae flicked upwards, and he spun around to see what Zim's faulty SIR unit was watching. GIR had lingered especially long on a news channel and was blankly staring at the screen while prattle about Meekrob and drafting notices rang through the speakers.

Before Zim could comprehend what was going on, Skoodge crossed the room with surprising agility for someone his size and promptly clicked the TV off.

"GIR, why don't you go retrieve Dib from the refectory? I could use his assistance," he ordered.

Zim watched as the robot pranced out of the room, leaving a brief silence in his wake. Moments later, the tinny, pattering footsteps were replaced by a heavier shuffling. A distinct pause enunciated each footfall, indicating the limp that had unfortunately come to serve as the telltale sign of Dib's approach.

Almost immediately, the heart monitor above him began to lurch upwards more erratically, a hastened beeping following a beat later. It was an automatic response. One that Zim couldn't entirely explain.

Dib.

He was yet another face that was almost constantly present. And yet, the memories that accompanied him were unlike those that accompanied Skoodge and GIR. They were… inconsistent. Confusing. Filled with anger and animosity. The few ill-defined images of Dib that his PAK had supplied brought with them no indication of anything other than mutual dislike.

So why was he here? Why was the stink beast standing in the med bay, placidly following Skoodge's orders and helping Zim? It was all too much for him to understand. And he didn't like it. Hated it, in fact.

Nevertheless, it didn't stop Dib from strolling into the room like he owned the place.

"Is everything okay?" Skoodge asked, taking note of the mild spike in his blood pressure. Zim didn't reply. Just kept his eyes pinned on the boy.

"Erm, maybe I should leave," Dib said after a moment, inching back towards the door.

Skoodge straightened a little bit. "Do you want Dib to leave?" he asked, bending down to hear Zim's answer from beyond the seal of the oxygen mask.

Though he very much did, Zim dazedly shook his head no.

The two paused for a moment, then brushed it off. Skoodge went about doing what he had come to do, working to get circulation in Zim's limbs and coaxing him along in some basic physical therapy exercises. As with everything else regarding his recovery, Dib mostly observed from the sidelines, occasionally running little errands for Skoodge when needed.

It was only when the session ended, however, that the predictability of the routine ceased. Skoodge, without any warning, silently dismissed himself and slipped through an adjoining door, leaving Zim alone with Dib.

Both seemed visibly uncomfortable, staring after the departing Irken in confusion. Zim took the opportunity stare intently at Dib, as if by doing so, he could will his brain to make sense of him.

Dib's bruises and scrapes had healed somewhat over the past few days, but he still walked with a limp and his stupid eye-glass-things were smashed on one side. Most of the time when Zim saw him, he was doing grunt work for Skoodge or wandering the halls. He didn't look malicious. He didn't look conniving. He didn't look like anything.

If anything, he held himself in a way that was entirely casual and unassuming. Oddly enough, it sparked something akin to annoyance in Zim. The boy acted like he belonged here. As if he wasn't totally out of place in the bizarre caricature of the world that had been carved for him following his PAK replacement surgery.

As he was scrutinizing him, Dib's expression suddenly changed. He tensed up, looking both disturbed and awestruck. Zim immediately followed his gaze to the doorway and locked onto Skoodge as he walked out. More specifically, he locked onto something Skoodge was holding. Something eerily familiar.

Zim's old PAK.

It looked like a squashed spider, unsprung legs tangled up and bent oddly at their joints. The little metal dome itself was lightly scuffed from a lifetime of wear.

"I thought you would want to see this," Skoodge said, presenting the mangled contraption in his arms. He turned it over, revealing the ports.

"It's actually very interesting. The deployed legs were unable to be retracted due the energy involved to connect cerebrally. If you look at the underside, you can…" Skoodge continued, sounded fascinated. He went on to explain the surgery and what exactly had occurred, turning the PAK over in his hands. There was an air of satisfaction in his voice. It was evident that he was proud of the way the operation had gone and convinced that Zim would be interested in hearing about.

However, all the little Irken could do was ogle at the decrepit state of his original PAK. His birth PAK. He took in a pained inhale as his burgeoning emotions hit him square in the chest. They clashed with the painkillers in his system, leaving him stunned as they swirled and fought with his inebriated mind.

Somewhere in the midst of Skoodge's mindless rambling, he had a thought, half-baked and subconsciously formed at best. It could have arisen from the sight of his old PAK legs, trailing along the floor in a pathetic heap. Perhaps it was an odd flight response to the onslaught of emotions that coursed through him at the sight of it. Maybe it was because he was still a prisoner within his own body, and the mere spark of an idea could only be mulled for so long before it was pounced upon in an act of fervent desperation.

Whatever the reason, though, for the first time since awakening from his operation, one gleaming silver PAK leg arose from the port in his new life support vessel as he conjured it out. A second followed, slow and jerky.

Zim glanced up at the sudden silence in the room. Skoodge had stopped speaking and was looking rather uneasily at the PAK legs.

"Zim, I wouldn't—"

Both legs lowered on either side of the cot, reaching the floor and subsequently lifting his light body out of its nest of blankets. Higher and higher he rose up, until he was several feet in the air. The entire process was a dangerously shaky affair. The Irken's arms and legs hung lifelessly, and he struggled to raise his chin high enough to take in his greatly increased elevation. He looked on with an expression of plain trepidation as he deployed the other two legs and attempted to steady himself.

Skoodge set the old PAK down on the ground beside him and stood close to Zim's side. "Okay," he laughed weakly. "Time to come down. You aren't in any state to be using those yet. There's a very unpredictable connection between your organic brain and the—"

"—I'm fine," Zim interrupted, voice hoarse and entirely unconvincing. As if to prove it, he tried to move forward, still tottering precariously.

As soon as he did so, the leg closest to Dib slipped across the polished floor and buckled in on itself.

"Hey, uh, woah!" Dib looked unnerved. He reflexively reached both hands out to steady it.

At that, Zim's next, somewhat spooked response was to quickly lower himself back down and suck the appendages back into his PAK. Dib's hands remained clasped around the shiny metal, and he was jerked forwards in an alarmingly powerful feat of strength as the other three limbs returned to their ports. He was knocked to his knees, still clutching the limb in his hands.

Zim drew in a sharp breath at the sensation, and he continually tried to draw the PAK leg back in.

This seemed familiar. Uncannily familiar.

A memory flooded back to him, disturbingly vivid and firmly marking its origins in the not-so-distant past. An ambush down in his laboratory. Zim, too weak and sick to fight back. PAK legs surrounding him. And Dib clutching them in both hands, boorishly tugging the alien along the floor of his lab by the long, spindly metal.

Dib was the enemy. He had always been the enemy.

Without realizing it, erratic, scared breaths joined in with his surging heart rate. He was beginning to hyperventilate. Labored gulps of air were sucked rapidly in and out as the elite squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulders heaved up and down with each one and both antennae raised their little kinks forward in distress, serving as a primitive indication of unadulterated fear.

"Zim! Are you okay?"

The Irken heard Skoodge's voice as if he were in a dream, hardly understanding the meaning of his words as panic closed in around him. He was no stranger to the feeling of dissociation, but this time it was different. It wasn't fever-induced nor was it brought on by copious amounts of medication. It had come from somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind and was coupled with dread.

Dib let go of the PAK leg like it was a hot iron, and watched wide-eyed as it, too, immediately disappeared back into its port. He was moving towards Zim, reaching out a hand and resting it on his shoulder. It only served to elevate the Irken's already skyrocketing heart rate, and he felt a tightness in his chest. There was no escape. Nothing that could be done to get away. It was just like before. Once more, he heard Skoodge's faraway voice.

"Computer, begin preparing a sedative."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skoodge sneak off towards the pharmaceutical unit, retrieving a syringe in one claw. Then the Irken was back by his side, giving cool reassurances as he plunged the needle into his pale, clammy skin.

In a matter of seconds, Zim felt a distinctive warmness seep into his body, quelling the flame in his chest and leaving him feeling completely weightless. What began as fear dissolved into something a bit more pleasant, and he melted into his pillow, succumbing to the firm but welcoming hold of unconsciousness.

It must have been at least an hour later. Dib was sitting at the table in the refectory, staring morosely at his laptop. Pulled up on the screen was a half-assed attempt at a homework assignment. Why? He had no idea. Back on Earth, his classes were preparing for finals. He briefly worried about what would happen to him once he returned. Would he be held back? Forced into summer skool? Then, he realized how silly it seemed in comparison.

First survive this. Then worry about skool.

Elevated on the chair beside him was his injured foot, propped up on a pillow.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if it was more than just a sprain. Rather than fading, the bruising only continued to blossom up, appearing most severely around a large lump of warm, tender skin that jutted out among the many tiny bones that made up his ankle.

He had taken to snagging what looked to be sterile bandages from the med bay while Skoodge was busy tending to Zim and had wrapped them as tightly as he could in the hopes that it would alleviate some of the pain.

The boy paused his typing and leaned back in his chair, heaving out a frustrated sigh.

How could he have expected anything different from Zim? How could he have been so stupid? He'd been so enwrapped in the fear of the Irken's demise, he hadn't given any thought to the idea of the aftermath in the event of him actually surviving.

The outpouring of relief that hit him upon Skoodge's announcement of the surgery's success had been absolutely incomparable. Likened to an enormous weight off his shoulders, or the feeling of flying. His grim outlook on the situation was immediately cast to the side in place of an almost delirious wave of happiness.

And yet… it only lasted for a fleeting moment. Then he couldn't help but feel that relief become eclipsed with the feeling of mild unease. It had started off as nothing more than a twinge at first, but steadily grew more and more conspicuous with each passing day, lingering irksomely beneath the surface of his gratitude.

Zim was alive. That had been all he had wanted. Couldn't he just celebrate that? And yet, this odd feeling of dread only managed to dampen the surges of elation he had so badly wanted to feel.

He wanted to ignore that feeling; brush it off entirely. And so he had. He'd been present in Zim's recovery, conveniently ignoring the Irken's lingering stares as his broken mind tried to wrap itself around Dib's role in all this. He'd pretended things were fine for as long as he could. It was just a shame that "as long as he could" ended up being only a few days.

And now he was forced to acknowledge just how complicated his situation truly was… and that Zim would slowly and steadily come to question his motives.

Somewhere in the midst of his contemplation, Dib suddenly caught sight of a shadow from around the twisting hallway beside him.

The stretching silhouette gradually shrunk down and widened as it neared the kitchen, and Dib's eyes dropped back down to his laptop as Skoodge walked in.

The Irken sat in a seat on the other side of him, making no other acknowledgement of the boy aside from glancing briefly at his bare foot in distaste. It only took a few seconds before Dib let his self-consciousness get the better of him and dropped his leg back down so that it was hidden beneath the table.

He peered over his laptop screen as a single metal limb appeared from the top port of Skoodge's PAK and dropped a familiar little package into his waiting hands. What its technical name was, Dib didn't know. He'd mentally dubbed it "Irken Fun Dip" years ago after seeing Zim with it multiple times.

Skoodge slouched in his chair, tearing into the snack almost immediately. He snatched up the two included licking sticks in one fist and, using both, dug into the sugary powder while Dib returned to typing.

After several moments, he heard crinkling and looked up to see Skoodge balling up the empty wrapper of his first Fun Dip package and immediately pull out another one.

"Why is your race so obsessed with snacking?"

Skoodge grunted dismissively. "Why is your race so obsessed with sleeping?"

"My race isn't obsessed with sleeping," Dib answered, voice lilting in confusion.

"Then why do you do so much of it?" The Irken turned his attention back to his snack and continued to eat in silence. After a moment, Dib piped up again.

"So, umm… how is Zim doing?"

Skoodge sighed. "He should be sleeping peacefully for the next several hours. Knowing him, I guess I should have expected something like this to happen eventually."

Dib mulled that over for a moment, staring down at his lap. "How do you know Zim, anyway?"

Skoodge looked hesitant to respond, which didn't exactly surprise Dib. Part of him was expecting to be shot down.

After a moment, though, the Irken actually spoke. "He and I trained together in the academy during our smeethood."

"So… you've known each other for a long time."

Skoodge nodded and turned his attention back to his snack. Then, as if he couldn't contain himself anymore, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "You haven't even spoken to him since his surgery, have you?"

Dib grimaced, withdrawing into his chair. He didn't want to talk about it. Especially not with Skoodge.

"You don't understand. It's… complicated."

Skoodge raised his head. Small marble-shaped eyes bore into Dib's until he began to fidget.

"What am I supposed to say? 'So, I know I'm your mortal enemy, but I sort of saved your life. Also, your mission is a lie, and your leaders infected you with a deadly toxin as part of a conspiracy?'"

He purposely left out the fact that there was possibly a hitman searching the galaxy for Zim at this very moment. It was all too much. He couldn't even begin to explain one thing without the entire ugly mess spilling out with it.

"Besides," he went on, "You didn't even believe me at first. And this is Zim we're talking about."

Skoodge's expression faltered for a moment. His antennae bent back slightly, then rose to a more neutral position. "You should at least reassure him that you don't plan on hurting him while he's incapacitated. His recovery is going to take time, and he's only going to get more restless."

"It's not my fault his PAK is taking so long to heal him," Dib grumbled.

"Hey! Our species heals at lightspeed compared to yours," he retorted, "and he already remembers enough to be wary of you."

Dib looked pained.

Skoodge sighed and slumped in his chair, propping his chin with one gloved hand. He reluctantly turned his attention to the television. It had been set on mute, the picture showing an endless news stream showcasing the war preparations. His small eyes hardened as he read over the banner at the bottom of the screen. It was written in Irken, of course, as were the subtitles. Rows of Irken soldiers, fully decked in military uniform, marched across the screen.

Dib turned in his seat and gazed at it along with him. He considered asking Skoodge what he thought about the war, but quickly decided against it.

After a while, Skoodge turned off the TV and dropped his gaze to the floor. "So that's where my medical tape went," he muttered lowly after a moment, still looking down. He pointed to Dib's ankle, gesturing to the shoddy wrapping job.

Dib tensed up. "Yeah. I sprained it… I think. It still really hurts."

"Then, here." Skoodge heaved himself to his feet. "Let me take you down to the med bay so I can take a look at it." He started walking towards the elevator without even waiting for a response.

Dib opened his mouth to say something—maybe a protest of some sort—then closed it. Instead, he stood up, tenderly placing as little weight as he could on the foot and followed behind Skoodge in a dream.

Chapter Text

Dib had a sneaking suspicion that the only reason Skoodge had taken such a sudden interest in his foot was because he needed a distraction. Frankly, he couldn't blame him.

Chaos was present at every turn. War was underway, Zim's mental state was predictably haywire, GIR was constantly running amok, and Dib was only making things worse.

With so much having fallen into disarray, it made sense that more and more actions were taken with a sort of dreamy haphazardness. Done not with conscious thought, but some indistinct beckoning. A small but indispensable scrap of peace could come from something as simple as seeking out a task that allowed escape. Some predictability and the sensation of accomplishment. And through all of that, the semblance of control.

For Skoodge, control could be found most aptly in the form of anything that provided him the opportunity to use his skills as a medical drone.

He poked and prodded the swollen skin of Dib's ankle, humming in interest as he examined it. Dib winced at each touch, fighting the urge to draw his leg back up to his chest and out of reach. He was sitting on an exam table down in the med bay, his pantleg pulled up to the knee. In the quiet, he could distantly hear the beeping of the monitors from Zim's sickroom nearby.

Trying to get his mind off the pain while Skoodge made his initial examination, he began to glance around the room. The med bay, much like the rest of the home, was a seemingly endless maze of halls and closed doors. Dib had only been granted limited access to it all, and what his eyes had seen barely scratched the surface. Whenever he had access to a new room, the perpetual boredom that had overtaken him was temporarily put aside as his hungry eyes took in everything they could.

This one, however, was remarkably underwhelming. It looked not unlike a normal examination room, except a little barer perhaps. A few instruments lay on the table beside him, and his eyes lingered on them, musing over what they could be for. One looked a bit like an otoscope, used for examining ear canals.

Knowing that couldn't possibly be its purpose, Dib let out an amused little sniff. Almost instantly afterwards, though, his expression shattered into a grimace as Skoodge jabbed an especially tender area.

The Irken leaned back and reached into his PAK, returning seconds later with a small device that resembled a flashlight.

"Computer." He gestured towards the ceiling lazily with his other hand.

In response, a monitor lowered down from the rafters and glowed to life beside him. The standby screen bore the ever-familiar insignia of the Irken Empire. Dib found himself transfixed on it as Skoodge hovered over him and aimed the beam over the afflicted area.

A few quiet seconds passed, then the screen changed to a series of X-rays showcasing every little bone that made up his foot and ankle.

"It looks like you have a minor fracture. Right… here…" Skoodge traced the area on the screen with one slender claw.

Dib's eyebrows shot up, and he squinted at the image tentatively. "It's not just sprained?"

Skoodge shook his head. "No." He paused for a moment, twisting up his face in confusion. "Not only is it broken, but it doesn't look like it's healing at all."

The news was anything but surprising, but Dib still felt sheepish as Skoodge studied the X-ray.

The Irken's eyes narrowed a bit. "How long has it been like this?"

"Uhh, like, a week and a half?" Dib guessed.

"And in all that time, it hasn't healed on its own?"

"Umm, no. Humans don't work that way," he responded, a half-smile tugging at his lip. "It takes a lot longer for our bones to heal. And usually a few trips to the doctor, too."

Skoodge looked incredulous. He shook his head slowly and wandered to another table in the room. "How is your race not extinct yet?"

Dib stared after him, frowning indignantly.

He rifled around the room for a few moments, gathering a few things from drawers. Then, he made his way to the door and stopped, staring up at the human expectantly. In his arms were a few pieces of ominous looking equipment. "Well?"

"'Well,' what?" Dib asked, raising a brow.

"You have malunited bones that need to be realigned if you want to begin healing properly." Skoodge drifted closer to the door, gesturing towards the hallway with one hand.

Dib looked squeamish. "You're going to do something to fix my ankle?"

"Of course. Why else would I have brought you down here?"

Dib squirmed. Having Skoodge help Zim was one thing, but him? Despite the fact that Skoodge was very clearly an exception to the typically cold and heartless race he belonged to, the idea of trusting an Irken—any Irken—with something like this was enough to make him balk.

Sensing his hesitancy, Skoodge sighed. "Would you rather get an infection and have the whole leg sawed off back on your primitive dirt ball of a planet?"

Dib gulped as one fear was instantly replaced by another, then readily slid off the exam table. Taking in a shaky breath, he followed him down to another room.

-x-

It was late by the time they finished.

Dib had spent the better part of an hour laying across the too-small table like a gutted fish, muscles tense and heart pounding as blinding pain seared through his leg repeatedly. Skoodge had done what he could with a local anesthetic that had proven to be compatible with multiple alien species, but it didn't entirely shroud the sensation. It was excruciating. It hurt more than when he'd attained the injury in the first place.

Once it was finally over, though, Dib was carefully guided back to the bedchambers, having been fitted with a bulky walking cast. The area around his ankle was numb for the most part, and the ordeal had left him incredibly drowsy.

Releasing a deep sigh, removed his glasses before shimmying his body up until he was lying square in the middle of the bed.

He was much too tired to change into his pajamas or even pull the blankets over himself. As it was, Skoodge kept the bunker almost stiflingly warm.

Instead, he simply spread out over the covers and closed his eyes. For just the briefest inkling of time, Skoodge's attempt at a distraction had been a success. He had entirely forgotten all about the flurry of Irkens preparing for war outside. In fact, he had even forgotten all about the Irken sleeping right down the hall from him.

-x-

2 weeks later

-x-

As more time went by, Zim began to feel the dissociation fade and become replaced with a vile mixture of irritability and frustration. Days melted into one another, memories returned, and he was left to do nothing but adhere to his unbearably dull routine of eating, sleeping, and watching cartoons with GIR.

Every now and then, he tried to entertain himself by listening for noises throughout the home. GIR humming offkey little tunes. The elevator humming to life in the corridor. Occasionally, his sensitive antennae could pick up on Dib in the hallway, or on the floor above him.

Upon awakening from his sedation following the stint with the PAK legs, Zim had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want Dib anywhere near him or his room, and for the time being, Skoodge had begrudgingly honored his wishes in the hopes that it would alleviate some of his stress.

The only indication that the human was still around were the sounds of his voice and his limping gait when he walked. Sometimes, Zim could even hear tinny noises coming from his crude excuse for a laptop when all else in the bunker was silent. So far, though, the human had respected his wishes and stayed out of his sight.

If Dib had only known the bullet he had dodged, he would be relieved beyond belief. As Zim's mind progressively became more cogent and his muscles gained more strength, he had become exceedingly restless. Perhaps it could have been predicted that being in his situation would only manage to manifest itself into a special brand of moodiness befitting only of Zim.

It was a hellscape of monotony and dependence, and to say he despised it would be a gross understatement.

His temper had returned with a vengeance, choosing to make its appearance to anyone and everyone who dared enter his presence. He made the whole room aware of his bitter disdain. Oftentimes, Skoodge was the unfortunate recipient to his tantrums. Other times, GIR was his punching bag, though the little robot seemed entirely unaffected by anything his master said during his bouts of exasperated, almost tearful lamenting.

His moods shifted wildly. As of this day in particular, there was no yelling. No desire to fruitlessly vent his frustrations. He had awoken in achingly low spirits, feeling as though a substantial weight had been placed squarely on his chest.

Zim stared up at the ceiling, releasing a heavy sigh while GIR sat in his usual spot, watching TV with his back turned to him.

It didn't take long before the SIR unit grew antsy. As soon as the commercial break ended on his program, he turned and demurely shot a glance over at his master. Then, holding up the TV remote, he held down the volume button until the noise was blaring throughout the room.

Zim clenched his teeth as the sound clashed harshly against his antennae.

"GIR! TURN THAT DOWN!" The resulting outburst came out unintelligibly muffled. Force of habit caused him to holler his demand as loudly as possible, momentarily forgetting that his throat was still painfully hoarse, and his face was covered with an oxygen mask.

"Whu…?" GIR drawled, turning back to look at him. "You want it louder? Okie dokie!"

"NO!" Zim shouted again. The word reverberated against his mask. His face began to heat up.

GIR pressed the volume button up a few notches, humming along with some asinine song being sung by the colorful characters on the TV screen.

Every fiber in Zim's being begged him to leap out of bed and pry the remote away from the robot. He could feel himself tensing up, both antennae pointing forward atop his head. He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, hands braced against the mattress. The feeble attempt proved to be utterly futile, resulting in his arms bending out at the elbow and collapsing back down at his sides without so much as budging his body upwards.

Zim settled for pinching both eyes closed and clenching his jaw.

It was insufferable. Absolutely mortifying. And he could do nothing about it.

Without realizing it, Zim had begun to groan lowly into his oxygen mask, eyes still closed. They were pitiful little whimpers that could hardly be heard over the television.

GIR, however, must have noticed eventually, for he finally turned the volume off and crept to Zim's side.

"Aww, Mastah? You okay?"

"Of course I am! Now leave me alone!" Zim huffed.

GIR stood stock still, making no move to obey his wishes. Then, after a beat, he wriggled onto the bed and tried to bury himself under the covers.

"Go away, GIR," Zim growled between his teeth.

When this, too, was ignored, he simply sighed and returned to staring up at the ceiling. Eventually, he felt GIR shift to the edge of the bed, suddenly enamored by a tray of food next to Zim. Shortly after his operation, he'd been cleared to eat solid foods again, and the meals had been brought to his bedside by Skoodge at the same time every day. Each one consisted of some variation of specialized nutrition, clearly meant to add weight to his emaciated frame. Of course, his muscle weakness meant he often needed help eating—a particularly humiliating blow to his ego on top of everything else. This time around, he'd feigned having no appetite in the hopes it would get Skoodge to disappear and leave him alone. To his credit, it had worked.

"Leave that alone," he muttered.

"But Master," GIR started, "Aren't you hungry? Here." He took the mask off Zim's face before digging the fork into a spongey-looking piece of cake.

"Open up the airplane, here comes the food!"

Zim narrowed his eyes. "I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself," he muttered.

"Noooo you aren't," GIR retorted matter-of-factly.

"Yes I-UURRRGH," Zim fumed, "just give me that!"

GIR handed the fork over and silently watched as he tried to prove his point. Fingers wrapped precariously around the handle, he shakily lifted his arm at the elbow. Halfway to his mouth, however, his claws lost their grip, and the fork came clattering back down onto the tray. He gave it a moment, then tried again with the same result.

After a few cycles of this, GIR crawled up on Zim's cot and easily pried the utensil away from him.

Zim sighed irately. The last thing he wanted was to be treated like a pitiful invalid by GIR. He'd rather starve than stoop to such pathetic levels.

His eyes squeezed tightly shut as he tried in vain to block out the robot's persistence. He waited a few minutes in silence. When he opened them again, GIR was still sitting in the exact same spot, eying his master curiously as he held out the fork with the piece of cake on it.

"No. Absolutely not."

-x-

"Okay, GIR, I've had enough… GIR, I command you to stop… Your master is full…"

"No, he isn't!"

"Ugh…"

Skoodge entered the room, only to find GIR shoving the rest of a sandwich into Zim’s mouth. By the looks of it, he'd been successful in getting him to eat the meal that had been brought to him about an hour earlier. All that remained was a mess of crumbs and whatnot still sticking to Zim's face and littering his blankets.

Zim, himself, was looking rather miffed. Playing around the edges of his annoyed expression, however, Skoodge could see an unmistakable hint of demoralization. It wasn't like him to accept help. Even when he didn't have a choice.

At the sound of his entrance, GIR hopped to the floor and wordlessly scattered out of the room. Skoodge's eyes trailed him with some amusement as he disappeared down the hall.

"Stupid robot," Zim muttered cheerlessly once he'd left. He suppressed a burp and leaned back into his pillow.

"And how are you feeling?"

Zim wanted to obliterate him with several plasma-armed battle tanks just for asking that god forsaken question yet again. "I hate this place. This is not a government regulated biological repair center. And even if it was, who would reencode you of all people to run it? I thought you'd disappeared back to the fringes of society where you belong."

Skoodge stared impassively down at him, unshaken by his harsh words. Desensitization was a core skill that had been mastered from a young age, especially when it came to Irkens his size. He had heard far worse.

"I know you're frustrated, Zim. But it's vital that your biological shell rests. It's undergone far too much trauma, and your PAK is still working to pick up the pieces. In the meantime, it's best to have your SIR assist you with basic needs. That's why it was issued to you: for assistance."

Zim grumbled lowly. "I'm sick of being treated like a smeet!"

Skoodge let out a light chuckle and began piling up the dishes beside Zim's bed. "Well, he's done a decent job ensuring you eat something. And you could use it. You're a lot thinner than I remember."

"Yeah, well, I can't say the same about you," Zim spat back at him.

When his insult was ignored, he tried once again to heave his body into a sitting position. He inched it upwards slightly before his muscles gave out on him and he flopped back against his pillow. "When are you going to tell me what is going on?"

Skoodge's eyes flicked to his face. The question wasn't in his usual tone. There was minimal anger in his tone, and almost no demanding qualities in the way he delivered it. It was more imploring than anything, and starkly out of character.

"I've already told you everything I know. Perhaps if you talked to the human, he—"

"—NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" Zim interjected sharply. "N-no!"

He began to wheeze, then burst into a coughing fit. When Skoodge reached over and attempted to replace his oxygen mask, though, he immediately batted it away.

"You speak nonsense!" he growled, trying to resist the offending mask, "I refuse to believe the Dib human has anything but ulterior motives!"

Skoodge waited until Zim's breathing evened out on its own. Only when he slumped back against his pillow did the Irken continue speaking, a newfound touch of sternness in his tone. "All I'm suggesting is that you agree to speak to him. He's the one who brought you here. He knows more about the events leading up to this than I do."

"Lies," Zim grumbled. "He did this to me. That would be the only explanation. I'm sure of it. I've known him long enough to know he can't ever be trusted. And you dare allow him into your home? Give him every opportunity to steal valuable Irken information? How could you, Skoodge? You're just as gullible and shortsighted as you always were!" He sucked in a deep breath, thoroughly winded from his rant.

Skoodge simply sighed and shrugged. "You've heard my side. I can't tell you something I don't know, Zim."

He took the Irken's sudden silence as an opportunity to slip the mask back over his face, then drifted back to the doorway.

"Just remember this: no matter what his intentions were, he's the only reason you made it to Elixus in the first place."

Zim stared after him as he disappeared from the threshold. Once he'd left, both antennae went from being ramrod straight to flopping back against his head.

It had taken a fair amount of adjusting before Dib felt himself fall into a routine on Elixus. The planet's orbit was different, and an entire cycle around its nearest sun was longer than it was on Earth. At least, that had proven to be true when he'd tested his theory out on his one measly timekeeping device—his laptop. The digital clock in the bottom right was still set to Eastern Daylight Time, none the wiser to the fact that it wasn't even on the same planet anymore. Despite its arguable uselessness, though, he still found himself counting down the hours routinely, amused when twenty-four ticked by and the day had yet to come to a close.

And that was yet another issue. It was difficult to tell exactly what time of day it was. For all intents and purposes, Dib was confined to Skoodge's underground bunker and the frequent bouts of claustrophobia that came with such an arrangement.

More and more often, he would arise from the subterranean levels of the dwelling, simply to lounge in the tiny breezeway above ground. That way, he could sneak a glance through the single square window that revealed the world from beyond Skoodge's home. Depending on the day, he could only guess what would greet him when he did so.

Sometimes the sky was a brilliant red, lighting up the metallic buildings and skyscrapers that stretched upwards towards the heavens. Other times, it had faded to a dusky rose with the first of the city streetlights glowing to life down below. When it crossed over into that deep, rich burgundy, however, Dib knew he had a series of new options. He could make a trip out to his ship if he so chose, and lately, he'd been taking the opportunity to fend off his cabin fever.

At this time, he had just returned from an outing, and was heading down to Skoodge's bedchamber. The bunker was quiet, save for the ever-present electrical hum. In the darkness, Dib sought out the soft flannel of his pajamas, which had been strewn across the bed earlier that morning. After slipping into them, he quietly padded out into the hallway in his bare feet. Well, one bare foot and walking boot.

As the chamber door closed behind him, he wandered along the hallway in search of Skoodge. He made his way down to the refectory, sure he'd find him there, and was somewhat caught off guard when he didn't.

The next logical place would be the med bay. He made a U-turn back down the hallway and reluctantly headed back the way he'd come.

The chamber door to the med bay was always open, spilling out light and the vaguest noises of television banter out into the hallway. Taking a deep breath, he ventured a glance into the room.

To his relief, Zim was dead asleep, sprawled diagonally over the top of his covers like a starfish. He had shed his oxygen mask at some point and was sleeping with his mouth wide open, chest rhythmically swelling outwards with each breath. Curled against his belly was GIR, small snores harmonizing alongside Zim's deeper ones.

Dib leaned on the edge of the door, staring in at them.

The Irken had come a long way from his sorry state when they'd first arrived. His cheeks had regained some color, his antennae were perkier, and only a ghost of his once prominent undereye circles remained. He didn't look well, per se, but he was indeed on the road to a successful recovery.

With these new developments, though, had come more and more of Zim's old personality. His old stubbornness.

Recently, he had developed a habit of trying to leave his bed when no one was around, failing miserably with each go. Each time, he would bring with him the remaining wires and tubes that were plugged into his PAK. The tampering of his equipment would, in turn, release awful screeching alarms that never failed to summon Skoodge from whichever part of the bunker he was in, and Zim would be reconnected and chastised.

The ensuing sulking would usually only lead to yet another attempt a few hours later with renewed vigor. Skoodge had taken to setting up a camera in the room specifically to monitor him and catch him in the act.

Just as Dib was about to leave the doorway, GIR stirred a bit. Then, propping himself up on one little arm, he rubbed an eye and peered out at him. Cyan light glowed dimly in the room, basking over everything in its surroundings.

"Dib?"

"Shhhh," Dib hushed, pressed a finger to his lips, "I'm looking for Skoodge. Do you know where he is?"

GIR shook his head in the dark.

He frowned a bit and slunk away from the doorframe. The robot stared after him for a moment, then rested his head again and closed his eyes.

Dib continued to wander the bunker, listening for Skoodge and testing out any doors that he had access to along the way. Finally, on a whim, he entered the elevator and directed it to the lowest floor. There were only a few entrances on this level, and each of them had been closed off when Dib had attempted a retina scan during one of his boredom-fueled expeditions throughout the bunker.

When he exited the lift, though, his brows immediately shot up in surprise. Emanating from down the corridor was an odd purple light. Hesitantly, Dib tiptoed down the hall, unsure of what he would find. Just around the corner was the culprit of the ominous glowing: a large metal door that had been left ajar.

When he mustered up the courage to sneak a peak in, he immediately spotted Skoodge standing in the middle of a spacious laboratory with his back to him. He was in front of a large hologram projector that had been built into the ground. From it, an enormous Irken military insignia that had lit up the entire room in an almost overwhelming gleam of purple. Skoodge stared at it, antennae flat against his head.

"What's that?" Dib asked, his voice peeling out and echoing throughout the lab.

Skoodge nearly jumped out of his skin, then whirled around to face him. For a fleeting moment, he looked angry at the boy for intruding. Then, he simply sighed and gazed back at the hologram.

"I'm being drafted," he said softly. An odd inflection came out with the sentence, as if speaking it had ignited a revelation. As if the meaning behind the words were just now hitting him.

Dib's breath caught in his throat. He turned to look at Skoodge, but his expression was impossible to read.

They remained frozen for a period of time, the only noises being their breathing and the rhythmic whir of electricity throughout the lab. Finally, the Irken shored himself up and turned on his heel.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." He gestured towards Dib and led the way.

He followed Skoodge out of the lab, taking a moment to peer timidly at the hologram once more before the heavy door slid to a shut behind them.

Skoodge's boots echoed throughout the corridor as he walked, but otherwise, he was silent. Once they had made their way into the elevator, Dib studied his face once again.

"Are you… okay?" he asked finally as the door closed in front of them and the lift began moving up.

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," Dib stammered for a moment, taken aback by his answer, "you just got drafted in a war…"

Skoodge finally broke his forward gaze and glanced over at him. "And? It is an honor to fight for my people."

Dib pursed his lips and remained quiet. Like almost everything else that passed the Irken's lips, he had no idea what to make of his response.

Before he could formulate any sort of rebuttal, the elevator slid to a stop. Skoodge exited, bee-lining towards the refectory. Dib followed and deposited himself into a chair while the Irken scrounged up a late dinner.

The television was still set to the news channel, this time with sound emanating from the speakers. Not that it made much of a difference to Dib, considering the narrative was in the Irken language. He still stared up at it, though, entranced by the images on the screen.

The Tallest were standing primly on a large, circular pedestal, looking solemnly out at a crowd of thousands of Irkens who returned their gaze with hopeful eyes of their own.

Dib had seen them before. In fact, he'd even spoken to them once. The two spindly Irken rulers had been entirely dismissive of him, too arrogant to even dignify his questions with responses.

Now, upon the screen, they spoke in their own native language, words that passed over Dib's head entirely, but evidently meant something to the horde of citizens they were addressing. The boom of their voices in the microphone echoed out into the crowd, accompanied by cheering and the monotonous narrative of the news anchor.

Prompted by the sound of sighing, Dib turned his head just as Skoodge settled down into his usual seat across from him. The Irken's eyes were glued on the screen as he bit into the sandwich he had made in the kitchen, fully attentive as the anchor continued speaking. The camera panned over the Irkens in the crowd, then transitioned to more endless footage of soldiers marching down a street.

As soon as the footage of the Tallest returned to the screen, though, Skoodge's eyes narrowed.

Dib cocked his head, remembering his evident distaste for them.

"You don't like your leaders," he observed coolly.

Skoodge didn't respond at first. "… All I'll say is that they didn't respect me as an invader. They even tried to malign me. After enough incidents, I did something exceptionally rare for my race by requesting a reencoding. In fact, I begged for it. And that's why I'm here on Elixus."

Dib raised his eyebrows. Even if Skoodge's word choices were purposefully vague, it was still a rare and exceptionally fascinating thing to simply have him talk about his past to the human.

"It takes that much work just to change jobs?"

Skoodge nodded. "My PAK now has me programmed as a medical drone, and I retain that information along with knowledge of basic training required of all Irkens in their adolescence."

"You mean you all have to do military training as children?"

"All Irkens are soldiers first and foremost."

Dib frowned a bit, mulling his response over in his head. Then, another question rose to the surface, begging to be asked. "If the Tallest wronged you, then why are you still so dedicated to helping the Empire?"

The Irken shifted his weight in the chair and tossed Dib an almost deriding expression. "I can still be loyal to my people without liking my government's leaders, human."

Dib considered that, then nodded his head. There was a lot that he didn't understand about Skoodge. Hell, even after years of knowing him, there was a lot he still didn't understand about Zim. It was an Irken thing, he supposed. Cultural barriers that spanned lightyears and could only be comprehended to a certain extent before generations of wiring in their brains fell short.

To Dib, though, it was impossible for him to look at the Irken race without feeling as though they'd all been brainwashed to an extent. Even Skoodge, who had openly gone against the grain, still held these core beliefs. It was interesting. On the whole, Skoodge was less threatening than the rest of his people. Some would even say he was soft, comparatively speaking. And yet, he still spoke with a distinct, authoritative twinge to his voice, and still stood with a certain grace. Despite his anomalies, he was still undeniably Irken, and nothing could ever change that.

The two continued to watch the news, Dib staring intently at the screen. Skoodge finished his sandwich and popped the tab on what appeared to be a can of soda. Other than the Irken insignia on both, they looked exactly like the same fare back on Earth.

After another several minutes, the Irken sighed and turned the television off. He turned to Dib. "I've been thinking… it would be in your best interest to leave this planet soon. This war has the entire Empire on edge."

The boy perked up, eyeing him nervously. "But what about Zim?"

"He'll go with you."

Dib couldn't help the humorless laugh that jolted from him. "Umm, no. There's no way that's going to work."

Skoodge's expression didn't falter, though.

"You can't be serious. Zim doesn't even want me in the same room as him! How the hell are we supposed to fly back together in a spaceship the size of a shoebox?"

"You don't have a choice. I must report for duty by this time tomorrow, and it's too unsafe for either of you to be here alone. Zim will have to finish his recovery on Earth."

"But—"

"—It's incredibly dangerous right now with the war going on," Skoodge enunciated. His voice sounded strained.

Dib sat back, grappling for words. He couldn't find anything else to say. He knew he was playing with fate every day by exposing himself to the rest of the Irkens residing on Elixus. In that sense, Skoodge was right. But what about Zim? How could he ever be convinced to return back to Earth with Dib? Or to leave his own race behind at the prelude of wartime?

Dib's mind began turning as something began to gnaw at him.

"Wait… does Zim even know about the war?" He quirked an eyebrow.

Skoodge immediately averted his eyes, dropping them down to his empty soda can. He squirmed in his chair.

"He doesn't, does he?" Dib's tone rose as it dawned on him. "And all this time, you've been trying to guilt me for withholding information. You aren't any better! Don't you think he has a right to know about this?"

What could easily be interpreted as anger from Dib's words alone were instead inflected in a rather mocking fashion. He seemed to revel in the implications of actually gaining an edge over Skoodge by outing him as a hypocrite.

The Irken didn't budge, opting to continue looking down at the table. His antennae gave him away, though. Both peeled back shrewdly. "I'm doing it to protect him."

"As am I," he countered confidently. He crossed his arms and continued to stare down the Irken.

Skoodge lifted his head after another couple seconds. Instead of looking defensive, though, he looked oddly fatigued. "No. You're not. You're doing it because you're afraid. I'm trying to keep him safe."

Dib opened his mouth, but Skoodge cut him off.

"Think about it: if Zim knew about the war, he would insist on staying and enlisting. No good could possibly come from exposing him to it."

Dib's expression softened, and he dropped his crossed arms into his lap. Skoodge was right.

"Zim is safest on Earth," he said slowly, looking into Dib's eyes.

Dib glanced back at him, and a mutual understanding seemed to pass through their respective gazes. Zim was an exile. A pariah. His own home planet was no longer safe for him.

Dolefully, he nodded.

"The information that you're hiding from him, however, is information that directly impacts him. I've humored the two of you all week, but you'll need to face one another eventually."

Dib opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked shamefully up at him.

"He has a right to know, Dib." Skoodge nodded towards the closed laptop sitting across from him on the table. It was so subtle, Dib thought he'd imagined it at first.

He lifted his chin up and stared blankly at him. "You know about the recording?"

"I hear you listening to it almost every night."

Dib deflated, casting his eyes down at the floor. If nothing else, though, he could thinly justify his reasoning behind avoiding the conversation by claiming that the timing was off. After all, it wasn't entirely unreasonable to want to wait until Zim was in a better place in his recovery before he bombarded him with any of what he knew. Right now, he was still very much embroiled in the woes of it all. Hell, he could hardly walk properly.

But once he did tell him… where did that put the two of them? Just the thought of it gave Dib a headache.

"I… I can't tell him." His voice softened. "Even if he did believe me… it would kill him."

"He'll have to accept it eventually. He's more resilient than you think he is."

Dib looked unconvinced.

Skoodge rose from the table and threw his trash away. When he looped back around, he paused at the doorway. "One thing is certain, though. The two of you will have to leave by tomorrow evening."

With that, he made his departure, leaving Dib to digest every little detail of their conversation in silence.

Chapter Text

Zim awoke the next morning in a sour mood, which was of no surprise at this point. It was simply part of the routine. It hit him involuntarily, much like the perfunctory morning stretches and yawns. He would stir awake, large eyes fluttering open, only to find himself in the very same hellscape of monotony he'd been prisoner to for what felt like an eternity.

Minute by minute, day by day, the sense of tedium only grew. It fermented into a vile, repugnant concoction of emotions, steadily eating away at his sanity. It seemed impossible at first, that time could go by any slower or become any more torturous. Surely there had to be a ceiling. But no. It never failed to take Zim aback with its uncanny ability to burgeon and bloom.

The only change that took hold of him was the memories that continued to flitter back down, sharpening into focus and carrying with them past sentiments.

Smeethood. invader training. Firm salutes and straight postures in the presence of his Tallest. A million and one simulations to prepare him for his future as an integral part of the Irken Empire. Operation Impending Doom II. His mission. Earth.

One would think that his stress would dissipate with the arrival of these memories, of knowing his own identity. However, rather than providing him the answers he implored to receive, each new memory only posed a surfeit of more questions.

How had he fallen ill? How did he end up here, on Elixus? What had become of his mission?

Zim rolled over in bed and moaned into his pillow.

The latter question was particularly unsettling. After all, he had effectively gone AWOL, and the very thought of abandoning his post in such a manner caused a ripple of shame to pass through his veins.

He had to get back to his mission. His Tallest would surely kill him if he continued to delay it, and he couldn't bear to fail them. He was wasting valuable time, lying in bed like a pathetic invalid.

Several times within the past few days, he had weakly thrown off his blankets and dipped his bare clawed feet down towards the ground in an effort to get up on his own and walk. It was a desperate attempt to regain autonomy and escape the constant stress.

No matter how many times he tried, though, his knees would inevitably buckle, and he'd come tumbling down to the hard floor again. Dark, splotchy bruises had begun to appear on his knees and shins from all the failed attempts.

He closed his eyes again and shifted in his bed. He had nothing else to do but sleep, and it was becoming less necessary by the day. As of now, he was effectively oversleeping to wane the boredom. The result of this left him even more exhausted than before. His eyes were almost always bleary, and his antennae were in a constant state of disarray from laying on them.

By the time he stirred again and opened his eyes, Skoodge was in his room, doing his normal routine. The little Irken huffed dramatically to get his attention.

"Oh, hey Zim. How are you feeling?"

"…Fine."

The Irken adjusted his white coat and casually approached him with the stethoscope, as per usual. "That's good."

Once the examination was finished, Zim's eyes flicked expectantly to the tray beside him—the first meal of the day, right on schedule.

If there was one tiny silver lining to his situation, it was that within the blink of an eye, he had been abruptly surrounded by his own cultural assets, there at his beck and call as if he'd never left.

It was like a reverse culture shock, but instead of uncertainty, he felt unexpectedly at ease. Despite his frustration and confusion, there was a certain comfort in the warm familiarity, there to rope him in and quell a bit of his anxiety. A very sacred and deep-seated part of him savored it.

When he could snag the remote from GIR, he was able to enjoy the hum of the television as it broadcasted documentaries of the Empire's glorious accomplishments and presented victorious close-ups of enslaved races and renovated planets.

During each mealtime, he had full access to the glorious familiarity of true Irken cuisine. He couldn't even remember when he'd last eaten a fresh, homemade Irken meal instead of his usual pre-packaged military rations. He was encouraged to eat as much as he liked, and once he'd rediscovered his appetite, he'd taken advantage of it, often requesting seconds and even thirds of decadent pastries, slorbees pudding, and mooshminky, among other delicacies.

Instead of acknowledging Zim's expectant glance and offering him the tray, though, Skoodge ignored it entirely and settled down into the chair beside his bed.

"There's something I have to tell you, first," he said. He looked somewhat nervous as he spoke. The reflection of the lights above glinted off his eyes as he glanced around the room.

Zim's left antenna flicked upwards inquisitively.

"Listen, Zim." He paused, searching for the right words. "I have a… trip to go on. My presence is mandatory, and I'll be leaving this evening. Since I won't be here, you'll have to depart back to Earth earlier than expected."

The little Irken looked stupefied for a moment. Back to Earth? Back to his base? Back to his mission? Before he knew it, the first hints of a relieved smile were tugging at his lips. "It's about time," he breathed out. He then coughed into his elbow.

Skoodge continued, his expression unchanging. "It is important that you finish your recovery at your own base. Your body is still weak, and it requires rest. Dib and I will pack his ship with all the supplies you'll need for the journey."

The namedrop was quick and casual, as if sneaking it in would cause it to go by unnoticed. No such luck. Skoodge's eyes snapped to Zim's antenna as it quirked upwards at the sound of it.

"Dib? What are you implying?"

Skoodge took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "You'll be going back to Earth together."

Dib awoke with a start, jerked out of a sound sleep by the noise of a crash, followed immediately by yelling from down the hall.

"You expect me to travel back to Earth with Dib?!"

Zim. It was Zim yelling.

Dib propped himself on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. "Uhhhhhg."

Skoodge said something in return, but Dib was unable to hear him. The arguing continued, most of it muffled and incoherent from beyond the walls. It was very possible that some of it wasn't even in English.

"I told you to get rid of the Dib human! You promised to keep him away!"

"I didn't promise anything. You—"

Another tirade of yelling cut him off.

Dib heard more clattering from the room, and he sat upright, now fully awake.

What the fuck was going on?

He reached across the bed and groped around the disheveled blankets until he found his glasses. Once they were on, he checked the time on his open laptop out of habit before remembering its uselessness. He could surmise it was morning, though, given that Skoodge was in Zim's room.

Dib tiptoed to the doorway of the resting chambers and poked his head out into the corridor. The med bay door was shut. He crept out into the hall quietly, then softly pressed his ear against the other side of it.

"Why are you so afraid of the Earth smeet?" Skoodge demanded from inside.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not afraid of the Dib! Zim fears no one!"

"Then why are you taking such great lengths to avoid him?"

Zim was silent for a while. Finally, he growled lowly, "That's none of your business."

More silence.

Skoodge sighed. "Zim, put those things away. Trashing my med bay isn't going to solve anything."

The boy heard the distinct hum of PAK legs retreating into their ports. The two Irkens were quiet for a while. Dib furrowed his brow, about to pull away from the door and sneak back to his own room, when suddenly, Zim's voice arose again. The words came out muffled and unintelligible.

"What?" Skoodge asked.

"I don't know if I can trust him. This doesn't make sense. None of it does." He sounded crestfallen. Dib had never heard that inflection come from him before.

Frowning deeply, he leaned away from the door. Skoodge said something else in response, but he had stopped listening. He felt dread surge up into his chest as he slunk back into his room.

Now was as good a time as ever to start packing.

He spent the next hour or so trying to get his mind off the trip ahead of him, going beyond his usual standards of organization as he meticulously folded his clothes and stowed his other belongings neatly into his bags. It served its purpose of distracting him.

He spent even more time bustling around the room, tidying Skoodge's resting chamber as best he could. The room had been immaculate when he'd first arrived. Now, it seemed to harbor a bit of residual stuffiness from the countless days he'd spent occupying it.

Dib stepped back, examining his handiwork. The bed had been made, albeit crookedly, and all else was in order.

He made a mental note to stop by the refectory before he left. His "food ration" had officially run dry a few days before. Luckily, Skoodge had provided. Taking into consideration the few Earth foods Zim could eat, Dib deducted correctly that certain Irken foods could be ingested with no (or very minimal) stomach upset. It was mainly simple carbohydrates like pastries, but it would do for the week-long journey back.

Finally, he reached down to the floor beside the bed and picked up the last thing he had to pack—his laptop. He felt a snag in his chest whenever his eyes wandered over to it.

He wasn't looking forward to what was to come. Just the thought of it had his stomach twisting and contorting into knots.

He lifted the monitor screen and peeked at it. Just as he expected, it was still open to the recording. He grimaced, then set it to the very beginning. All he would have to do is press play. All Zim would have to do is listen.

Finally, taking a deep breath, he stowed it away into his backpack with everything else.

The day crawled on, the morning sky broadening into daytime, then steadily fading into the temperate prelude of dusk.

Down below, in the subterranean fixtures of Skoodge's bunker, Zim was sitting up in bed, staring straight ahead.

Nestled in his lap, half covered by the blankets, was his old PAK. He was looking over it. Memorizing it. The little scrapes and scuffs on its once-shiny metal surface. The exposed metal legs, sporting abrasions from their many years of service during combat.

He ran his thumb over the tiny dent near the top port, tracing it over and over absently.

Skoodge would be by shortly to escort him to the docking bay.

Zim dipped his chin down and narrowed his eyes.

The idea of traveling back to Earth with Dib was almost enough for him to actually desire his purgatory of bedrest and physical therapy and insist on staying. And yet… that was only another evil. He couldn't just allow himself to submit to the whims of his aching body, watching an endless tirade of crap on television and fattening himself up on rich Irken meals that steadily grew richer with each passing day he could keep them down.

Not when his memory was riddled with holes and missing links. Not when he was forced to lay awake while his imagination tormented him with all the unknowns.

No. He wanted to return to Earth. To get to the bottom of things.

If he had no choice but to return with Dib, then so be it. It wouldn't prevent him from taking… extra precautions before boarding. His body may be weak, but he was gaining more and more control over his new PAK by the day.

An Irken's PAK served many purposes. It was effectively a Swiss Army knife of artillery and tools for self-defense. Where flesh and bone failed, the PAK made up for it tenfold. He would be as vigilant as he had to be for the duration of the journey to Earth. He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

If the Dib human took one wrong step, he would pay dearly for it. Zim didn't know where the sudden absence of hostility came from with the human, and he was wary of it.

He didn't want to entertain the notion of trusting the human, Skoodge's claims be damned. Dib had clearly worked some form of manipulation on him, and poor gullible Skoodge had simply been too susceptible to use basic reasoning.

But then… how else did Zim end up here? On Elixus? In Skoodge's bunker? With the Dib sitting beside him?

Skoodge had retold the same story of finding Dib and Zim in the streets over and over, with no blips or inconsistencies. Zim knew. He had been shrewdly looking for them each time he asked.

Hours were spent lying in bed, trying to theorize what the human could possibly be scheming.

Was it some sort of elaborate plan to gain his trust? To get Zim to bend to Dib's will and reveal incriminating information regarding his mission?

Well… if it was information he was after, he could have easily just ransacked Zim's base while the Irken was incapacitated, ignoring him entirely. In addition, Skoodge had been spared any overtly prying questions from the human. Dib seemed to tread lightly on the eggshells he was walking on, avoiding his tendencies to shamelessly demand information.

Then what else could it be? Was it a plot to poison him? That had been Zim's immediate deduction. After all, the mystery of his sudden illness was still unanswered. This theory would have provided an easy and probable solution. He wouldn't put it past his nemesis.

And yet… something about it didn't align either. If Dib had indeed poisoned him, then how and why did they both end up on Elixus? Why would he attempt to murder him, only to seek out medical help immediately afterwards?

All the possibilities he meticulously formulated in his mind had a hundred thousand plot holes. All except one.

Skoodge's recount made too much sense. And yet… it didn't. There was one fatal flaw that seemed to hold equal weight with the other many plot holes: Why would Zim's mortal enemy help him?

It pounded in his head over and over again. It made no sense. The whole affair was lending him nothing but a throbbing headache.

"Urgh." Zim pinched up his face and exasperatedly gripped both antennae in his fists. Unsurprisingly, he was hit with immediate pain as he yanked them down to his shoulders, but at least the smarting in his sensory organs helped balance out the aching in his head. His mind felt like a snarled mess of yarn, viciously knotted beyond all hope.

After a few seconds, he released his hold on his feelers and dropped his shaky arms back down to his lap. His hands found their way back to his PAK and he continued to memorize the grooves and wear of it, staring ahead dismally.

That was how Skoodge found him when he walked into his room. Most everything had been packed, and Dib was already down at the docking bay, loading up the ship with their belongings.

Zim looked up from the old PAK in his lap, his face utterly unreadable. It was an odd expression for him to wear. The little Irken had always been an open book, impervious to deception in his blatant expressiveness. At least, that's always how he'd always been in the eyes of Skoodge.

Now, he was quiet and somewhat distant while his old friend worked around him, straightening up the room and helping him out of his hospital garments.

The past couple weeks had been enough for Zim to begin putting on a little weight. The prominent ridges of his cheekbones and ribs had dissipated somewhat, making him look that much healthier. Even so, it wasn't enough for him to even begin to fill out the spare uniform he had been brought.

It was Skoodge's, of course, and would have been much too big for most Irkens, never mind one that was already abnormally tiny to begin with. Zim was positively swimming in the fabric of the tunic and legging combination, looking miserable as Skoodge pulled on a pair of black gloves.

"I look ridiculous," he groused once the ensemble was complete.

"Would you rather walk outside wearing nothing but a hospital gown?"

Zim scowled.

Skoodge could have easily taken a cheap jab at him, reminding Zim that throughout their entire upbringing, his uniforms always had to be tailor-made to accommodate his littleness, and that nothing else would really fit him. But he held off. Zim's pride had taken enough blows in the last couple weeks.

For a while, they just sat in silence. Then, Zim turned his tired eyes up at him. "What happened to you?" It came out in that same dejected, out of character voice that Skoodge had heard several times in the last week.

He blinked. "What do you mean?"

"You changed. I don't remember…" Zim's voice trailed off. The final word sounded strained, and it took Skoodge a moment to understand why. Zim was very possibly wrestling with the hunch that certain memories had just been lost in the void. That it was Zim's fault his old squadron mate now felt like a stranger to him. It would make sense, given that the Skoodge of Zim's past was remarkably different from the Skoodge who worked on Elixus as a surgical tech.

Skoodge paused for a moment to formulate the right words. "Don't worry. It's nothing your PAK failed to store in its memory banks. I only really started to 'change' after I had already left your base. I realized that I had no way of growing as an invader, so I… requested a reencoding. I chose another path. The change was for the better, really."

"We don't change," Zim retorted bitterly. "And what do you mean you 'chose another path'? Irkens do what they're encoded to do. That's how we operate."

Skoodge grunted, suddenly amused. "You've never felt the need to prove yourself in a role other than the one you were assigned?"

Zim opened his mouth, pausing for the briefest of moments. "What? That was different. I was destined to be an invader. The Tallest just couldn't see it without the aid of my amazing negotiating skills! You saw it yourself at The Great Assigning."

Skoodge sighed.

"Zim… sometimes things just don't work out the way you want them to. And sometimes the only solution is to adapt and change how you see yourself." He looked oddly earnest as he spoke. His eyes begged Zim to listen, knowing deep down that he wouldn't.

Sure enough, Zim stared blankly back at him.

He sighed again, then wormed his arm beneath the sick Irken's shoulder to support him as the two rose to their feet. Zim's knees immediately began to wobble erratically, knocking into each other as he struggled to stand upright. Once he seemed stable enough, Skoodge started to lead him out of the room.

Before he crossed the threshold, Zim craned his neck around, taking one final glance at his old, scuffed PAK, resting half-concealed in his mess of blankets.

-x-

Skoodge walked the path to the docking bay slowly, being mindful to stay on the far right so that other pedestrians could pass them. Zim hobbled beside him, leaning most of his weight on Skoodge so he wouldn't fall.

Even in the natural light, he looked disarmingly pale, and was growing steadily greyer the closer they got to their destination. it was unclear whether it was because of overexertion or nervousness. His passive expression eventually wilted until he was audibly panting. Skoodge frowned at him, taking note of how his eyelids drooped. He looked like he was about to vomit. Or lose consciousness. Or both.

"Are you okay, Zim?"

"Of… course… I am," he wheezed.

Skoodge gave him a doubtful look and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting for him to catch his breath. Though Zim shot him an annoyed glance, he didn't protest. Once he looked a little less worse for wear, the two continued on.

Earlier that day, Skoodge had arranged for the human's ship, a modified Spittle Runner by the looks of it, to be serviced before he made the long trek back to Earth.

It presently sat on a raised platform amid the other Irken vessels in the docking bay, windshield up and storage hatch open. When they neared the ship, Dib appeared from within and slammed the lid behind him.

"Well, that's it," he said. He, too, looked a touch pasty. He leaned over the edge of the platform and reached a pale, skinny arm out to take Zim's hand and help him into the ship. One scalding glare from the alien, though, and he quickly withdrew it.

After a few grunts of protest and attempts to pull away from his grip, Skoodge very reluctantly withdrew his arm from around him and watched tensely as Zim tried to board the ship by himself.

Zim's movements were jerky and awkward, like a newborn who was still learning to walk. He looked like he was about to topple over any minute, and Dib and Skoodge were both poised to catch him if he did. Finally, he made his way into the ship and collapsed into the pilot's chair, panting heavily. Perspiration shined on his forehead.

Dib sighed, pausing for a beat before he spoke. "Uh, Zim, you're going to have to move to the passenger's seat. I'm going to be piloting the ship."

Zim simply muttered something unintelligible under his breath and turned his head away, not budging from the seat.

Skoodge could vaguely sense Dib shooting an uneasy glance in his direction, but he made no indication of acknowledgement. His mind was elsewhere. "Well, I should be off," he said, already scanning the rows of parked ships for his own.

"Wait." Dib climbed out of the ship, leaving Zim and GIR in the cockpit with the windshield still raised. He walked to the edge of the platform, until he was right in front of him.

"Thank you, Skoodge. I…" He visibly struggled with what he was trying to say. "I won't ever forget this."

Skoodge felt his antennae hitched forward a bit at the sentiment, no matter how trite it was. He could see the gratitude in the human's face, plain and clear. The Irken shifted a bit so that he was standing straighter and raised his first two fingers to his temple in a firm salute.

Dib's response was to return the favor with a limp, dorky-looking salute of his own across his forehead.

Skoodge's eyes turned upwards, towards Zim in the ship. The latter met his eyes and weakly raised his arm to salute as well.

At last, Skoodge dropped his arm and nodded in Dib's direction. "Good luck, Earth smeet." With that, he turned away down the aisle towards his own ship.

Irkens weren't sentimental creatures. He did not know if he would ever see Zim again.

Probably not, his conscience told him. But he'd been wrong about these sorts of things before. All he knew was that wherever life took him, if he and Zim happened to drift into one another's lives again, it would be with a mutual goodwill that would shine through the many facets of their respective emotional barriers. Genuineness was a silent trait, and the actions behind it spoke far louder than words, or the lack thereof.

Skoodge reached into his pocket, hunting around until his hand found purchase on a folded document. It was a hard copy of his draft letter, required to be at the ready when he arrived on Irk. He clutched it tightly in one claw and used the other to lift the hatch of his ship.

It remained there as he enabled startup protocols and expertly piloted the ship out of the docking bay. By the time he'd breached the atmosphere and left the two long out of sight, he took a long breath and turned his attention to whatever the future held.

Once Skoodge's ship had disappeared into the depths of twilight, Dib took a deep breath and shot a look of dread towards his own ship.

Zim had shifted over to the seat beside next to his and was presently leaned back with his eyes closed.

GIR was loose behind the two seats, already rifling around in the carefully packed storage hatch. When he made eye contact with Dib, though, he quickly skirted around to the front of the ship, using Zim's spooch as a springboard as he hopped onto the helm. The Irken lurched upright with a strangled gasp, eyes bugging out.

"Are ya coming?" the robot squawked. Zim glared daggers into the back of GIR's head, simultaneously massaging the spot he'd leapt off with one hand.

Dib felt frozen in place. "Yeah," he replied flatly after a moment.

As soon as he was able to move his feet, he climbed into the ship and settled into the chair beside Zim.

Almost immediately, a ripple of uneasiness passed between them. Dib ignored it the best he could and mechanically began the startup procedures for the ship. The fuel gauge showed it to be at full capacity, and the engine turned over without a hitch. All was ready.

Dib turned his eyes down to the control panel and was in the midst of lowering the windshield, when he paused, looking down at his bare, outstretched arm. His eyebrows shot up.

"I forgot my jacket!"

"Heh?" Zim opened his eyes again.

"I left it back at Skoodge's." He instantly flicked a switch and the windshield came to a halt, then rose back up. Jumping out of the ship, Dib took off down the rows of ships as fast as he could in his bulky walking boot.

"Just wait! I'll be right back!" he yelled over his shoulder, cupping his hands around his mouth. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Zim's antennae poking up before he whipped his head back around and continued to dart back towards the bunker.

To his relief, the computer still recognized his biological code and promptly scanned him in. As soon as he was making his way down to his temporary bedroom, he finally let himself breathe.

How could he have forgotten it? He'd worn the same black trench coat for years, and it had seldom come off before now. Skoodge kept his home so damn warm, though, it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of keeping it on.

With a sigh of relief, he found it crumpled on the floor beneath the bed, apparently having slipped over the edge and out of sight at some point. It had clearly been missed while he'd packed his other belongings.

He picked it up and shoved his arms through the sleeves before pulling it up by the collar. Then, he was off again, streaking through the palpable emptiness of the bunker.

He hoped Zim wasn't causing any issues back at the docking bay. The Irken had been oddly quiet, as if he were too deep in thought to show much outward hostility.

Dib made his way down the few blocks separating them and back to the docking bay, locking his eyes onto the ship as soon as it came into view. The sun was beginning to set, leaving a balmy warmth over the planet and causing Dib's shadow to stretch beside him onto the pavement. Up ahead, he could just make out the forms of Zim and GIR. He cleared the distance with several long strides, and was about to climb back up the platform when,

"FREEZE!"

The noise pierced through the air like a bullet. Dib's heart jolted in his chest at the sound, and only a split second preluded the sudden appearance of three Irkens as they jumped from the shadows surrounding him. Dib stumbled backwards, nearly losing his footing as he reeled.

"Step away from the ship!"

He hastily recovered his balance and whipped around, only to see three more Irkens behind him. A closer look revealed them all to be in matching uniforms, each heavily armed. Every one of them brandished bright plasma blasters before them, expertly trained on Dib's head.

For a fraction of a second, his eyes shot instinctively towards the ship, weighing the possibility of making a run for it. As soon as he did so, the Irken closest to him pulled the safety from his blaster and shifted his weight slightly.

Dib very slowly backed away from the Spittle's platform. His breath was shaky.

"Hands up. Down on the ground," the first voice ordered.

He immediately complied, shooting both arms up into the air and dropping to his knees. His eyes were wide as saucers behind his spectacles.

"What is this?" he croaked as they closed in on him.

The Irken directly in front of him stepped forward, face glowing from behind his plasma gun's gossamer light. "Irken law enforcement. You're under arrest."

Dib felt sharp claws dig into his upper arms and wrench them behind his back. Seconds later, the sound of handcuffs clicking echoed in his ears.

"Under arrest? B-but why?" It came out in the same tiny whimper, competing with the noise of his heartbeat as it pounded in his ears.

"We've gotten several reports of suspicious activity over the last several days of an unidentified alien species going around and tampering with Irken property…" The head officer said it all with a sneer, watching keenly as Dib's eyes grew impossibly wider.

He lowered his gun to the pavement slowly. The others followed, and Dib was yanked to his feet. He sucked in a gasp and began to scramble in place. The effort was futile, as he was flanked on either side by officers nearly as tall as he was, and twice as strong.

"W-WAIT! I haven't done anything wrong! This is all a big mistake! ZIM!"

Dib turned his head, fighting against a gloved claw that suddenly caught his chin and tried to resist the movement.

He managed to catch a glimpse at Zim. He was still in the Spittle Runner up above on the platform. The Irken was peering out inquisitively, almost completely obscured from view. At the sound of his name, though, he pulled himself up so that he was standing.

"ZIM! Help me! Make them listen!"

The officers followed Dib's gaze up to the ship. The head officer goose stepped forward, until he was in clear view of Zim. The latter stood a little straighter, gripping the edges of the ship in both hands to keep himself up. His legs trembled pitifully in boots that were about two sizes too big for him.

"Sir, is this alien scum with you?"

Zim blanched, glancing from the officer to Dib and back again. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed thickly.

"Sir?"

Dib started to struggle again, and one of the officers holding his arms kneed him roughly in the side.

"No. He isn't."

Dib jerked his head up, mouth falling open. His expression shattered in an instant. In place of panic, utter betrayal suddenly took hold, marred deeply into his tawny eyes as he cast his gaze on Zim. He held that expression all the while as the officers dragged him away from the docking bay and far out of sight.

Chapter Text

"What are we gonna do now, Mastah?"

GIR's little voice trilled through the air, shaking Zim back to reality. He was still standing, leaning heavily against the ship and clutching the sides to keep himself up. His legs felt numb, and he feared that if he dared move, they would simply give out beneath him.

At last, he stirred, turning his head to look over at GIR. The little robot was sitting on the floor, staring up at him curiously.

Zim realized he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly. "We go back to Earth."

Yes. That's what they would do. That's all there was to do.

Slowly, he wrenched himself away from the edge of the ship and tried to make his way back to the pilot's chair. Almost immediately, his knees buckled from beneath him, but he collapsed crookedly into the seat just in time. Wriggling into a more comfortable position, he dropped his chin and released a relieved sigh. At least, it was supposed to sound relieved. The noise that came out instead was a strange mixture between a wheezy exhale and a whimper.

GIR settled in next to him and pressed a button on the console. The windshield lowered over the two, sealing them inside the ship.

Zim poised his hands over the control panel, excitement rising in his chest. As soon as he glanced down, though, he felt his confidence dry up almost instantaneously.

The levers and buttons looked entirely foreign to him. It was as if he'd never flown a ship in his life. He knew that couldn't possibly be true, though. He had many memories of flying, some dating back to his early adolescence when he could just barely see over the dashboard.

He dropped his hands and stared blankly down at the countless icons before him.

After a few moments, GIR began to fidget. Finally, a little metal claw reached forward in Zim's periphery, and the Irken nearly exploded.

"DON'T TOUCH!" He slapped GIR's hand away as forcibly as he could. "I know how to do it!"

"Then why haven't ya done it yet?" the robot countered. It came out with a childish sense of innocence, though. He was genuinely curious.

Zim growled and continued to glare at the buttons as if he could will them to make sense. It was like taking an exam where the answer was on the tip of his tongue, but it just wouldn't come to him.

He must have continued staring down at the panel for some time, for GIR eventually leaned back and rested his stubby little legs onto the dash. "Now wouldja look at that sunset…" he hummed.

Zim's eyes flicked upwards just in time to see Elixus' two suns finish creeping languidly behind the sprawling city high-rises. Within moments, the sky darkened. The Irken furrowed his brows and glanced back down.

"AHA!" he exclaimed. He flicked a little lever on the far right and the headlights lit up in front of them.

He smirked for a moment, then went right back to looking down at the control panel. His expression faded slowly back to one of blankness.

The headlights only broadened in the increasing darkness of the night, though. Zim would hum and grumble quietly to himself, hesitantly reaching towards a button or lever before slowly withdrawing his claw.

GIR hummed quietly beside him. He pulled out a chocolate bar from the storage in his head and began to munch on it. His legs kicked the backrest absently.

Zim frowned, sneaking a glance down at GIR then back at the console.

The robot was staring out the window, adding some occasional beat-boxing noises to his tuneless humming.

"OKAY!" Zim cried out, exasperatedly, throwing his hands up dramatically. "You can fly the ship! If it'll get you to stop harping on about it, then fine!"

GIR titled his head for a moment, then shrugged. "Okie dokie."

Within a moment, the Spittle was shakily rising above the surrounding buildings, joining the other starships in the sky. It paused midair briefly before turning in the direction of their designation. Then, it flew at an upwards slope towards the heavens, gaining rapid speed as it headed towards Earth.

Dib shivered and pulled his coat tighter across him. He didn't look up, instead keeping his eyes cast to the dirty floor in front of him and watching the shadows appear and disappear as people walked by in the brightly lit hallway outside his dank little jail cell.

He had been transported here, to what was clearly some sort of Irken police station and taken to an empty cubicle. It was remarkably similar to a jail cell on Earth, save for the fiery red laser beams that had exploded from the frame of the cell the second he was inside. He didn't dare go near them.

For the last couple hours, he'd been left to sit in silence and stew over his predicament.

Ignoring the lumpy mattress in the corner of his cell, he instead sat on the floor against the furthermost wall. He had brought his knees up to his chest and was resting his crossed arms over them.

How could I have expected anything less from Zim?

The question kept going through his mind, over and over. The initial sense of shock hadn't dissipated; on the contrary, it only continued to build. More and more questions surfaced and resurfaced in his mind, each one of them laced with fear, betrayal, or any mixture of the two.

He buried his head in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. Finally, letting out a deep sigh, he propped his chin up over his arms and continued staring at the ground, tinged red from the pulsating glow of the lasers holding him within.

After a few moments, he felt a presence outside his cell. The feeling lingered long enough for Dib to lift his heavy head and look up.

In front of his cell were a pair of guards peering in at him.

"You're needed for questioning," one of them said.

The other pulled off his glove and scanned his hand on a screen nearby. The lasers vanished, and the Irkens stood in front of the open gap.

Without a word, Dib rose to his feet and allowed the two to lead him down the hall of cells. As he walked by them, he saw various other aliens hunkered inside. Occasionally, he'd pass an Irken, but they were exceptionally rare.

Once they came to the end of the hall, the same guard scanned himself through another door and they continued to walk down a brand-new corridor. This one was long and gray, with thick metal doors lining each side. Each door was emblazed with Irken characters, but he was none the wiser to what they could possibly have said.

Officers marched past them up and down the corridor. They all wore the same uniform, heavy purple armor with high collars and equally bulky combat boots that made audible thuds with each footfall. None spared so much as a glance in their direction.

Dib trudged along, careful to stay in line with the Irkens flanking either side of him. Finally, both of them simultaneously gripped his arms hard enough to draw blood with their sharp claws and came a halt. Dib winced and turned his eyes to a nondescript doorway. He was led through and ordered to sit down and wait.

As soon as he was left alone, he wilted where he sat. Adrenaline was running heavily through him. It was all still digesting, and it was physically impossible for him to so much as focus on one facet of what had just occurred before another detail sprang up in his mind and demanded whatever numb acknowledgement he was capable of giving it.

Finally, a rather tall Irken entered the room and slammed the door.

"State your name and species."

"Dib Membrane. Human," he replied in a weak, hesitant voice.

The Irken raised one brow, as if Dib's answer had been less than honest. "Human? What planet are you from?"

"I'm from Earth, Sir." As soon as the last word had left his lips, he noticed the slight curl of the officer's antennae and winced. "Ma'am."

The officer stared him down in obvious distaste. Finally, she walked around the table and stood facing him. "What is your business here on Elixus?"

Dib swallowed. "I was trying to help my… my…" he racked his brain for a word that would aptly describe his relationship with Zim. Friend? No. Enemy? That word would only lead to more questions that he couldn't even answer himself. "… I was trying to help a sick Irken."

"You were trying to 'help' an Irken?" she repeated derisively. "That's a new one."

She shook her head and sat down at the table across from him. "I'll get right down to the point. We have witnesses who claim to have seen you breaking and entering in both an Irken residence and an Irken space vessel on multiple occasions. This has come only days after an official report was made of an unidentified alien matching your description having been forcibly removed from an Irken medical clinic."

Dib raised his head sharply. "What? I wasn't breaking and entering! And the ship is mine!"

"Lies aren't going to help you here, alien."

"I'm not lying," he said through gritted teeth. "Just ask Skoodge!"

"Skoodge?" Again, her words were laced with a dubious tone that caused an exceeding amount of infuriation to surge in Dib's chest.

He had to pause and bite back his growing frustration when he responded. "The owner the of the bunker. I was staying with him."

And where is this 'Skoodge?'"

He paused. "Umm… Well, he said he was going to Irk, but I don't know where on Irk. It's for the war. He's on his way there right now."

"Is there a way to contact him?" the officer asked. Again, it seemed like nothing more than a thinly blanketed attempt to humor what she obviously believed to be a lie.

"Well, I-I," Dib stuttered. Did he have any of Skoodge's contact information? Anything? "I don't know."

She smirked. "Irken law enforcement is investigating both the medical clinic and the bunker as we speak. They have reason to believe that you may be tied in the theft of a blank Irken ID PAK."

Dib couldn't believe his ears. It took him a moment of wild ogling at the floor before he could even piece together what the officer had just told him.

"Blank ID PAK?"

The officer seemed to take his stunned silence for shock at having been exposed, however, for she continued to sneer down at him.

Suddenly, he burst outward. "I didn't steal anything! You've made a huge mistake! That's what I keep trying to tell you!" The words flooded from his mouth, amalgamating into one another in an almost-incoherent mess.

"Then explain yourself, alien."

Dib shut up right then and there. How could he explain himself without also exposing Skoodge? The truth was just as lethal. They had been breaking laws from the moment they'd crossed paths. Even if, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, Irken law enforcement believed him, they would still look for any reason to punish Dib to the fullest extent they could for the little slips that he couldn't account for. There was no way to remedy the situation without needlessly bringing Skoodge down with him.

As this was working its way through Dib's mind, the officer standing in front of him shifted her weight and simpered. "That's what I thought. Get up."

He heard the words as if they were in a tunnel. He made no move to stand.

"Get him out of here."

In a daze, he could feel himself being roughly jerked to his feet by the guards and shoved back through the doors he'd come in through.

It wasn't uncommon for squatters to break into empty bunkers while their occupants were deployed. Irkens seldom stayed in the same place for long, which made responding to break-ins a relatively routine ordeal for Irken law enforcement.

This one appeared to be no different.

A sleek, low-hovering Irken vehicle pulled up to the curb, idling for a moment before deploying its landing gear and touching down. A pause, then two investigators slid out, both wearing grim expressions and the regalia signifying their places as detectives for the 396th Precinct of the Irken Police Department on Elixus. They made their way up the narrow path, hardly more than silhouettes in the darkness of night.

It was always the same—some nondescript alien race in search of shelter or equipment they could loot. They always seemed to be rather satisfied with themselves once they had made it past the bio-scanners and the array of notoriously ruthless defense systems. So satisfied, in fact, that they seemed utterly bewildered at the appearance of Irken law enforcement. As if they had accounted for everything up until that point and were blindsided by the arrival of reinforcements. The shock on their faces was almost funny.

Usually SWAT teams handled those, though. This was simply an investigation following an arrest. The perpetrator had already been detained the previous evening near the docking bay a few blocks away.

The first officer paused at the door, still glancing over the specifics of the case on his tablet. They had been assigned to investigate the bunker of Surgical Technician "Skoodge," PAK serial number SI983034. The investigator narrowed his purple eyes at the information given to him.

The homeowner had been drafted for war, and no one knew how long he'd been gone for. According to the medical clinic he worked at, he had taken an alarming amount of uninterrupted personal time prior to giving them notice of his draft.

The trespasser who had been taken into custody was of an unrecorded alien race and had been spotted entering the residence by multiple witnesses. His appearance came around the same time as the sudden disappearance of a blank PAK from the very same medical clinic Surgical Technician Skoodge was employed at.

"Skluf!" his partner hissed in a whisper.

He looked up from the file at the sound of his name.

The other detective, a thin, nasally Irken by the name of Mil, was already poised for the search. She had her flashlight aimed in front of her, plasma blaster within easy reach on her belt. "Come on."

He tucked the tablet back into his PAK and took out his own flashlight.

The two entered the dark breezeway, their shrewd eyes immediately scanning the room. When nothing appeared to be out of order, Mil pressed a button for the elevator.

"What do you think an alien would want with an Irken PAK?" Skluf murmured, still turning over the information in his mind.

She sniffed. "Probably hired by some enemy race to steal it for research. Wouldn't be the first time." She lifted her chin and primly stepped into the elevator.

He followed her, and the two made their way down the floor directly below.

Their shadows streaked along floors of each corridor as they made their way from room to room.

For the first few floors, they found nothing of note. The bunker looked perfectly ordinary, expressing only the subtlest and most innocent signs of use. An ajar door leading to the refectory. A television remote askew on the table.

It wasn't until they made it down into the medical bay when Skluf stopped dead in his tracks.

"What is it?" Mil whispered from behind him.

He didn't answer.

She scowled and peered over his shoulder. Her breath drew in sharply.

There, half-covered by messy white linen sheets, was a PAK.

"Is it… is it the stolen one?" Skluf asked speculatively after a moment.

She cocked her head to one side and, after peering around the room carefully, stepped closer. "It couldn't be," she said. "Look at it."

She traced over some of the larger scratches with her index finger.

He stood next to her and saw it for himself. He shined his flashlight on the PAK legs brimming over the edges of the unmade bed, pausing there for a moment before letting the light drift over the rest of the room. Several spindly cracks ran across the television screen and a couple pieces of machinery looked to be damaged.

The two exchanged looks.

They continued on to the last couple levels in the same manner, shining their lights in each direction. They were both looking for the same thing. Usually, wherever a PAK lay, a body lay nearby. But there was none.

Once they had finished the sweep, they turned to face each other again. Both wore a look of utter confusion.

"We should take it down to the station," Skluf said, mirroring his partner's thoughts. "Something doesn't add up here."

-x-

Within a matter of hours, Zim's birth PAK was resting atop a sterile metal table, exposed legs hanging over either side.

On another table nearby, other pieces of evidence were strewn and tagged. However, it was very possible that it would all prove to be useless. Many cases could be solved with ease with only a PAK for evidence.

In the center of the room, a large Control Brain took up residence, existing at the station for the very purpose of processing data, replaying past memories, and adding the deceased Irkens' data to the collective.

A long metal plug had been inserted in the uppermost port of the PAK, and the Brain was in the midst of loading information. A large monitor screen took up an entire wall, displaying a bar to indicate the Brain's progress.

Mil had her back turned to the PAK, in the midst of reading over a crime scene log on her computer.

"It's almost done," Skluf droned absently from where he was standing, within view shot of the screen.

She closed out of the log and joined him in front of the monitor.

It would be easy enough. Irkens often died in combat, though some also expired from old age or the occasional illness if they didn't possess the prerequisites needed to obtain medical care. Even so, it wasn't unheard of for an Irken to be murdered in cold blood, often by jealous peers or aliens. In this case, accessing the last retained memories on a PAK could shed light on the host's final moments.

"Memory retrieval complete," the Control Brain said eventually, breaking the silence.

Skluf cleared his throat. "Good. Access the PAK's final memories."

Scarcely more than a few seconds passed before it lit up with a jagged array of hazy scenes. Flashes of light, mainly, and voices. A few glimpses of a long, gangly alien with beige skin.

The two Irkens perked up. Contrary to clearing up the cause of death, it only piqued their confusion.

"Huh," Skluf laughed humorlessly, "That didn't help."

"Wait… go back," Mil murmured. The same footage flashed back across the scene. Suddenly, she held up a finger. Upon the screen was a dim shot of the alien. "This is the suspect we have in custody, yes?"

Skluf cocked his head and squinted. "It is."

Mil walked back to her computer and typed something.

"It still doesn't explain the exact cause of death," Skluf said to her back.

"It points highly to the alien's involvement."

He huffed. "Sure, but we can't assume anything yet. Not until we've seen all the evidence."

Mil walked back to his side.

"Pull up medical history," Skluf said after a moment.

She fidgeted a bit beside him. "That's a stretch. It sounds like a clear case of—"

"—Computing," the Control Brain replied.

She sighed and crossed her arms. More silence followed.

It was a long shot often times, but if an Irken had access to any sort of healthcare, it could also clear up their cause of death.

Suddenly, alarms burst out of nowhere. The investigators both nearly jumped out of their skin, eyes widening and antennae snapping forward in an instant.

The screen went red, nearly blinding them with its sudden austerity.

Skluf whipped around, holding his antennae in agony. He glanced towards Mil, only to find that she was completely frozen, mouth slightly ajar and eyes staring upwards. He trailed his gaze to where hers was glued, up upon the screen. As soon as he did so, he gasped.

Flashing cryptically were the words: "WARNING: TOXIN J-636 DETECTED."

A couple of days had passed inside the Spittle Runner, all without much of note. It shuttled along on autopilot, relatively silent save for the occasional beeping of the radar screen, alerting the occupants within of oncoming ships or planets so that they may change course to avoid impact.

Inside the little cockpit, Zim sat in the pilot's chair and stretched his legs out in front of himself. He bent them at the knee, then extended them back out. The cycle repeated a few times before he let them go slack.

Next, he lifted his arms out and held them there, watching in contempt when they began to tremble ever so slightly after only about a minute. He began to flex them in a similar fashion.

Lastly, he practiced standing up and sitting back down several times. This morphed into him rising to his feet and walking in place beside his pilot chair, trying not to think about how ridiculous it probably looked.

There was only so much he could do in the small confines of the ship. He didn't exactly know what he was doing in terms of physical therapy, either. He simply figured that if he kept moving, he wouldn't be reduced back down to his atrophy ridden post-surgery self.

Aside from the occasional bout of pain along his back from the surgery itself, his recovery seemed to be continuing in as positive a manner as it could, given the circumstances.

Zim dropped back into the pilot's chair with a heavy sigh. He stared straight ahead at the stars zipping by in front of him. Endless recollections of long-distance space travel had found its way into his memory bank, and each of them were the same. Dull, tedious, and altogether uneventful. Going into hyperspeed made it so that even some of space's more interesting phenomena was nothing more than a blur as they passed it by.

It was a matter of seconds before his eyes unfocused and he became lost in his own thoughts.

As he did so, his gaze unconsciously wandered around the ship and took in the drawings that GIR has unleashed upon the inside of the ship. Not a single area of space had been spared. Every square foot contained one, or at least a half-finished attempt at one. Most of them were indistinguishable to what he remembered of GIR's other doodles back at the base; odd, blobby monsters and disproportionate humanoid creatures, some with little thought bubbles jammed with incoherent speech. From the moment he'd stepped foot in the ship, their existence had only vaguely registered in his mind.

His eyes lingered on one drawing, though, and before he knew it, something stirred in his brain, and he was focusing in on it.

"GIR?"

The robot's head emerged from underneath a mound of clothes he'd taken from the Dib-human's duffel bag. "Mmmhhmmm?"

"What is this?" Zim's voice had taken on a low, terse tone—the very same inflection he often used with GIR when he suspected him of tampering with expensive equipment in his lab.

GIR's eyes drifted to where his master was pointing. "That's you!" he answered after a moment, pointing to a crudely drawn figure with what looked like two huge number 7's jutting from its head. Zim assumed those were supposed to be his antennae.

He squinted at it and raised a brow. "What am I doing?"

"You're throwing up!" the robot chirped sweetly.

He didn't give a response other than a deeply disturbed frown. It took him a moment before he spoke again. "And who is this with me?"

"The big head boy!" he said just as cheerily.

A chill ran through him, causing his feelers to quaver a bit. "Dib?"

"Yeah, that's right." GIR seemed overjoyed at his master's sudden enthusiasm in his artwork. "He's patting your back!"

Zim continued to scan the other doodles, his eyes widening as he noticed a similarity. Huge, dramatic scythe-locks and double number sevens adorned the heads of many of the poorly drawn figures within the interior of the ship.

GIR turned to one directly to his right. "He's crying in this one! See?" He wriggled out of the clothes pile and, after nearly being tripped up, walked over to where Zim was standing and pointed at another nearby. "And this is him yelling at me for sleepin' on your head."

Zim swallowed thickly as his faraway eyes drifted over each drawing. "GIR?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"…Nevermind." He swiveled the chair back around to the windshield and returned to staring outside it. He could hear GIR shifting behind him, going back to what he had been doing before.

For the next few hours, the shuffling of GIR going through Dib's luggage and the soft humming of the ship's engine were the only two noises that perturbed the silence. The Irken had pulled both his knees up to his chest. He stared outside the ship, eyes narrowed.

"Proximity warning." The control panel lit up, causing him to jump with a start.

He stared down at the radar screen on the ship. The ship seemed to be nearing the far reaches of Irken-populated space. Once they reached the end, there would mainly be uninhabited planets or planets that were unable to support life. Then, it was a long stretch of nothingness until they reached Earth.

Might as well stop and refuel, he thought. They wouldn't get another chance.

"Change trajectory towards the nearest rest stop."

He waited for it to reroute, staring idly down at the screen. As soon as it did so, he turned in his seat and faced GIR. "Take control of the ship," he said simply. Casually.

"Oooh, where're we goin?" GIR asked. He had a sock hanging from his antenna.

Zim shrugged. "Whatever stinking planet the ship directs us to. We need to refuel."

"We do?"

"YES! Now do as I say!" Zim looked disgustedly around him. "And clean up those clothes once we land! They're making the whole ship smell like the Dib-stink's hideous body odor."

The Irken crossed his arms and dropped into the passenger seat, going back to staring out the window as they zeroed in on a planet.

-x-

Half an hour later, Zim's window had been replaced by another as the two settled into a booth at a rest stop for interplanetary travelers. He didn't know the name of the planet they were on, and he didn't care.

He hadn't meant to do anything more than stretch his legs and refuel the ship, but GIR has insisted on coming inside and eating. So, after a painfully long walk through the fueling station that involved lots of breaks and cursing under his breath, Zim had eventually made his way to the neighboring restaurant with the robot in tow.

They'd chosen a seat closest to the front, with a full view of the Spittle Runner only a few hundred feet away. The sky outside was a smoky emerald green, and an enormous pale moon hung lowly over the horizon. Like every other Irken-run planet, ships flew this way and that in a constant flurry. It didn't matter where it was; it was just as loud and bustling as any other Irken city.

GIR was already plowing his way through whatever sickly sweet dessert he had ordered, making repulsive smacking sounds with his mouth that would normally have Zim in hysterics had the Irken not been so preoccupied.

He sank his teeth into his sandwich and chewed it absently, seemingly entranced by the Irkens fussing over their ships outside.

He was torn. Part of him felt anxious to return to Earth. Another part of him dreaded it. It wasn't that he wanted to put off his mission. On the contrary, his old fervor to please his Tallest had returned as a spark of and had only managed to grow. It wasn't just fervor anymore, though; it was desperation and anxiety at the mere thought of leaving them waiting.

On a level he couldn't quite comprehend, he felt as though he were drifting through an alternate universe. He had woken up, laying limply as his memories returned, afraid at what had potentially been lost in the shuffle. And now? He was being bustled back to his old life.

It felt strange and disorienting. But it was what it was. The PAK had its shortcomings. Irkens were sometimes put in situations where they had to deal with the ramifications. They were forced to conquer them. There was no other choice. It was just a matter of pressing on.

As Zim ate his lunch, the conversations of other customers melded together in a buzz around him. Occasionally, a particularly sharp laugh would break through.

Two Irkens walked past Zim, deep in conversation. They slid into the booth behind him, still talking. "Have you heard the latest about the war?" the first one asked.

Zim froze mid-chew.

"Haven't had a chance to," the other replied.

"There are rumors that the smeeteries will be collecting larger DNA samples and increasing production in the event of a dip in the population."

There was a hum of disagreement. "Fear mongering at its finest," came the other's voice, muffled around a bite of food. "Don't believe everything you hear from alien news sources."

"Well, then what about the official orders from the Tallest? They've drafted nearly every able-bodied Irken in the galaxy."

A hearty laugh came from the second Irken. "We'll come out of the war stronger than when we started. Mark my words. Those Meekrob scum will be polishing the hood of my ship by this time next year. You gonna finish all your fries?"

The other's response blended back into the ambient buzz of conversation in the restaurant. GIR kept eating noisily. Zim, however, was entirely motionless in his seat, sandwich clutched in his hands, eyes wide as saucers.

News spread at lightspeed through the police station. A ripple of anxiety drifted through the air. Antennae stood on end. Curiosity possessed officers to abandon their posts and sneak their way to the office where the infected PAK lay, swarmed by countless investigators.

The room was crowded, filled with anxious whispers.

"They don't know how this could have happened…"

"What does it mean?"

"I heard they got orders to disconnect the PAK from the Control Brain at once…"

"…So little is known about the toxin. They don't know if remnants of it could have affected the Brain…"

"That doesn't sound right. I don't think toxins work that way."

"Best to stay on the safe side…"

A deep voice cut through the buzz of conversation, causing an immediate hush to fall over the onlookers.

"What do we know about the situation so far?" Eyeballing the screen keenly was the chief detective. He was an aged Irken with a notable stoop and a grim face etched with deep wrinkles.

Accompanying him were the investigators tasked with the case, Skluf and Mil among them. They were rather white-faced as they surrounded the table and shifted their eyes restlessly from the idle Control Brain, to the screen, and back down to the PAK.

Skluf stepped forward. "According to data recorded from a recent medical examination on planet Earth, the PAK had been infected with Toxin J-636."

The chief rubbed his chin for a moment, eyes narrowing. "Earth… I've never heard of it. Computer. Pull up all known information about the planet."

"Insufficient data." The answer came almost instantly, and the chief flicked one crooked antenna upward in surprise. Many of the investigators and officers followed suit.

"Wait!" A shuffling commenced as someone pushed through the crowded room. A stout officer burst through the glut of them, holding a file. "The suspect who had been trespassing in the bunker identified himself as an inhabitant of 'Earth.'"

The chief's eyes glinted as they looked over the written interrogation between the officer and the alien suspect.

His eyes narrowed at the stuttering denials from the suspect and bouts of cheekiness. What could the connection be? How could this unknown planet have gained access to the toxin? There was only one way to find out.

The chief lowered the report and turned so he was facing both his Irken audience and the Control Brain.

"Take him to Vort for further interrogation."

He pressed the report into a scanner on the wall and addressed the Brain. "And keep this in the classified archives. This… 'human' could be more dangerous than any of us could have guessed."

A time came when Dib couldn't bear being curled up on the hard floor any longer, and at some point, he had migrated to the sorry excuse for a bed he was given. There, he laid with his back turned to the bars of his cell, glaring morosely at the graffiti on the wall in front of him.

He wished he could sleep. At least then, he would be able to block out some of what was happening. No nightmare could be as horrid as the one he was living right now. He was bound to whatever his future held. Utterly powerless to it.

Not for the first time in the last hour, his stomach panged sharply in hunger, prompting him to press his hands against his middle. Dib closed his eyes and curled into himself a little more.

He hadn't eaten since the night before. Funny, he had been too stressed to keep down so much as a bite of breakfast at Skoodge's bunker before they had parted ways. Now, he thought back to the many opportunities he'd had and desperately wished he'd had it in his mind to at least eat something.

More importantly than that, though, it had been far too long since he'd had access to any water. The effects of dehydration were beginning to settle in, starting with a persistent throbbing in the back of his head.

He opened his eyes again once the cramping passed and continued to look at the writing inches from his face. It was nothing more than a jumble of nonsense in various alien languages, some specimens written in what looked to be pen ink or even dried blood, others chiseled deeply into the wall. It was all completely indecipherable to him. And still, he stared at it, trying to distinguish one language from the next, grimly wondering how many individuals had been in this cell before him, and how many of them had been perfectly innocent.

Eventually, he must have managed to fall asleep, for when he opened his eyes again, he was disoriented and sleepy, still lying stiffly on the mattress with his trench coat spread over him. It took only a matter of seconds for the weight of his reality to catch up with him, and he wrenched himself up into a sitting position on his cot. His head spun with dizziness, and he held it in agony.

The corridor outside of his cell was slightly livelier than it had been before. Uniformed Irkens stalked past him from both directions, almost indistinguishable from one another. Instead of ignoring him, though, he swore he could see some of them pass sideways glimpses into his dark little cubicle. The atmosphere teemed with unease. For a moment, he wondered if he was awake at all, or if this was some sort of bizarre dream.

He drowsily lowered himself back down on his bed and closed his eyes, trying to block it all out. He was almost to the point of slipping off into another uneasy sleep when he was startled back to consciousness by the feeling of a sharp jab in his back.

"Get up," a baritone voice commanded.

He complied immediately, seeing that his cell's containment shield had been deactivated and an officer was standing directly in front of him. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes, but his wrist was instantly snatched out of the air and pulled behind his back. Before he could comprehend what was going on, he was back in handcuffs.

"What's going on?"

"You're being transported to a prison on Vort," the officer said.

Dib didn't bother to ask why at this point. Rather, he allowed himself to be led out of the little cell he'd called his home up until now. His injured foot dragged a bit as he made his way down the halls and blinked back sleep.

He felt wind on his cheeks, and when he looked up, he realized he was outside. The officer was quickly flanked by three others. They were leading him into a large, bulky ship. The very instant he was released, another containment shield emerged to cut him off from anything beyond the tiny five-foot space he had been allotted.

He only felt the vaguest spike to his despondency when the hatch lowered down and promptly shut him away into pitch-black darkness.

Chapter Text

Zim's brain had completely stalled out. He sat perfectly still in his seat, unable to make sense of what he'd just heard. When at last the inner mechanisms began to turn again, he was bombarded with the intensity of the question that overruled all else: War? What war?

Suddenly, the restaurant felt like a different dimension. He glanced around frantically, taking in everything as if it were a dream. Every Irken there knew something he didn't. They were living in a world he wasn't. His eyes finally settled on a television monitor mounted on the wall above the bar, muted on a news channel.

Zim was on his feet in an instant, lurching towards it. About halfway there, however, he stumbled forward and felt the ground rush up to meet him in a spectacular faceplant.

Conversations came to abrupt halts as several customers turned in their seats and stared down at him.

He groaned and forced himself back up, using the edge of the counter for leverage. A nasty glare was shot at the food service drone behind the counter, who was also gaping at him in bemusement.

"Where is the remote?!" Zim spat.

"Customers aren't authorized to—"

"—GIVE ZIM THE REMOTE!"

He eyed it behind the counter and lunged for it, his legs kicking out as he wriggled over the bartop separating them. His claws grasped it and aimed it towards the TV, volume button mashed down until the broadcaster's voice drowned out nearly every other conversation in the restaurant.

"—here at the Royal Palace on Altua, Irk. Press have gathered and are awaiting the Almighty Tallest's words on the latest Irken attack in the city of Radna, on planet Meekrob."

The anchor, clad in the standard monocular visor, returned to the screen following a clip of an empty podium set up in front of the Tallest's Palace.

"The Irken military has been building its forces following a galaxywide draft. Members of the elite—"

Zim's antennae dipped downward. He was still lying across the counter on his belly, slack-jawed and completely unaware of the attention he'd garnered from the others in the restaurant.

After a few moments, he slid off of it and nearly fell backwards as his shaky legs gave way. A single PAK limb slid out of its port and steadied him.

"Do you know what this means?" he breathed. He turned to a customer sitting nearby. "DO YOU?"

The customer jumped with a start, then shrugged his shoulders.

Zim stared back ahead, not really looking at anything. His mind was reeling. Eventually, his trance was broken by a loud smacking sound from right beside him. When he looked down, he could see GIR standing there, licking the remnants of his sundae from his fingers.

"Come on, GIR. We need to leave."

Abandoning the rest of his sandwich—along with the appalling mess of melted ice cream GIR had managed to splatter in the booth—Zim made his way to the exit.

A surge of blinding agitation coursed through him, and despite his legs still being far too weak for the determined strides he was taking, he managed to march a considerable distance before he was finally forced to stop. GIR quietly stood next to him as he crumbled to his knees in the dirt and tried to catch his breath.

"War?" he wheezed. "How could this be? My… my mission! What about my mission? The Tallest… haven't … heard from me… in…" Zim paused, his chest swelling outwards. "I don't even know how long!"

Quaveringly, he stood back up and continued down the row of parked ships. GIR obliviously traipsed along beside him.

By the time his legs nearly gave out again, he growled under his breath and activated the mechanical limbs from his PAK. Scooping GIR up off the ground, he made his way to the Spittle.

Zim dropped back into his chair and wiped at the beads of sweat that had gathered on his forehead.

"Okay," he said under his breath. "Not to worry. I just have to contact the Tallest, and they'll tell me what to do. It's been so long; they must be worried sick."

He took a few moments to lean back, taking deep breaths and working to regain his composure. With his eyes closed, he spoke. "Ship. Connect me to the Almighty Tallest."

"Not authorized."

"What?" Zim's eyes popped open again.

"The Almighty Tallest have disabled all incoming calls."

He wilted where he sat, steadily fading back into that state of dazed incredulity. The dark bags beneath his eyes had never looked more prominent.

GIR fidgeted beside him. "Well? Are we gonna go? I miss ma' pig. And the big TV. And the pizza guy."

Zim didn't respond for several seconds. "No," he said finally. "We have to turn around." The words were numb on his tongue.

"Aww, but what about Earth?"

Again, he didn't have an answer at the ready. Surely, the only option was to go straight to Irk. Right? But GIR's words still knocked around in his mind, burrowing their way in like a stubborn splinter.

What about Earth? What about the base?

He had no memory of leaving it. He didn't even know whether the security system had been activated. For all he knew, it was standing completely defenseless, Irken intelligence laid out like an extravagant buffet and just waiting for the Earthen authorities to find and exploit it. Perhaps Dib already had…

Zim suddenly felt torn between two stresses of equal caliber. His blood pressure soared.

"Okay, calm down," he muttered to himself shakily. He remembered the many security cameras he had set up throughout the base. Leaning forward in his seat, he summoned his communicator from his PAK and immediately tried to connect to his computer back on Earth.

He waited for what felt like eons. Only static buzzed across the screen. Then:

CONNECTION FAILED.

His heart sank. It could only mean one thing—his security system was down. His base was exposed to whoever cared to venture inside.

The monitor disappeared back into his PAK. Zim raised his knees to his chest and curled into himself. He tried to think.

"I'll return to Earth. Drop GIR off and secure the base." The words were muttered almost inaudibly. He glanced down at Skoodge's stained, oversized uniform. "And change into something more… respectable. Yes. And then I'll be on my way. It won't take any longer than an hour. It will be fine. Everything will be fine."

As soon as he'd semi convinced himself of this, he took a deep breath and straightened up.

Within moments, the ship was off again.

Had it been hours? Days? He supposed it didn't matter; Dib could feel reality slip away from him all the same.

He was still aboard the ship, forced to bide his time in his tiny chamber. The deafening noise of the ship's turbines filled his ears, and he couldn't see more than five feet in front of him.

In the inky blackness, he was left with nothing but the torture brought on by his own imagination. His mood wavered on a dime, spiking into panic before plunging back into crippling despondency at any given moment. He found himself plagued by the latter more and more as time dragged on. It was a tired, crippling sort of resignation, as if he wanted to care but was simply too weary to dredge up the energy. He knew why, too.

The ramifications of his own body's neglect had managed to numb it down.

Not once had he been given any food or drink. The headache that had initially surfaced back on Elixus had grown until it overpowered every one of his other senses. His mouth felt like cotton. Each and every muscle felt weak. His stomach continually churned away at nothingness, leaving him overcome with nausea.

It all led to a couple instances in which he had awoken in a disoriented stupor, unable to recall any moment when he'd decided to lie down and shut his eyes in the first place.

At long last, the ship touched down and the enormous hatch lifted up, spilling light over Dib's pale face. He could only muster the energy to peek out through tiny slits of eyes at the Irken guards who entered. His vision smeared them into doubles, and he immediately shied away from the brightness.

Booming voices ordered him to get up, but he was just vaguely aware of them. Something rough poked and prodded at his back.

Disjointed thoughts flittered through his brain, falling just short of making sense of the situation until, at last, his eyes closed, and he felt the voices slip away into obscurity.

-x-

When Dib awoke next, a similar illumination assaulted his eyes. This time, however, it was coming from a white artificial light shining directly over him.

He groaned, lifting his head just high enough to see that he was sprawled over a sterile table. A tube trailed down the side of it, and when he lifted his arm, he dimly noted that it ended at his wrist where an IV had been inserted. His eyes shut again.

-x-

He felt slightly more alert by the time he roused again. He had a distinct feeling that something had woken him up, but he couldn't determine what exactly. Letting out a groan, he sat up and looked around.

The first thing he realized was that he wasn't wearing his glasses.

He didn't have a terribly strong prescription, but his eyesight was bad enough for him to be inconvenienced without their aid. He'd relied on his glasses to read and see distances since he was a small child. Everything around him was blurred and warbly.

Despite this, however, he was able to determine that he'd essentially been upgraded to a bigger and fustier version of his old cell. He was on a mattress not terribly unlike his other one on Elixus.

When his eyes drifted to the entrance of his cell, he realized what had awoken him. The fuzzy shape of a guard was standing directly outside, holding a long staff in one hand and what looked like a food tray in the other.

"What's going on?" Dib asked, his voice gruff from underuse. "What did you do to me?"

The guard leaned on his staff slightly. "The Royal Irken Court has demanded you be kept alive for further interrogation. Upon arrival, you were taken to the hospital for examination, and it was determined that your species is unable to go extended periods of time without hydration and nourishment."

"I could have told you that," he muttered irately.

His tune quickly changed, however, when he looked down. His old clothing had been replaced by an orange jumper.

The guard began to speak while Dib stared wide-eyed down at himself. "Blood tests were taken, and your body chemistry was examined to determine what nutrition wouldn't cause adverse effects." As if this explained it all, he deposited the tray on the ground and pushed it through a slot between them.

Dib's thoroughly disturbed expression only deepened when he took in the pallid mound of what he presumed was supposed to be food. A cup of some unknown liquid sat beside it.

"You… experimented on me?" he squeaked.

"Don't flatter yourself," the guard said. "The hospital drones merely hooked you to an IV and compared your biology to similar species who had passed through."

When he wrenched the sleeve up, he could see what looked to be a sterile dressing. Instantly, he flexed his arms, then his legs. Nothing else felt out of place.

He could feel his heart rate return to normal when he realized the guard was telling the truth. They had, for the most part, left him alone. They hadn't even tampered with the walking boot Skoodge had fitted him with. His glasses, however, had apparently been deemed unnecessary.

When he looked back up, he saw the guard had departed, leaving only the tray of food as evidence he'd been there in the first place.

Dib leaned back against his bed, staring outside his cell. No longer was a fully functioning police station buzzing outside, but a dark hallway with a couple stoic guards stationed.

His eyes dropped to the floor, lingering for a moment too long on the tray. Research be damned, he didn't trust it. He knew firsthand what Irken food did to humans.

One can of Tak's old rations had made him horrendously sick. He still remembered Gaz banging on the bathroom door as he hunkered down inside, curled up against the cold porcelain of the toilet. Trying to ride out the feeling of molten lava in his guts while simultaneously being overtaken with violent fits of retching was not an experience he cared to repeat.

Over the next hour, though, his eyes involuntarily wandered towards it, resolve diminishing with every glance.

His stomach whined hungrily, prompting him to press a hand to his midsection. He could feel his ribs through his clothing—a reminder of the weight he'd lost since embarking for Elixus. It didn't help that he'd already been on the leaner side to begin with.

With noticeable trepidation, he inched towards the bowl and lifted the utensils sitting next to it. Whatever the food was, it looked vaguely like porridge and had the same consistency. He spooned the tiniest sample imaginable from the edge and raised it to his lips. He touched it with his tongue. Nothing. It wasn't causing his skin to burn off or anything. Even so, he tensed up noticeably as he popped the whole spoon into his mouth.

The mush was overtly bland, with just the tiniest hint of saccharine in its aftertaste. Regardless, Dib felt instinct take over. He scooped an enormous spoonful and swallowed without tasting it. Then another.

He eyed the cup and peered inside at its contents. It looked like milk, but with a slightly purple tinge. He gulped it down without experimenting first, feeling a flood of relief as his dry throat was dampened at last. This, too, was relatively flavorless aside from a barely detectable sweetness.

There was some scuffling outside his cell, and he looked up from his meal just in time to see a spindly, goat-like creature and an Irken guard pass by. The cell directly beside Dib's opened, and he heard the prisoner grunt as he was shoved inside.

"Get in there, Vortian." The name was spat as if it were a derogatory term. "And next time you think about giving out incriminating information, remember the consequences."

He didn't hear a reply, but the prison guard ambled away, leaving the way he'd come.

Once Dib had eaten everything from the tray and drained the cup of its contents, he crept back to the bed pushed against the furthermost wall of his cell. The springs creaked slightly as he sat down on it.

As the moments passed by, he could feel his lightheadedness fade and logic creep back in its place.

What the hell did I just eat?

It filled him with an increasingly strong sense of regret as the weight of what he'd done sank in. He waited around for what he knew would be inevitable sickness. Waited some more. After at least an hour of no stomach cramping, dry heaving, or mind control, his muscles loosened slightly. He laid down with his back pressed against the wall.

For a while, all was silent, Then, he heard the Vortian release a heavy sigh. After a bit of shuffling, he could discern that the prisoner had plopped down on a bed directly on the other side of the wall. Only the thick concrete separated them from being back to back.

Dib rearranged himself so that he was now lying across the mattress and stared up at the ceiling.

He was unsure of what he should even be thinking about.

An obvious candidate would be for his mind to wander back to fear of the unknown. God knew he'd exhausted plenty of emotional energy doing that already. But he didn't want to continue wasting his energy on something he couldn't control.

He wanted to be furious. Beyond pissed. In a situation completely void of autonomy, at least he could have some power over his own emotions. It gave him the vaguest semblance of control.

Naturally, Zim was the first person his thoughts drifted to.

After everything Dib had done, having put himself in jeopardy multiple times, it had apparently been worth no merit in Zim's eyes. The one time he needed him, the damned Irken hadn't budged an inch. He had betrayed him without batting an eye.

And yet… how could Dib have expected anything less? He'd set himself up for failure. Risking his life to travel to a planet that would gladly shoot him on the spot for the mildest of missteps? Roping Skoodge into his personal crusade? All so he could clutch at his old life and retain the sense of purpose Zim's pathetic existence had offered him…

The first mistake he'd made was thinking the world owed him what he deserved. Years of experience had seen that philosophy backfire, and he still hadn't learned his lesson.

He had spent his time believing his own mercy would be enough to remedy the situation, in every way—that he could rebuild Zim and simply return to the comfortable life of familiarity and distraction he'd led before. Nothing would have to change.

He had wanted to believe he had it all figured out. That he could sit above his mother's long-buried coffin, gleam wistfully into daybreak, and suddenly understand his motives with utmost certainty.

The real world kept people second-guessing themselves. Always unsure and always drifting from optimism to earth-shattering cynicism.

At some point, while Zim's mind had halted to the state of a vegetable, his had soared with unrealistic ideations until it had driven itself into the ground à la death spiral.

He was insane.

Insane to trust Zim with anything. He wanted to be angry at the Irken. But the truth was, his feelings would only ever loop back around to himself.

He had only himself to blame for being so fucking stupid.

"Ahem."

Dib was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of someone clearing their throat near the entrance of his cell, and when he turned his head, he could make out the indistinct shape of a guard standing on the other side.

"Get up," the Irken ordered sternly.

He complied at once, face blank. As soon as he approached the entrance of his cell, he was slapped in handcuffs and led through a series of long, narrow hallways.

At one point, he nearly walked into another officer going the opposite way and was given a sharp jab in the back by the guard's staff.

"This would be a lot easier if I still had my glasses," Dib muttered.

The guard didn't respond.

Just as before, he was brought to a room. Like everything else here, though, it was darker and draftier. The corners looked as if they could easily harbor ghouls and monsters befitting a horror movie. In the center of the room was a rickety chair and desk.

Dib sat down. Moments later, a rather tall, skinny officer was led in.

"After you, Officer Vak," a guard said softly, gesturing forward with one hand as he passed through the door.

The officer had a long, bony face and unusually tiny eyes that were narrowed in slits.

A few moments of silence passed as he approached the table opposite from the boy and gathered his files in front of him.

"Confirm these details," Vak began starkly. "Your home planet is Earth. Your species is human. And you answer to the name 'Dib.'"

Slightly taken aback by the strange, mocking inflection on his name, he nodded. "Yes. That's correct."

The officer lowered his chin and wrote something down on a tablet.

"Why am I here?" Dib asked flatly after several seconds.

Vak lifted his head back up. "You have been brought here by order of the Royal Irken Court as a suspect in war crimes against the Empire."

"What… what did I do?" He twisted his face in confusion.

The Irken peered maliciously down at him through his beady eyes. "We have proof that a case involving Toxin J-636 originated on your planet." He paused, still eyeing Dib. "We demand to know how your race gained access to the toxin."

Dib's perplexed expression had only deepened, though. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Earth doesn't have access to the toxin. Why would it?"

"Don't play dumb, alien. Everything will be much easier if you cooperate."

"I'm not playing dumb! How the hell would Earth get ahold of something like that? Most of Earth's people are too stupid to know aliens exist!"

"Then how are you here?" Vak pressed. "And how did we obtain a medical document from Earth citing it?"

"Because of Zim!" Dib burst out. "Zim is an Irken who was banished to Earth years ago by your people! He brought the toxin there with him!"

"Nice try. No Irken is recorded as having been exiled to a planet called 'Earth.' It would have had to have been approved by the Control Brains."

Dib paused for a moment, turning this information over. "And… it wasn't?"

He scoffed. "You heard what I said."

"Well, that doesn't matter. Zim was still there. He'd been there for years. And he was exposed to the toxin because of a conspiracy organized by your leaders! The Tallest!"

His words were met with a look of disbelief, tinged with a hint of repulsion. Vak didn't say anything. Then, finally, in a voice dripping with malice, "That is a very strong accusation." He paused for a moment longer. "Do you have proof of this?"

No. No he did not. Not anymore, at least. And the story was far-fetched enough even with proof. Dib's silence told the officer all he needed to know.

"Of course, you don't," Vak finished for him. His lips raised in an ugly sneer.

The interrogation went on in the same manner for what felt like an eternity before, finally, a guard reentered the room and stated that the questioning had gone on for too long.

Begrudgingly, Dib was escorted back down the hallways by the guard with the scornful, squinty-eyed officer trailing along behind him.

"Don't think this is over, Earth creature," he growled into his ear.

From the cell they were passing, the Vortian that shared a wall with Dib snapped his head up and stared at him as he passed by.

For the briefest moment, the two made eye contact before Dib was led past him and pushed into his cell.

A proximity warning broke the silence, alerting Zim and GIR that Earth was upon them. With no other noise than a slight stir as they straightened in their seats, the two prepared to land.

There was something haunting about extended space travel. Like the feeling of gaining one's sea legs on a boat, there came a point when the stars and planets seemed to tuck themselves away in the recesses of Zim's mind, and he became desensitized to it all. After days on end, there was little to no sense of wonderment at the stars outside. Oftentimes, he even looked past them, not seeing anything but the blackness that overruled all else, with only the promise of a destination on his radar screen to assure him he wasn't wandering aimlessly.

Several times on this trip, though, he had felt that blackness overtake him with an unexpectedness he had never felt before. It was the pure nothingness of space, he supposed. It got to him, enveloping him with an intensity that was anxiety inducing, and there was no escaping its hold. He tried to ignore it and let the burning feeling of dread in his chest smolder away as he stared blankly out the window.

As soon as the ship neared Earth, though, the feeling slowly retreated back to wherever it had emerged from. The force of the Spittle being pulled towards the planet pushed the two occupants back in their seats and offered them a full view. Zim could just faintly see flames licking the outside of the ship, complemented by a thunderous roar of the engine as they closed in.

And then… quiet.

The abrupt shift in the ambiance was somewhat alarming, despite Zim having experienced it hundreds of times before. The Spittle had been cloaked and was soaring lightly over the city through the cool, crisp air. Faint wisps of clouds streaked past them as they went.

He hardly stirred, even as GIR bumpily steered them downwards. The earth below broadened, revealing a stark lack of primitive automobiles and humans on the streets below.

As soon as the city skyscrapers were out of view, the spacious view of American suburbia opened itself towards them. Hurt Park had grown greener and more vibrant in the late days of spring, practically glowing as the first rays of sun touched down on it. The cemetery loomed up ahead, dotted with its usual tombstones and grave markers. The Spittle drifted over it, and Zim looked down idly at a stone near the top of the hill with wilted flowers pressed against it.

They'd arrived right at the break of dawn. When he glanced up, he could see the sun peek over the hills. The sky was alive with a spectacular sunrise that stretched over everything the eye could see. It was a watercolor myriad of brilliant pinks, oranges, and pale blues. Zim found himself staring at it in spite of himself, lost in the sudden calm. Sunshine stretched over the houses and across the entire town, bathing both of them in fresh morning light.

It was… nice. Familiar. Zim had to admit that.

He finally caught sight of the satellite dish poking out from above the trees, quickly followed by the rest of his base as it steadily came into view. They had approached it from behind. Seeing as the Voot was parked in the hangar, they soared over the roof and touched down in the front lawn.

Zim quickly scanned the cul-de-sac and the rest of the street before deeming the coast clear and lifting up the windshield. His eyes still pinned on the neighboring houses, he slid out of the ship and stepped onto the sidewalk. As soon as he looked up at his own house, however, he jumped.

The entrance had been utterly decimated. Black stains stretched from the edges of the doorway and spanned across the exterior of the house. Just within, the door itself lay crookedly across the floor.

Ignoring his master's look of shock, GIR skittered around him and flopped onto the couch. Dazedly, Zim stepped through the empty gap and stood in the middle of the living room.

"Computer?" he asked in a voice that was little more than a croak.

Just as he'd expected, there was no response. To his surprise, however, GIR, was able to turn on the TV with the remote he'd fished out from between the couch cushions. The electricity still worked.

"GIR?"

He didn't respond, except to turn the volume up a few notches.

"GIR!"

Still nothing.

Zim crossed the room stiffly, stopping between him and the television. Snatching the remote, he turned the TV off.

"Someone has been here, GIR," he hissed between his clenched teeth. The severity of the situation was still catching up with him. He shot one finger towards the open doorway. "Guard the base until I can repair the doorway and bring the security system back online. I have to assess the damage in the lower levels of the base. Got it?"

He didn't wait to hear the robot's answer, instead stalking into the kitchen and shrewdly eyeing it. It, like the living room, was a mess. Nothing looked to have been pilfered, though.

He didn't know how much of his racing heart could be attributed to fear and how much could be attributed to unadulterated rage. This was Dib's fault! This had been his plan, no doubt! And now Zim was left with no idea as to whether he'd be met with an untouched lower level or if he'd discover vital technology had been taken. The mere thought of the latter caused his heart to lurch, then continue beating even faster than before.

He needed to know now.

Without wasting another second, he stomped on the pedal of the trashcan with his foot, and with a bit of effort, climbed into it.

He decided to start at the very last floor of his base. As soon as the elevator opened, he stepped out and examined the area. This was where his sleeping chambers were, along with most of his personal belongings. From what he could see, nothing was out of the ordinary. It was all perfectly pristine, as if he'd never left.

Good. He tried to take comfort in that.

Instead of returning to the elevator, though, he wandered to his private chambers. He couldn't stand being in Skoodge's nasty old uniform any longer. He pulled out a drawer and examined the folded uniforms inside. Before long, he had wriggled the enormous tunic over his head and was pulling on his own.

As he tugged the last glove up to his elbow, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror standing nearby. Dull, tired eyes stared back at him.

He hadn't realized just how badly he was slumping forward, as if he'd been carrying the weight of the world on his back. He corrected his posture at once, standing as tall as he could with his chest puffed out. It didn't do very much to detract from his evident exhaustion. He dropped his shoulders with a huff and frowned at his reflection.

At least he would have more time to regain his strength on the trip back to Irk. It was shameful to be seen when he was still so… pathetically feeble.

His thoughts wandered to Irk again, and he reopened the drawer. It would only be proper for him to wear his elite uniform once he arrived.

He tucked it away in his PAK and made his way to the elevator, onwards to the next floor. His eyes bulged when the doors peeled back and revealed what was within.

The laboratory had been devastated. Boxes had been toppled over, monitors destroyed, glass vials smashed on the ground. Pieces of lab equipment were everywhere, strewn about as if they'd been thrown around in a violent rage.

Zim seethed as he took it in through the dim light, and his stride picked up angrily. The computer caught his eye, and he immediately made a beeline towards it.

He just knew Dib had been behind it. The human's whole ploy was still a mystery, and he had to get to the bottom of it. Even if it meant seeing the full extent of the atrocities the human had committed in his base while he'd been inches from death.

Zim fell into his chair with a grunt and flashed his eyes upwards at the gargantuan screen. He pressed a few buttons, and the monitor awoke, casting blue light over him.

Of course, the vocal interface had been deactivated along with the scanners that picked up on the biosignatures of trespassers. Oddly enough, however, the cameras set up throughout the base hadn't been tampered with. They were still recording away, despite being useless without the rest of the security system activated.

This only solidified Zim's suspicions. Only Dib would be capable of disabling his security setup in the laziest and most ignorant way possible.

Without a second thought, he entered the program and searched up every prior recording over the last month. His fingers flew across the keyboard, clicking through each frame and impatiently scanning empty rooms before exiting out and moving on to the next video down the line.

After about ten minutes, a stirring in the corner of one of the screens caught his attention. Zim's eyes widened, and he expanded the window so that it took up the entire screen.

"AHA!" he exclaimed. The sound echoed faintly in the gaping laboratory.

The Dib monkey was stooped in the corner of the room, reading something on one of the monitors.

The Irken's glower increased at the sight. He examined the room the human was in, quickly recognizing it as his med bay.

Dib walked off screen, and Zim quickly clicked to an adjoining camera in the same room. The computer screen briefly faded to black, then flicked to the other shot.

He was immediately struck by an image of… himself. Curled up in a ball underneath a mountain of blankets, with only his face visible. He was disturbingly sickly and white, which was made all the more apparent by the strange lighting being picked up by the camera. It was nearly impossible to tell his skin had once been green.

Zim watched himself on the recording, feeling his spooch turn.

Dib was standing nearby with his back turned to the bed. The Zim onscreen opened his eyes, but they were glassy and expressionless. He began to cough throatily, catching the attention of the human after a few seconds.

"Hey, it's okay," Dib could be heard murmuring softly. He stood over him, waiting for the fit to end. Zim's entire body shuddered with each hack. As soon as he quieted down again, Dib pulled a Kleenex out of his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on Zim's forehead.

Then, Dib did something even stranger. He began to sniffle, just faintly at first. The audio hardly picked it up. But when he took his glasses off and wiped at his eyes with the other end of the Kleenex, it was clear what he was doing.

Zim stood before the monitor in stunned silence, the scene reflecting in his wide eyes as he watched the human weep.

It was as if time had stopped.

At once, an explosion rang out, and Zim's legs flew out from beneath him. He went briefly airborne, crying out in alarm as he did so. He hit the ground and somersaulted a few times before skidding to a stop and laying perfectly still. With a low groan, he shifted his legs.

"You…"

A spike of terror ran through him at the voice, seemingly disembodied as it echoed throughout the lab. Zim lifted his heavy head to try to find its origin. He was immediately hit with a wave of dizziness, and the lab spun nauseously around him.

"This is your fault!"

It came again, and his eyes zeroed in on a dim shape hidden in the shadows. It moved forward, sharpening until two incredibly straggly antennae became visible. It stepped into the light of the computer screen, and Zim flinched.

It was another Irken. His clothes were torn and filthy, ragged tatters hanging off him in some areas. A pair of wild eyes glowered out from the center of gaunt sockets, and in one shaking ungloved hand was a plasma blaster, smoking slightly from the barrel.

Despite his horrid appearance, he looked oddly familiar.

Zim blinked. "Wait a minute… I know you…" He eyed the Irken up and down. "Larb?"

A response came in the form of pointing the gun straight towards Zim's chest.

Zim yelped and rolled to the side just as another eruption of blue plasma penetrated the area he had been just a split second before.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. He pulled one leg forward, trying to raise himself up on his knees. He staggered upright on trembling legs.

"You ruined my life! Everything I worked for. Destroyed!Because of you!" Larb sounded as if his throat had been scrubbed raw with steel wool.

"What are you talking about?"

"All you had to do was die! You filthy, worthless defective!"

Zim's eyes flashed from the gun in Larb's hand to his face. At once, new memories flooded through his brain like a burst dam. The very same gun being pointed at him through his ship on Conventia in the dead of night… and then again on the desert planet just days afterwards.

"It was you," Zim said in disbelief. Then, more accusatory, "You almost killed me!"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Larb lunged towards him.

Zim gasped. His PAK legs sprang out, hoisting him up in the air and out of the line of attack.

Larb released a guttural noise and engaged his own PAK legs. The two Irkens stood poised before one another, several feet in the air, like spiders locked in a battle for territory.

Zim lifted one mechanical limb and held it bent in front of himself as a buffer, keeping the razor-sharp end of it pointed towards Larb.

The latter, in turn, kept all four of his own PAK legs firmly grounded. Finger hooked on the trigger, he lifted his gun before him.

Quick as a flash, Zim's PAK leg flicked out.

Larb scuttled to one side before it could impale him, and when he did so, another of Zim's PAK legs rose from the ground and hastily swept to the side, knocking the plasma blaster from his clutches. It clattered to the ground, nearly ten feet below them.

Zim's relief at having disarmed him lasted for only an instant before he looked up and saw Larb charging towards him once again. He crashed into his chest and the two went tumbling to the floor.

Zim landed directly on his back, thoroughly knocking the wind out of himself. His body was too stunned to move, even as he felt Larb's fist connect with his jaw, followed by another hitting him in the eye. He remained paralyzed, gasping for air. Searing pain shot across his cheek from the slash of an ungloved claw.

As soon as he could force his muscles to move, Zim kicked his arms and legs out, desperately trying to get him off.

Larb continued to lash out blindly. One fist gripped around his antenna and yanked it down until stars exploded across Zim's vision.

Finally, a sharp kick hit Larb in his belly, causing him to double in on himself with a grunt.

Zim rolled to his front and moved quickly out of sight on his PAK legs. The pain was quickly catching up with him. He wiped at his face. It felt sticky, and he could taste blood on his lips. His right antenna throbbed at the base.

Larb was quickly after him, having retrieved his gun from the floor and pointing it upwards. Zim narrowly dodged a blast as it sailed past his temple. Even through surging adrenaline, he could feel enervation setting into his muscles.

He ducked out of the way as another nearly clipped one of his antennae. Instead, it made contact with the breaker panel behind him. Sparks flew. Zim dove towards the other end of the lab.

As soon as the explosion of electricity disappeared into the newfound darkness, Zim turned around and stared blindly in front of himself. The power had completely gone out.

Zim summoned an energy shield from his PAK, which surrounded him in a semitransparent blue bubble.

Despite adding an extra cushion of defense to him, it gave away his location instantly, and his eyes bulged as a ball of plasma barreled straight towards him through the shadows. It made contact with the shield. It flickered briefly, but ultimately remained engaged.

Zim withdrew into himself, panting with exhaustion. He needed to get away. He was relying entirely on his PAK for defense, unable to find the strength in his own organic shell.

He couldn't hear Larb at all in the darkness, burdened by his injured antennae. All he could do was stare in the direction the plasma shot had come from.

Disengaging his shield, Zim dashed to the other end of the room, trying to lose him in the darkness. He hid behind a pile of boxes filled with conical flasks and tried to plan out his next move while simultaneously evening out his breathing.

Surely, the elevator would be down, along with the rest of the electricity in the base. Zim's eyes locked on the door of his emergency staircase. If he could only make his way—

Another blast pealed through the air, and the boxes went flying. The sound of the shot was followed by that of shattering glass.

Zim took off towards the stairwell with Larb in close pursuit. He flung the door open, then threw it closed behind him with all the power he could manage. Despite his full body weight resting firmly against it, Larb crashed through the doorway almost instantly.

Zim screamed and scrambled up the stairs, mechanical legs creeping out of his PAK and giving him an extra boost in speed.

He burst out onto the main level, right where GIR was still sitting.

"GIR! Defensive mo—"

An explosion of pain erupted through his left shoulder. Any response GIR might have given had been drowned out by Zim's anguished cry as he pitched forward and fell onto the linoleum. A razor-sharp PAK leg had plunged its way straight through his skin and out the other side, pinning him to the floor.

Zim forced his watery eyes open, only to see a warbly, bleared version of his living room. His entire body trembled. The intense pain was only rivaled by the feeling of his heart thrashing in his chest.

The barrel of the plasma blaster was pressed against the small of his back, followed closely by Larb's hot breath on his neck. "This war wouldn't exist if it weren't for you!" he hissed into his functional antenna, and Zim cringed away from him. "Forget the Tallest's orders! When you die, it's going to be because of what you did to me!"

"GIR… help me." It was little more than a whimper.

He braced himself for whatever came next. Instead of what he expected, though, the thing that wrenched him back to reality was the white-hot pain of the PAK leg being pulled out of his shoulder.

It took several seconds before he could collect himself enough to look up at what was going on.

He could count on one hand the number of times he'd actually witnessed GIR utilizing the artillery that had been standard issue. His ammo went largely unused, as he'd very rarely done as Zim had commanded. Now, however, GIR's blue ports had changed into a fierce red, and he was standing in front of his master, shielding him from Larb.

The deranged invader wasn't even looking at Zim, too preoccupied with skirting around the continuous stream of lasers that were being fired from GIR's eyes.

Zim pulled himself up into a sitting position, his breath catching in his throat at the blinding pain that started at his shoulder and emanated outwards to his arm and left side. He looked down to see a green stain that was quickly soaking through his uniform, spreading with alarming speed.

He needed to get to the Voot right now. GIR's diversion could only last so long.

Only… Larb and GIR were directly in the path to his Voot hangar. Zim's eyes darted around, looking for an opening. Then, he remembered the Spittle. He whipped his head around, seeing the ship directly outside the window, sitting on the lawn.

Without another thought, Zim scrambled to his feet, stumbling and falling several times as he tried to make his way to the door.

He heard Larb's furious bellow but didn't dare turn his head to look back. He finally got it open and staggered outside towards the ship. He dove in, then slammed the button down to close the windshield.

The moment it shut over him, Larb's form appeared, screaming insanely at the closed ship as he hurled his body against it. His face was covered with blood, most of it likely being Zim's. Sticky, emerald green smeared across the windshield as he banged on the outside of it.

Zim shrank away and immediately dropped his eyes to the control panel.

Oh Irk…

He stared down at the buttons in horror.

Larb continued to slam on the window with his fists. The thin layer of plastic was the only thing separating them.

Without thinking, Zim began pressing everything within reach, desperately trying to get the ship to do something. Anything.

Something he'd done must have been right because the ship finally rumbled to life.

Larb paused for the slightest moment. Then, the crazed Irken leaned forward, redistributing his weight as two PAK legs raised above his head and gleamed bright blue with the welding tools at the end of them. They jabbed forward, stabbing into the Spittle. Plastic melted around them, metal twisted.

Zim was beginning to feel his already blurred vision fuzz even more around the edges, even as he witnessed it. He continued to press buttons, yell out commands, and swipe touch screens. Anything he could, all with slowly waning strength as his blood loss caught up with him.

Abruptly, the turbines thundered, and the ship flew straight up. Zim was nearly knocked out of his seat. When he looked over the dash, he could see he was parallel with the roof of his base.

A single glance revealed Larb on the ground below, murderous rage in his eyes still visible even from the long distance downward.

Zim frantically tried to recall what he'd done to get the ship to move. He grabbed at one of three wheels and jerked it to the side. The ship jerked with it, knocking Zim to the floor. He landed on his injured shoulder, shrieking out as pain clouded his head.

Wearily returning to his seat, he repeated the movement more gently.

When he looked back down, he couldn't see Larb at all.

Zim tried to calm down enough to focus on piloting the ship. Even this was a double-edged sword. The more he regained his rational mind and came down from the burst of adrenaline he'd experienced, the more pain he felt wrack his body.

He pinched his eyes closed and dropped his chin, grinding his teeth together. When he opened them, he saw the full extent of his injuries.

The blood from his shoulder wound had spread from the collar of his tunic down to his waist. He gingerly touched the gash on his cheek with his fingers, and when he pulled it away, bright green coated his glove.

The overwhelming smell of blood combined with his copious loss of it was making him feel sick. He was aware that he was out in the open, and yet it was the last thing on his mind.

At last, he could feel his PAK begin to kick in, administering pain relief and working to repair the damage. Zim stirred, knowing he'd only have minutes to get the ship out of the open before he succumbed to PAK-induced inebriation.

After a certain amount of trial and error, he was able to accelerate it and steer it in the direction he wanted it to go. It soared through the air at an upward angle, rapidly gaining speed. It went faster and faster, until he could feel himself being pressed into the back of his seat. Within moments, he was back in space.

The pain had dissipated into a numb feeling that started at his shoulder and spread. It was as if he were wracked with pins and needles throughout his entire body. The sensation was far from pleasant, but it was a better alternative to the agony of a gaping hole in his shoulder. Already, the bleeding had mostly stopped, and his PAK was whirring quietly at it worked to heal the wound.

The Spittle flew through space, and Zim could feel his eyes grow heavier. The feeling of flying felt far more dramatic with a brew of incredibly strong painkillers working their way through his body. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep.

He'd almost reached that point when a juddering collision snapped him away and flung him into his control panel. Something had hit the Spittle from behind.

He turned around, just in time to see another ship. A Zhook Cruiser from the looks of it, and—as soon as his bleary eyes managed to focus in on it—Larb's face behind the wheel.

The Zhook's guns aimed themselves towards the Spittle, and tiny pings reached his working antenna as his ship was assaulted with bullets.

Zim pinched his eyes closed, trying to shake himself of the growing dissociation that came with the PAK's methods of healing. He grasped the wheel, steering the ship around erratically in his attempts to shake Larb.

The Zhook took off after it with ease, its pilot being far more coordinated in the moment. The ammo soon ran dry, and more guns replaced them, shooting lasers at the back of the Spittle.

Zim gasped and pinched his face into a grimace as a laser beam shot past the windshield.

There was nowhere to hide out in the middle of space. Zim's mind was struggling to keep up.

He desperately looked down at the radar screen, searching for ideas. A shapeless mass appeared on the little monitor, and Zim knew straight away what it was. They were coming up on the asteroid belt.

He could lose him through it!

He shot a glance behind him at Larb and sped even faster forward. Almost instantly, the proximity warning flashed across his screen, followed by an alarm. Zim ignored it and continued on.

With only the slightest hint of hesitation, Larb pursued him, quickly gaining on him until the Spittle's turbines filled his line of sight.

Something felt very wrong. Zim's drugged, catawampus mind drifted, and a memory began to tug at the edges. It was a vision of himself and Dib in a remarkably similar situation years earlier … the two of them in chase, yelling insults at one another… him attempting to shake the human by flying straight into the very same asteroid belt…

Zim gasped and yanked the wheel downwards with as much strength as he could muster. The Spittle careened upwards, knocking his head back against the seat. He felt himself go even dizzier with the power behind the maneuver.

The Zhook, however, continued straight on, speeding directly into the asteroids zipping by.

The Spittle regained its original upward position, and Zim felt his overtaxed heart hammer away in his chest. After a few moments, he looked down at the asteroid belt beneath him. Larb's ship had been lost in the midst of it, occasionally resurfacing more and more dented than before.

When he could finally gain the strength, he flew the Spittle forward and didn't dare slow down until the Zhook and the asteroid belt were far out of sight. When, at last, he felt comfortable enough to put the ship on autopilot, he released an incredibly heavy sigh and leaned far back into his chair. He was still intensely woozy. Now that he had the backdrop of space, he could see his own reflection in the dented windshield.

One eye was beginning to swell up, and he indeed had a deep gash across his cheek. His left antenna was working doubly to pick up on frequencies around it, as the right one hung limply at his shoulder like a broken wire, kinked nearly in half.

His eyes fluttered closed.

When his senses were all but gone, aside from the vague scent of blood that permeated his nostrils, the ship's computer came on overhead.

"Coordinates set for Planet Irk. Proceed?"

Zim opened his eyes groggily. He paused for several long seconds, opening his mouth and then closing it.

"No," he said finally, his voice quiet. "Not yet."

Chapter Text

The week drifted on, and Dib's days very quickly molded themselves into a routine—and a rigid, impossibly tedious routine at that. He'd only been on Vort for a total of six days, and he was already wondering how some of the other prisoners had managed to tolerate the monotony for years on end without completely losing their minds.

The day always started the same way, with inmate rollcalls. As soon as the creaking of the monstrous chamber door roused him from his sleep, Dib knew the nighttime prison guards were finished with their shifts and the morning rotation of guards had arrived. It was his cue to get up out of bed and stand near the front of his cell to make his presence known.

Once the rollcall finished, though, Dib almost always retreated back into the shadows to catch five more minutes of sleep before he was brought his first meal of the day.

Then, about an hour later, he and a vast majority of the other prisoners would be escorted to various parts of the prison grounds to start their workday.

On the very first day of this new arrangement, Dib had been summoned from his cell and escorted to a large manufacturing facility that looked not unlike a sweatshop. Rows of other inmates were stationed along the production line, faces stony as they busied themselves with whatever station they'd ended up with that particular shift.

The whole factory was an enigma to him. Large metal plates soared down the conveyor, being pressed into different shapes before disappearing at the end of the line. Not one single piece elucidated what exactly was being constructed.

From what he understood, it typically took months for most prisoners to get to the point where they could leave their cells and participate in inmate labor. The guards made it feel as if it were some sort of special privilege that Dib should feel honored to have obtained.

Sure. Sitting in an overheated building and wearing his arm sore from pulling a lever was a special privilege indeed.

The other prisoners didn't seem to think of the labor as anything to be proud of, either. For the most part, they kept to themselves, doing whatever work was put in front of them with their heads ducked down.

All of this was done under the close supervision of Irken guards. It was the only time the inmates communed, and yet they scarcely acknowledged one another for fear of being abused by one of the guards standing over them.

Then, several hours later, at the end of his shift, Dib would be led back to his cell, where he could expect another tray of flavorless mush and weird purple milk to be waiting for him for supper.

Afterwards was another round of rollcall.

Then, he could bide whatever time he had left by either staring at the walls or attempting to sleep on his lumpy mattress until he heard the telltale creaking of the door that announced another day.

Rinse and repeat.

As of now, Dib was at the factory, standing in his usual spot and pulling the lever that branded each newly minted metal plate. The finished product was a crisp emblazonment of several Irken characters and the familiar one-eyed insignia. Dib guessed it was some sort of warning label, but he genuinely wasn't sure. He wasn't about to ask one of the Irken guards pacing the rows, either. He simply cranked the lever over and over and watched as it printed the strange lettering onto the metal.

Most stations involved some variation of lowering levers, sorting metal screws, or scanning random parts for perceived flaws. Seeing as Dib didn't even know what the factory was building, however, he wasn't particularly adept at the latter station. It also didn't help that his poor eyesight didn't allow for picking out little details. As a result, he typically ended up rushing to whichever station was the hardest to screw up.

Standing directly across from him, with only the conveyer belt as a buffer, was a Vortian prisoner. Not just any Vortian prisoner, though. It was the prisoner who resided on the other side of Dib's cell. Dib could tell just by his coloring.

Unsurprisingly, Vortians were incredibly prolific on the prison grounds. For every one prisoner of a separate alien species, there were about a hundred of the strange, goat-like creatures milling about and being escorted to and from buildings. They varied in appearance, some different shades of grey or blue, and others a muted pink. The Vortian beside Dib's cell, however, was bright purple, with tiny, pebble-like pink eyes that were centralized in the middle of his face. He was uniquely colored, and impossible to mistake.

Several times during their work shift, Dib got the distinct sensation that those tiny pink eyes were looking his way.

He genuinely couldn't tell if the Vortian was looking his way or simply looking down at the jumble of parts on the table in front of him. Because his lack of glasses made everything just bleary enough to be annoying, he found himself second-guessing almost everything. He definitely wouldn't be able to see the slight shift of solid-colored Vortian eyes that were the size of peas.

Even so, he still couldn't shake the feeling.

As Dib looked up and absentmindedly found himself staring in the Vortian's direction, a loud buzzer blared from overhead, signaling the end of their workday.

He dropped his eyes back down, removed his goggles and apron, and slowly fell in line with the rest of the prisoners as they walked back across the complex.

-x-

There was only one other reason for Dib to leave his cell: further interrogation.

It almost always happened in the dead of the night, when the entire rest of the building was quiet. Since he'd arrived, Dib had several of these unpleasant wakeup calls, in which two guards would retrieve him from his cell and lead him, groggy and irritable, down the familiar halls and to the familiar little room. There, Officer Vak would be waiting.

He had grown to truly loathe Vak and his angry, beady-eyed glare. Dib refused to tell him anything other than the story he'd stuck to from the very beginning, and yet the Irken was staunchly unwilling to accept it.

Every question spewed forth was an attempt to get Dib to confess to Vak's own presumed narrative. The Irken steadfastly pushed his claims that one, Earth had access to the toxin, and two, Dib was a spy working against the Irken military.

How he had come to these conclusions, Dib didn't know. Vak's take on the whole affair seemed incredibly far-fetched and riddled with holes. Unfortunately, the implausibility still came second to the testimony Dib was pushing: an account with zero evidence to back it, which also happened to speak something akin to sacrilege by slandering the Irkens' beloved Tallest.

Vak had one thing on his side to support his story: the medical document that had come straight from Earth—the very document Dib had hastily allowed Zim's computer to send along to the Irken authorities upon fleeing the planet.

Of all the regrets he'd imagined revisiting in the dead of night, being forced to dig up this singular, seemingly insignificant event from his memory bank was completely unexpected. The visual of Dib running out of the base with Zim in tow, all while yelling over his shoulder at the computer, stuck in his mind and replayed over and over.

Ultimately, Dib was in the dark on almost everything around him. Some events that had taken place over the last month were so stupefying, he couldn't even begin to try to understand them. However, he knew without a shadow of doubt that if he dared slip up and say the wrong thing, he would be putting Earth in mortal danger.

This led to Dib fending off the endless slew of questions by either denying their validity or keeping silent.

All the while, Vak poked and prodded at his psyche, trying to get him to slip up and admit to something. Either that, or he would just blast his questions into Dib's face point-blank.

"Tell me now. What is Earth's connection to Meekrob?"

"What do you know about the toxin? What is Earth hiding?"

"Oh, so you didn't try to steal a blank PAK for military research?"

After these methods failed, new tactics came into play. Vak tried threatening him until he obeyed. He tried bribing Dib with Irken currency and empty promises of freedom if he cooperated. Each time, something new was pulled from his bag of tricks, and the methods got more and more severe as time went on.

One night, as Dib was eating his evening serving of porridgelike mush, he paused midchew, and then tentatively swished the food around in his mouth. He swallowed, then smacked his lips slightly. Something felt off about it. It was almost too subtle to put his finger on… like there was something mildly bitter in the typically sweet aftertaste. It could have just been his imagination, though.

He took another bite, hyperaware of the taste as he chewed and swallowed it. He eventually chalked it up to his taste buds getting tired of eating the same thing for every meal. Before long, he finished it and went to bed.

An undetermined amount of time later, Dib awoke in a cold sweat following a flurry of bizarre, psychedelic nightmares that seemed to clash into one another over and over again. His head spun as he lurched upwards into a sitting position and felt dizziness overcome him.

For several minutes, he gazed wide-eyed into the darkness as dissociation swallowed him up and spat him back out into a vague surface-level understanding of reality.

Sometime in the midst of it, the prison guards must have arrived for another interrogation, because the next thing he knew, Dib was stumbling through the halls, on his way to the interrogation room.

The entire time, he felt giddy and paranoid, staring off at nothing and hearing Vak's ugly, hoarse voice as if it were calling to him from miles away. He must not have given any of the answers Vak had desired, because the only thing he really remembered about the so-called interrogation was Vak's bitter expression as he ordered the guards to send Dib back to his cell.

Afterwards, Dib's only instinct was to collapse back onto his mattress and sleep.

When he woke up again, his head ached horrendously, and he felt sick to his stomach. At least the paranoia and crippling disassociation had gone away. Jerking himself upright, he clutched his head in his hands. A groan escaped him, and he spent a few moments perfectly still, trying to ride out the feeling of sharp panging in his head.

"Hey."

For a minute, Dib thought he'd imagined the voice. He froze, his breath catching in his throat.

"Hey." It came again, in a hushed whisper. "Human. Are you okay?"

It took him yet another moment before he realized who had spoken: the Vortian, directly on the other side of the wall. "Uh, yeah. I'm fine."

An awkward silence passed between them.

He was about to turn back over and try to sleep off the terrible malaise, but then the Vortian piped up again. "Be careful with whatever you tell them. Irkens are vindictive by nature and will use anything you say against you."

Dib furrowed his brow. "Yeah… okay." He didn't know how else to respond. He opened his mouth and pursed his lips. Then, "Why are you telling me this?"

He heard shifting on the other side of the wall, then the Vortian spoke. "I've been here for years, and I've never seen Vak so determined to get information out of a prisoner before. Especially a prisoner as young as you. Whatever he wants from you, it can't be anything good."

Through the fatigue, he found himself only able to latch onto one part of what the Vortian had told him. "You've been here for years?"

"Ever since Irk went against the Irken-Vortian treaty and conquered my planet almost a decade ago."

Dib made a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, turning the information over. "That's right. Irk and Vort were allies…"

"Uh huh."

"So… you knew Irkens before this?" Dib's voice was hardly more than a whisper, impossible for the guards to detect unless they were standing right outside the two cells.

There was an affirmative hum on the other side of the wall. "Back before the invasion, I worked as a mechanical engineer for the Irken Empire. I helped design ships and battle mechs."

Dib was genuinely interested in what the Vortian had to say, but despite trying to hang on to his every word, he could feel his breathing slow and his eyelids lower against his will. He was still feeling sick from whatever he'd been drugged with, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep as much as he could before the morning guards roused them awake and sent them off to work.

"My name is Dib," he muttered, closing his eyes.

He heard the faint echo of a reply, but whatever the Vortian had said back, Dib didn't quite catch. He'd already slipped off to sleep.

Elsewhere, in the far reaches of space, Larb's scuffed and pockmarked Zhook drifted along amid the stars. Inside the cabin, an equally scuffed Larb glared out the windshield.

He was slumped forward in the pilot's seat with his arms dangling down by his sides, his tattered uniform sticking to him in a combination of dried blood and sweat.

His entire body felt numb. Despite most of the blood on his tunic belonging to the defective, he knew he had some cuts and bruises of his own. Being picked up just barely by his antennae was the slightest hum of his PAK as it continually worked to heal him.

It was taking a bit longer than it should for his injuries to fade away. His PAK wasn't working as efficiently as it would normally. The PAK and the body went hand in hand, and any slow healing could almost always be attributed to a lack of sleep or other such neglect. Be that as it was, though, Larb was blind to it. To him, the bruises weren't testaments of his body's needs not being met—they were testaments of his failure.

He couldn't care less if his PAK wasn't working at full proficiency. If his PAK and his organic brain had truly been on the same page, it would have ceased its needless toiling over him.

He was a failure. Why would his PAK even think of healing a being as shameful as him? What else was there for him to live for?

Somewhere in his mind, almost lost among the shattered ruins of his ego, was the last fragment of Larb's conviction in his own abilities. He had promised himself he would succeed at killing the defective, and this time, it wouldn't be for the Irken Empire, nor for the Tallest. He would succeed at this god-forsaken "mission" for the sake of his own dignity.

And even so, he had failed …

His glazed, dark-rimmed eyes refocused just slightly as every misfortune over the last couple months flashed through his mind yet again. A bullet grazing his arm on the desert planet and knocking his handgun away from him. Being bested by some low-intelligence alien child on Earth. And the freshest wound of all: watching the defective—weak, sick, and having just been stuck with a PAK leg—staggering away to his ship while leaving only a trail of blood in his wake.

Larb's claws curled into fists as he gazed wildly out at the glittering stars before him. He didn't so much as blink, and the edges of his vision began to quaver slightly. After a few moments, his mouth slowly fell ajar and he swore he could see the stars begin to drift, forming an image of the defective as he made his getaway in the old Spittle Runner. As it flew away, the stars suddenly dissipated and reformed to show the defective's SIR Unit. Then again as the figure of the Earth creature, smiling contemptuously.

Larb's eye twitched.

Finally, the stars broke away again.

Larb blinked slowly, letting his head loll so he was looking down at his lap. Then, he raised it again. The visions continued, and he felt his breathing catch in his throat as they took the shape of the Tallest.

The two Irkens towered over the Zhook, enormous smiles plastered over their faces. They pointed their long fingers down and laughed at him hysterically. Louder and louder, until their voices faded off into ringing in his antennae.

Larb shut his eyes and shook his head violently. Then, he turned away from the windshield and angrily propped his chin in his hands. The vision of the Tallest remained, though, permanently burned into his mind.

He thought about them, lounging in their palace on Irk and stuffing their faces with donuts. For all he knew, they had forgotten all about him. It made no difference to them. They were far too busy to remember Larb. They would go to press conferences, banquets, events, and ceremonies. They would live on in the collective of all Irken history as the brave leaders who stood tall for their Empire in the face of war and uncertainty. They would brush their mistakes under the rug, and their privilege would allow them to conveniently forget about it all.

But it was their fault. They'd brought this upon him. They'd given him the dirty work and forced him to go outside of his coding. They had put his life on the line simply so they could continue to go about their lives in the lap of luxury.

And Larb was left to reap the consequences.

Returning to his home planet would only alert the Tallest that he'd never made do on his "mission." His reputation would be decimated. Utterly destroyed. They would see to it that he would become nobody at all.

That is, if they didn't follow through with their initial promise. Very likely, he would mysteriously "disappear" as soon as his presence on Irk became known by them.

Larb gritted his teeth, eyes flashing upwards.

No.

He wouldn't allow it. Not as long as he was still alive.

With a shaky flick of his claw, he started the engine up again.

From that point forward, there was no longer silence between Dib and the Vortian.

Their schedules aligned well enough that they were almost always in the same room together. Dib had endless questions about the Irken and Vortian races, and the Vortian prisoner seemed surprisingly willing to answer them. In fact, Dib noticed that he often went into great detail, especially when talking about the Irkens. Not that he was complaining… he was utterly fascinated by it all. He had to admit, he quite liked having someone to talk to.

During their shift in the factory a few days later, Dib waited for the guard to pass them by before muttering under his breath. "I don't even know what we're building. It just looks like a bunch of metal parts."

Without looking up from his station, the Vortian replied. "Plasma-armed battle tanks. Vort helped design them during our alliance. They'll probably be flown to Irk's capital to be used in battle." The answer came matter-of-factly, with an almost bored tone behind it.

The Vortian had an odd manner of speaking. His voice was deep, with just the vaguest trace of what had once been a dignified inflection belonging only to someone who had been a prominent figure in their industry. And yet, now he spoke in subdued, hushed tones. It was as if the weight of being a cog in the Irken machine had all but squelched the once-proud engineer he'd been before his imprisonment.

"That's the only real reason you were put to work so early on," the Vortian added after a moment, as something of an afterthought. "Production has increased since Irk declared war on Meekrob. New mechs, tanks, ships, and superweapons are being made every day, and as long as the prisons have warm bodies, they're going to put 'em to work."

Dib lowered the lever over another metal piece, nodding in interest. A guard passed the two of them, and they both went quiet for the next several minutes. Dib glanced up, squinting at the patch on the top right of the Vortian's jumpsuit: 777.

Dib's own prisoner number was 949. They were often called out by their numbers rather than their names during rollcall, mainly because the bulk of alien prisoners had names that were too difficult for the Irkens to bother trying to pronounce. It was easier to address them by a number than by their actual names.

"Irk's capital city? What, is it just a giant military base?" Dib couldn't imagine so many tanks all being flown to one place.

"Irk is more or less one giant military base," 777 said dryly, "but yes, I suppose that would be accurate. Most of the elites train in the capital city, Altua. It's also home to the Tallest's palace and the Supreme Control Brain."

"Control Brain… I keep hearing that." Dib looked up, ensuring the guard was still at the other end of the conveyer belt. "What is a Control Brain, anyway?"

"They're the real leaders of Irk. Essentially giant supercomputers that are constantly being fed Irken knowledge into a collective. All laws and regulations must be passed by them."

"Huh." Dib thought about that for a moment, clenching the lever in one hand and pulling it down just as another metal part made its way beneath it. "Wait. If the Control Brains are the real leaders, then what are the Tallest?"

"Figureheads, mainly."

-x-

Later that night, Dib was awoken for yet another interrogation.

Flanked by two guards, he walked the familiar halls. He could have walked through them blindfolded at this point. Straight down a corridor, then left, then right, where they would end up in the little room.

Dib, half asleep and on autopilot, swung his booted foot out and started to turn left. However, a rough arm tightened on his bicep, and he found himself continuing on straight. His eyes opened a bit wider at this change. They weren't on their way to the usual interrogation room.

The place he was brought to instead was far more ominous. It was large and spacious, with a single chair in the center.

Before Dib could protest, he was pushed into it, strapped down, and held in place. A helmet wrapped around his head and kept him so that he could only stare directly ahead.

As soon as it was in place, Officer Vak stepped nimbly in front of him. A tiny remote was clenched in one hand. "There. I'm through having my time wasted, human. You will answer me, and you will do it now."

"I've only ever told you the truth."

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Dib could feel his hair stand on end before he comprehended the shock rippling its way through him. Then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over. He looked up at the officer wide-eyed.

Vak simply sneered back at him. "'The truth,'" he said mockingly. "Your 'truth' is the most idiotic drivel I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot."

The officer pushed his face directly into Dib's. "Earth has gained access to the toxin, and there's only one way it could have done that. Clearly, Earth has formed an alliance with Meekrob and has plotted against the Irken Empire."

Dib shrank away. "You're insane. Earth doesn't have access to the toxin, and I know nothing about the Meekrob!"

Vak's thumb pushed down on a remote button, and Dib was hit with another shock.

"Lies! You're a spy for the Meekrobian forces!"

"I am NOT!" The same thing was repeated. This time, though, the electric current was stronger. More disorienting. "Uhhgg…"

"Admit it!"

"No."

Yet another one coursed through him, and he felt his breathing catch in his throat as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He gasped for air.

"The next level up will kill you," Vak said casually.

Dib inhaled several times, his scythe lock hanging limply over his face. He glared up at him with dark-rimmed eyes. "Bullshit. You don't have the guts. You need to keep me alive for your precious Empire."

It was the boldest thing he'd said to the officer so far.

Vak merely smiled down at him, eyes glinting sadistically. "Of course I'm not going to kill you, you little worm. Why would I give you that escape?"

Dib's defiant look melted a bit at the edges. He didn't say anything.

Vak stood back, still staring at him. "Admit to being a spy for the Meekrob, and I won't keep this on until you lose consciousness."

Dib looked at the remote, then at Vak. He hesitated a bit. "N-no."

He shrank into himself as he saw Vak's clawed thumb lazily reach for the button.

The current shot through him. His muscles contracted instantly, and his instincts forced him to throw himself against the restraints and away from the source of the pain. He pulled away from the chair as much as he physically could, panicking at the realization that he couldn't move more than an inch away.

Suddenly, he found he could not move at all, locked into paralysis. Spots clouded his vision, and he felt seconds away from fainting.

"Stop," he mouthed.

Nothing changed, and the darkness continued to overtake him. "You know how to make it stop…" came Vak's voice from afar.

Dib's jaw clenched up, to the point where uttering a single word was nearly impossible. One made its way out, though. "… Y-yes."

Miraculously, the shocking ceased, and he slumped forward in his chair, his restraints being the only things keeping him from sinking to the ground in a heap. His head spun as he stared blankly down. A trail of drool dripped from his mouth to the floor.

Fear melted into relief instantly, and he gasped for breath.

His chin was gripped tightly and yanked upwards, forcing him to look into Vak's tiny pink eyes.

"What did you say?" he demanded.

As if his mind and his body were two separate entities, Dib found himself nodding weakly. "Yes…"

"'Yes' what?" Vak growled.

"Yes… Meekrob… spying," he whispered almost inaudibly. His mind wasn't catching up with him. Every part of him acted on one instinct—to do whatever was necessary to avoid another round of shocks.

It seemed to be enough. Vak rose to his full height, valiant with his reward: Dib's feeble, three-word answer.

The restraints disappeared, and Dib flopped forward onto the floor. He made no move to stand, still only half-aware of what was going on around him.

"Get up, human," Vak ordered. The sense of satisfaction in his voice was palpable.

Dib made no move to do so.

Vak finally bent down and gripped the collar of his orange prison uniform in one fist, lifting him to his feet.

Dib's feet found contact with the ground. He stumbled and swayed, but ultimately remained upright. He shot a glare in Vak's direction, but his unfocused eyes prevented it from having the desired effect.

He was led out into the hall, the dark spots in his vision still ebbing away slowly. His legs felt weak, as if he'd just run a marathon.

As soon as the guards left, he peered out into the hallway. His entire row was asleep. A single prison guard caught his eye, leering sternly at him until he retreated to the back of his cell.

Dib crept back to his bed and sat down on it cross-legged, staring blankly ahead. His mind still felt lightyears behind the rest of himself.

He hardly heard 777's whisper as it permeated the wall separating them. "Hey, human. What's wrong?"

"I…I…" Dib felt his chest tighten up. He was in a daze, unable to even comprehend what he had done. "Earth… I'm not a spy. I—"

He broke down, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and spilling down his cheeks. "Why? Why would they do this?" he whispered softly after a moment. He could feel his cheeks growing hot, and a lump rise in his throat.

There was a pause on the other side of the cell. "It's not your fault."

"Yes, it is," came Dib's immediate retort. He sounded stubborn, like an adamant four-year-old. He couldn't help it.

"No, it's not. I've been around Irkens almost all my life, human. I've been able to see firsthand how they operate. They have a one-track mind, and they'll go to any length to get what they want. You think the Armada needs a reason to blow up a planet? Of course, they don't. They couldn't care less. They'll go ahead and do it and make up some excuse for the Control Brains later. 'It was an emergency. We had to do it! The planet was a threat.' It's not hard to do."

Dib sniffled and wiped at his eyes as he listened.

"Vak thought you had information that could help the Irken race, but you didn't. So he went with the next best thing. Afterall, how great would he look if he exposed a 'deadly, unknown enemy'? It's all self-seeking, human. If you know that about Irkens, you know everything."

Another round of quiet sobs passed over him. It couldn't be all true. What about Skoodge? He tried to think of any other Irkens he'd come in contact with, purposely omitting Zim. Suddenly, the Tallest stood out in his mind.

"That's exactly what the Tallest are doing." He blinked, thinking about something he hadn't even considered before. "How"—his voice cracked, and he tearfully coughed to clear the lump in his throat—"How did this war start?"

"The Irkens had reason to believe that the Meekrob broke their treaty by unleashing the J-636 toxin on their territory. I'm pretty sure some traces of it were found on an Irken-run planet. What tipped them off was a medical document citing a case."

Dib inhaled heavily. "It all began with the toxin," he murmured in disbelief. "I knew that was part of it, but…."

777 stayed silent on the other side of the wall.

"…This whole thing is the Tallest's fault. Not just what I've been accused of, the entire war is their fault." Dib's voice rose from a soft whisper to a normal speaking voice. "They're the ones who got ahold of the toxin. They're the ones who used it. This whole war is pointless."

777 began to shush him from the other side of his cell, but it fell on deaf ears. Dib was shouting at this point. "Meekrob has nothing to do with it! Earth definitely has nothing to do with it! The Tallest are going to drive their own people into the goddamn ground and take Earth down while they're at it! Just to avoid getting caught in their scheme! I can't—"

"—HEY!"

Dib snapped his head up and saw the blurry outlines of two prison guards standing sternly outside his cell. His face went pale. One held their staff out, the end gleaming bright blue. It was warning enough, and Dib cowered in the back of his cell until they left.

"The Tallest… this is their fault," he said again. It was almost inaudible. He lied on his side, facing the wall.

He waited for a moment, prepared for 777 to doubt him like everyone else had. Instead, he heard an unsurprised hum.

"Sounds like typical Irkens to me. Do you remember what I said about the Tallest being figureheads? Well, that doesn't mean they don't get away with a lot under the table." 777's voice, too, was hardly a whisper. "Every Tallest in existence that I'm aware of has been involved in something that wasn't legislated by the Control Brains. I have no doubt in my mind that those two goons are doing the same thing."

Dib sniffled in reply. He could feel himself closing up like a clamshell, hugging his knees to his chest. This epiphany didn't make him feel any better. It wasn't some sort of "aha moment" or relieved realization. It only made him feel worse. He suddenly felt helplessly trapped, as if he was being drowned or buried alive. He knew what was going on, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Nobody who mattered would ever believe him. And now his planet was at stake.

On many levels, he was in complete shock. The severity of what had just occurred during the interrogation was not setting in.

All things considered, there had been many times in his life in which he had to prevent Zim from completely destroying the Earth. Trying to plow Mars into the Earth, sabotaging his dad's generator, opening the florpus hole. Each and every time, Earth had been in very real danger, but the only barrier Dib had to cross was Zim. Never before had he been up against the entire Irken Armada, with Zim completely removed from the picture.

There was nothing he could do now. So he curled up in bed and let the shallow thoughts of shock and denial wash over him until he heard the morning guards arrive for rollcall.

-x-

Dib walked to the factory in a haze, robotically went to his station, and worked. The whole time, 777 stood across from him, letting him be alone with his thoughts.

The next morning, however, when the prisoners were let out of their cells and being escorted, Dib took note of 777 not being among them. He continued to work just like the day before, in a stupor, and thought nothing of it.

However, by the time the buzzer rang and the inmates mechanically stepped away from their stations, Dib heard two other prisoners, both Vortians, whispering amongst themselves from nearby. "Did you hear about 777? Heard he got shipped back to Moo-Ping 10."

The other prisoner nodded. "Wouldn't be surprised. They've always been keeping tabs on him. The wardens thought he was getting too chummy with the other inmates."

At that, Dib vaguely noted both Vortians glancing his way.

The prisoners in front of him began to walk forward, and Dib mechanically followed suit, his head hung low.

He had refused to touch his food that morning, and by the time he listlessly returned from the factory that night, the stale remnants were still there. He walked past the tray on the floor and curled up on the mattress. Half an hour later, he heard the sound of another tray sliding into his cell. He didn't stir.

Somehow, knowing 777 was gone because of him only added insult to injury. He curled up on his mattress as tightly as possible and hoped maybe, if he curled himself tight enough, he might just disappear entirely.

Time went by, as it always did, and at some point, Dib fell asleep. He spent some time engulfed in deeply stressful, nonsensical dreams before being abruptly awoken by a tapping noise coming from the entrance of his cell. His first thought was that he was being summoned for even more interrogation.

What more do you want with me? he wanted to say. I already gave you everything.

He sat up in bed and glared venomously towards the entrance of the cell.

Standing on the other side was a guard, face and head covered with a modular helmet.

Dib raised an eyebrow.

Even with his glasses missing, something looked off. The dead giveaway was the height of the guard, or lack thereof. He was stooped forward slightly, with his clothing bunching up around him and gathering on the floor.

Wordlessly, the figure outside Dib's cell reached out his hand, and with a few taps on the touchpad nearby, the cell's forcefield flickered away. Only then did he lift the face covering on his helmet.

Dib felt his breath hitch in his throat.

"Don't ever expect me to show you mercy again, Dib-stink."

Chapter Text

Dib hardly had time to think before Zim gripped one claw around his bicep and hauled him out of the cell.

They walked down the hall, past the other cells, and towards the door at the far end. When they approached it, Zim nodded nonchalantly towards the other guards working the night shift and was thankfully met with nothing more than faint nods back as they continued to pore over their tablets.

As soon as Zim and Dib had made it out of the cell block and into the labyrinth of hallways, he let go of his arm. "Follow me."

Mechanically, Dib did as he was told, trailing close behind Zim. Keeping up with him was difficult. He continually took backways and disappeared into storage rooms, shooting glares at the boy as he plodded along ungracefully behind him with his heavy walking boot.

Dib could hardly see more than a few feet in front of him. Several times, guards and officers must have appeared, for Zim would sporadically quicken his pace or duck around hallways, yanking Dib along by the wrist.

As they went on, Zim began to breathe heavier. He caught himself a couple times, seeming to make an effort to quiet his wheezing with varying degrees of success.

At one point, he rushed around a corner, and held perfectly still. Out in the hall they had just been in, heavy footfalls arose. Dib held his breath and pressed himself as flat as possible against the wall.

He turned his neck to look at Zim, surprised to see that one of his antennae was bent out unnaturally. It hung limply down the back of his skull before pointing outwards at an almost 90-degree angle near the midway point.

More notably, though, was the fact that Zim's face had suddenly become flushed. He breathed in and out deliberately, eyes watering all the while.

At last, the footsteps faded down the hall and disappeared. They were off again. Zim finally turned a corner and pushed open a large door.

Moonlight spilled out over the two of them. They were outside, on the prison grounds.

Zim couldn't hold back his coughing fit any longer. As soon as the door closed behind them, he released a torrent of spluttery hacks. He bent over, holding his knees and taking deep breaths until his face returned to its normal color.

Dib remained silent, unsure of what to say or do. They still weren't in the clear. Several vast guard towers were placed at each end of the prison, and from them, large searchlights drifted over nearly every inch of the complex. Though he couldn't see them, he was sure there was at least one Irken guard occupying each tower and keenly looking out for escapees.

Dib remained in the shadows, trailing the searchlights with his eyes.

Zim made a few vague gestures with his hands, still trying to catch his breath. Dib looked down at him in confusion.

The Irken inhaled deeply and straightened up somewhat. "Get that off, stupid Earth monkey. Do you want to be a walking target?" He pointed at his bright orange jumpsuit.

Dib quickly obeyed, removing the jumpsuit and revealing the dark grey sweatpants and t-shirt that were on underneath.

Zim nodded curtly and began slinking along the edge of the building. Dib followed suit, and they crept onward in the shadows, ducking away from searchlights that lazily cast over the prison grounds in a rhythmic motion.

Up ahead, Dib saw where he was being led to. It was a tiny hole in the wall near the corner, just small enough for someone Zim's size to squeeze through.

I'm never going to make it through that, he thought to himself.

Just when he was about to voice this, though, Zim stopped at the wall and deployed his PAK legs.

Dib looked confused.

"Come on, I'm not going wait all night," he snipped, eyes glinting angrily up at him.

It took Dib a moment to realize what he meant. He shot the Irken a dubious expression, only for Zim to glare even harder at him.

Taking a deep breath, Dib climbed onto Zim's back and was swiftly carried ten some-odd feet up. At the peak of the wall, a bright red laser field glowed fiercely, just feet away from his face.

Zim, however, pulled a small device from one oversized pocket of his stolen guard uniform, and with a few clicks, the laser field stuttered, then flickered out. "It's only going to last ten seconds. Climb over, quick."

Dib gripped the edge of the wall with both hands, pulling himself up. Zim retreated back to the ground on his PAK legs.

As soon as he caught a glimpse down the other side, he swallowed hard. A fall from that height was surely enough to seriously injure him.

Zim, meanwhile, had wriggled through the gap and was on the other side, silently jeering for Dib to come down. "Come on, stupid human!" he whisper-yelled from below.

Dib glanced over his shoulder, catching the searchlight as it swung his way. He took a deep breath and leapt off the side of the wall.

It wasn't until mid-fall that he began to regret his decision. His limbs flailed outwards, and he felt his heart surge with sudden fear. Right before he was about to splat, he felt the distinct sensation of metal PAK legs as they broke his fall, colliding with his chest and left leg. They bent inwardly around him and unceremoniously lowered his limp body to the ground.

"Oh shit," Dib whimpered, face pressed against the dirt.

"Sshhhhh," Zim snapped. He peered around himself, eyes narrowed. "Let's go."

He hesitantly rose to his feet, still shaking slightly.

The two of them sprinted through the night, both more or less stumbling along. It was hard for Dib to run very gracefully with his foot still encased in the walking boot and his eyes unable to see more than blurry dark shapes around him.

It was impossible for him to tell exactly what Vort looked like, as he'd only seen the prison grounds. The vague outlines of buildings in the distance and large silhouettes of tall, stalky alien plants streaked past him. He mostly kept his eyes on the heels of Zim's boots as he led the way.

The Irken was swifter, if a bit awkward. He ran as if he were carrying something heavy on his shoulders and was being weighted down. His legs shook a bit the longer he ran.

At last, they burst through a clearing, and Dib was suddenly face to face with something he never thought he'd see again. It was the Spittle Runner. His Spittle runner. Even without his glasses, it was impossible not to see the damage done to the exterior of the ship. Dark gashes swept along the side of it, it was pitted with dents of varying severity, and the windshield had smudges of… green stuff all over it. Blood? Irken blood?

The damned thing looked as though it had been through a hailstorm. Or a volcano eruption.

Zim opened the hatch, and artificial light poured out, along with a few empty snack-ration cans. He tossed them back in and turned to face Dib.

Now in the clear, and with proper lighting, Dib found himself staring at Zim for the first time in a long time.

On the whole, the Irken looked better than he did when he'd last seen him. His eyes were brighter, and his skin wasn't quite so pale. His face looked a bit fuller, too. Even so, the cough he'd had seemed to be lingering, as evidenced by the fit outside the prison building. The only thing completely out of the ordinary was the one crooked black stalk on Zim's head.

"What the fuck happened to my ship?" Dib asked, more shocked than anything. "What happened to you?" He gestured towards Zim's antenna.

The Irken's face hardened into a stern expression. "Not your problem." He carefully climbed back out of the Spittle and stood in front of the boy. "There. My debt is repaid. What do you have to say?"

Dib blinked, stunned silent. He simply stood there, staring at the Irken, unsure of how he was supposed to feel. Thankful? Relieved? Confused?

He had held nothing but resentment towards Zim over the last two weeks. Now, Zim had rescued him. What was the correct response to that?

Dib's mind couldn't compute in answering that question.

Subtly, though, a strange mixture of emotions was building inside of him. Days of apathy faded away, only to be replaced by newfound anger that began with a spark and quickly spread like fire in his chest. The ensuing smoke curled its way up, only to be trapped with nowhere to go. It was instantly stifling, clogging his lungs until… until…

A strangled, choking sob tore its way out of him. Tears threatened to fight their way from behind his eyes. Absolutely seething, he twisted up his face and forced them back down to where they'd come from.

"You left me!" The words came out with so much force, he swore he could see Zim shrink back a bit.

"After everything I risked saving your worthless life, the one time I needed you to be there for me… you-you left me."

He swallowed hard, trying to clear his throat of the lump that simply wouldn't disappear. His body had begun to tremble. "It was just too damn hard for you, huh? To think about someone else for a change! All you ever think about is yourself!"

He couldn't hold himself back any longer; tears spilled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. "Jesus Christ, I fucking hate you, Zim!" Then, in a quieter voice, "I really, really do."

It was silent for a long moment. Dib kept his eyes closed, shaking like a leaf. He was hugging his chest with one hand and covering his face with the other.

He didn't dare look at Zim until he heard the Irken speak. "Pull yourself together, you pathetic worm-baby."

Fresh rage shored inside him, and Dib tore his hand away from his eyes. It instantly closed itself into a fist and, before either he or Zim could comprehend what was happening, he pulled back and hit the Irken as hard as he could in the jaw.

Zim spun around. For a mere moment, it looked as though he would keep his footing, but his knees gave out at the last moment. He crumpled awkwardly to the ground.

Dib stood towering over him, fuming. Tears stained his red face.

Finally, Zim lifted his head hesitantly. He blinked. Raised a hand to his jaw. A comparable fire began behind his own eyes as he glared at Dib and began to massage the area that had been hit.

Dib didn't flinch. "How could you just leave me after all I had done for you?"

"Why did you do anything for me in the first place? It doesn't make any sense!" Zim pushed one leg beneath him and stood up.

"I don't know! Because I'm human, I guess! I'm weak and pathetic! And you were all alone, dying in your freaky alien laboratory," Dib said bitingly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "That makes me pretty stupid, huh? But you know what? That's the only thing that saved your miserable life!"

Zim's one functional antenna raised over his head, the kink pointing directly towards Dib. Behind his own anger, though, was a sense of confliction, as if he were trying to piece together some underlying motive between the lines of his enemy's words. He glanced back in the ship, where GIR's smudged drawings still remained even after several attempts to wipe them off the wall.

"Assuming I even believe that," Zim started, "How was I supposed to know?" The words, despite holding a bitter undertone, still felt bizarre coming out of his mouth.

"I—" Dib paused, glancing down at his feet, then back up. "Well—" He stumbled over his words again. "No! Stop trying to pin this on me! You totally freaked out. You wouldn't believe Skoodge when he tried to tell you, and then you refused to even look at me! You're as much at fault here as I am!"

"What else was I supposed to think?" Zim countered.

"Why do you have to be so damn paranoid all the time?!"

The two of them were toe to toe, Dib towering over Zim and Zim standing on the balls of his feet with his chin raised.

"Do you have any idea what I've been through in the last two weeks?" Dib's face abruptly twisted at his last words. "Ugh! Why am I even wasting my time asking you? Like you give a shit!"

Dib was the first to break his posture. He slumped back and dropped his eyes to his shoes with a defeated sigh. "This wouldn't have happened if you had just believed what had been told to you the first time," he said. "Everything would have been fine if you had just been there for me, that one time."

"Well, I'm here now." The sentence was meant to pack a certain amount of ire behind it. Oddly enough, though, it came out with an uncharacteristically mellow inflection. A strange electricity passed over them, the mood switching from anger to confusion instantaneously.

Dib turned his eyes back up at Zim.

The Irken paused for a moment, then turned on his heel. He climbed back into the ship and disappeared into the storage hatch for a moment. He returned with a large bag. "Like I said before, my debt is repaid. This is where I leave you."

Dib snapped out of his trance at those words. He turned his gaze upwards, staring incredulously at Zim. "What do you mean 'this is where I leave you'? Where the hell are you going?"

"I'm going back to Irk," Zim replied simply. "I have new orders to receive. I would have had them already if I hadn't stopped for you. There's a war for me to fight in, and I have to go where my Tallest need me."

Dib blinked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But what about Earth?"

"My base is still secure. For now, Earth is safe." He spoke the last three words mockingly.

"That's not what I meant, you jerk. And for your information, Earth is not safe! Your fucking Armada is going to blow it up because they think the humans are in cahoots with the Meekrob!"

Zim paused for a fraction of a second before looking up passively at Dib. "The Tallest would never allow that. Earth is mine to destroy, and mine only."

Dib felt words bubbling to this throat. Cruel words. Words that would annihilate Zim from the inside out. There was nothing stopping him from letting them pour out into the open.

"Don't you understand? The Tallest don't give a fuck! Your mission is complete bullshit!"

"Bull… shit?"

"It means your mission is fake, Zim. I can't believe I didn't figure it out on my own before this!" Dib couldn't stop himself. He was brimming with anger, and the words just kept pouring out. "Everything you've ever thought was real is just a lie that you keep perpetuating. Why do you think the Armada hasn't come for Earth yet? Why do you think you didn't wake up in an actual medical clinic back on Elixus?"

Dib breathed in. "Oh right, I know! It's because you're a defective! Your people never cared about you. So why the hell do you keep wasting your time?"

Zim's eyes had narrowed to slits. For a moment, Dib thought he was going to get out of the ship and kill him.

Instead, he reached down next to him and picked up the bag he'd gotten from the storage hatch. With as much strength as he could muster, he hurled it out of the ship and at Dib.

Dib grunted as it hit his chest, and he very nearly lost his footing. He instinctively closed his arms around it.

Zim slammed the door to the Spittle closed and fired up the engine. Dib watched him leave, still shaking.

"You can't just stay in denial forever! You can't just keep making excuses!" he yelled up at the departing ship. He had no idea why. There was no way Zim could have heard him.

It took him a long moment before he finally looked down at what he had pressed against his chest. It was his backpack.

Like the Spittle, he never thought he'd see it again. Not that it held anything terribly important. It was so full, the zipper looked close to bursting, but it was simply full of dirty clothes, old food wrappers, and… and his laptop.

Dib felt his heart flutter in his chest.

He had the laptop. He could feel its outline pushing against the bag. And attached to the laptop was the flash drive. With the recording of the Tallest admitting to their conspiracy.

Paralyzed with shock, he simply stood in the center of the clearing, still hugging the backpack. His heart began to beat, faster and faster, until the sound filled his ears.

Finally, he drew in a gasp. His evidence was right there. Easy as that. If he could get it to the right people… he might just have a chance at fixing everything. The Tallest's scheme would be proven and Earth wouldn't be considered an enemy planet.

…But who could he tell?

Dib began to think. He could never return to the prison. Even armed with his evidence, it would be foolish to expect it to get passed to the proper authorities. Vak had been dead set on having his own theories confirmed, and Dib was nothing more than a puppet in his game.

Who was more powerful than the Irken police?

Dib suddenly thought back to one of his conversations with 777, back when he had asked about Control Brains.

They're the real leaders of Irk… all laws and regulations must be passed by them.

Any Irken on any planet wouldn't help. He needed to get to the source. He needed a Control Brain.

He didn't know where to find a Control Brain on Vort. It wasn't safe for him to stay on Vort, anyhow.

He probed further, trying to remember every shred of information 777 had told him about them. What had prompted the Control Brain discussion in the first place?

Dib sat down on the ground, holding his backpack in his lap.

They had been talking about the battle tanks, and how they were being transported to Irk's capital city… and 777 had mentioned the capital city was where the Tallest lived… in some sort of palace… and it also housed something called the "Supreme Control Brain".

If he could only get to Irk…

The sun was just barely beginning to rise overhead, and in the distance, Dib could see the roof of the prison peeking from beyond the thick forest of alien trees. He took a deep breath, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing.

Then, he slowly began to walk back towards the prison.

-x-

Just beyond the prison walls was a long stretch of tarmac, in which multiple freight ships rested. The starships were positively enormous—far more enormous than Dib had seen in his life, if he was discounting the couple of times he'd borne witness to the Massive.

Within each and every one of them, countless battle tanks and mechs stood idle, waiting to be transported from Vort to Irk.

Dib hid behind some machinery in the nearby facility, staring out at the closest ship to him, less than ten feet away.

Checking to make sure the coast was clear, he darted out of his hiding spot and climbed inside the ship.

Within the cavernous walls of the freight ship were rows of what he'd been building for nearly two weeks: what 777 had called plasma-armed battle tanks. If Dib knew where to look, he'd be able to identify the tiny Irken insignia and rows of Irken characters he'd branded onto each and every tank.

He didn't have time to look, though. As soon as he walked inside, he heard voices nearby.

Startled, he dove behind a tank near the edge of the freight ship. When he experimentally lifted a hatch near the tank, it quietly swung open. Dib crawled inside and closed it behind him.

Less than an hour later, Dib heard another sound, faintly from the other side of the metal tank. It was that of an engine roaring to life.

Still hugging his backpack to his chest, he allowed himself a relieved exhale. The first part of his plan had worked. He was on his way to Irk.

"GIR, come in."

The sound of Zim's own voice surprised even him, piercing through the air after hours upon hours of total silence.

He was sitting in the pilot's chair with his PAK's monitor out. Unlike his base, which was undoubtedly still offline, he should have clear connection to GIR.

He held his breath as the seconds ticked by and GIR didn't respond. He swallowed hard and started to repeat the call, when, at the last moment, the fuzz from the screen cleared.

"Hi there!" GIR's little voice greeted Zim happily, and the Irken exhaled.

He cleared his throat and straightened up. "GIR, I have some orders for you while I'm gone. First—"

Zim stopped talking abruptly as GIR stared offscreen at something in the kitchen.

"Oh, hang on!" the robot said lightly. "I'm making smoothies!"

The sound of the blender starting up made Zim's uninjured antenna raise in interest. "GIR? Did you get the power back up and running?"

GIR looked back at the screen, now holding a questionable-looking smoothie with gray lumps floating in it. "Uh huh. The TV wasn't working."

Zim's lips pulled upwards on one side. "Excellent, GIR. Then you've already completed half of what I need you to do. Now listen very, very carefully: I need you to go downstairs into the lab—"

He was cut off again by the loud sound of GIR sucking on the smoothie straw. His antenna joined the injured one down near his shoulders as he waited for him to pay attention.

"I need you to restore the security system. In case that insane Larb decides to come back."

GIR nodded. "When you gonna come back? I have a blueberry-dirt smoothie for ya."

Zim grimaced a bit at the odd-colored concoction in GIR's hands. Then, he cleared his throat. "I'm going to be gone for a while, GIR. While I'm away, it is your duty to maintain the base and keep it hidden from the humans." Zim paused, then spoke the next words slowly. "Do you understand?"

"Mmmmhhhhmmm."

"Are you sure?" he prompted.

"Yup!"

"Good, GIR." Zim started to end the call, then stopped at the last second. He raised his arm in a salute, which was returned after a few more sucks at the smoothie straw. Only then did he let the screen fade to black and disappear back into his PAK.

He dropped the arm back down to his side. Though mostly healed, his other arm was still too tender to do much of anything with.

The cuts and bruises on his face had long since faded away. The only thing that lingered was his antenna injury. It took an aggravatingly long time for Irken antennae to heal fully, meaning that he would be deaf on one side for at least a month, if not longer.

He tried not to think about it for too long. He tried not to think about anything for too long. He had to focus on the task ahead of him.

The radar screen on the dash estimated less than an hour before he would be arriving on Irk. Vort was directly beside it, making the journey between the two planets less than a day long.

Funny. It had been years since he had last been on his home planet. He had been born there, and his early smeethood was spent on Irk exclusively until he reached adolescence. Afterwards, it had merely been one of the many planets he'd been bounced to during his military training.

Now, rather than feeling like a proper home, it felt more nostalgic than anything.

Zim had his elite uniform hung up behind the pilot's seat, looking as crisp as it possibly could after spending as much time as it had in his PAK.

He'd also brought it with him to the progress convention, though he hadn't so much as taken it out of its garment bag. None of the Irkens had ended up wearing theirs.

Zim thought back to how long ago that had been. He remembered very little about the convention itself. He recalled yelling at GIR for some reason. Sleeping in his Voot. Waking up and coughing in the middle of the night. A masked figure standing on the other side of his windshield, pointing a gun at him.

Unbeknownst to him at the time, that masked figure had been Larb. But that didn't make sense. The latter memories blurred together to the point where he couldn't even remember the context. Had he and Larb gotten into some sort of altercation beforehand?

And what was the cause of that terrible coughing fit? That had been when all his problems had arisen. It wasn't unusual to pick up illnesses during travel, but it didn't take a genius to determine that he'd picked up something far worse than the sniffles. It had come on suddenly and strongly. All of his memories in the thereafter had a distinct feeling of malady attached with them; a sense of weariness that still lingered stubbornly whenever he stood up too quickly or dared overexert himself in any way.

Skoodge had never elaborated on what Zim had been afflicted with. Whatever he'd had, it had been severe enough to require a PAK replacement, which had evidently been granted in a matter of days. Only the best of the best became candidates in such a short period of time. No surprise, seeing as he was Zim.

Even so…

No!

Zim shook his head sharply back and forth.

He couldn't let his mind wander! He had to focus!

He stood up from his seat and turned towards his elite uniform.

Carefully, he removed the armor and set it on the pilot's chair. He slowly changed from his regular uniform top to the silky plum-colored tunic. It was an expensive garment with a high purple collar, purple shoulder pads, and a drop tail that ended at the back of his knees.

He did the same with the bottoms, replacing the thin black fabric of his usual leggings with the thicker, more expensive material that made up the pants of the uniform.

Next came the armor. A belt wrapped around Zim's waist, complete with holsters on either side. Large, bulky boots ensured proper traction and protection.

And last but not least, his chest armor. It looked like nothing more than a small metal rectangle with a dull, unlit button on one side. Zim held it over his breastbone and carefully pressed it to his chest. At once, two tubes snaked from each side of it and latched into his PAK's lower back ports. They tightened around his chest firmly and seconds later, the button in the center of the metal rectangle lit up.

It was more of a precautionary measure than actual armor. It ensured all Irkens kept their PAKs firmly in place during battle, and that they didn't become dislodged.

Zim shifted uncomfortably in his armor, feeling bulky and weighed down. It was absolutely unheard of to enter the Tallest's palace in anything but one's finest attire, though. While his usual pink uniform was far more practical, it was entirely inappropriate.

To finish off the outfit, Zim pulled out a tiny stamp pad. Holding the handle in one claw, he used the ship's reflection to angle the stamp directly over his eyes. He pressed down, then made a slight rolling motion with his wrist to ensure the pressure was evenly distributed. When he removed it, a crisp, fuchsia elite insignia was emblazoned in the center of his forehead.

"Perfect," he spoke to himself, admiring his appearance. It was enough to hide his bent posture and distract from the one badly kinked antenna. Nothing could make him forget the lingering pain deep his shoulder, though, nor the fatigue that still plagued him daily.

His new PAK would have likely restored him to near-perfect health by now, had it not been constantly mending injuries. The result was a perpetual feeling of malaise. It made him tired, and often hungry. It was the PAK's way of demanding more energy. Zim was fortunate to have access to cans upon cans of food rations in the back of the ship, making it so that he didn't have to go an extended period of time without nutrients. It boded well for his PAK's efficiency, and in turn, his biological shell's wellbeing.

Suddenly, the radar screen began to beep, and Zim peered down coyly. He was coming up upon the docking ring on Irk. He cruised the beat-up Spittle into a spot, shored himself up, and searched the rows for the nearest teleporter.

Dib stirred in the underbelly of the ship. Inside his metal cocoon, he could hardly hear the engine, nor feel the turbulence of the starship carrying him and the handful of tanks straight to Irk.

He quietly stuck his hand into his backpack and fished around for whatever he could. He came back with half a bottle of water and a pre-packaged snack cake Skoodge had given him back on Elixus. He unwrapped the snack and took a bite. Like everything he had tried belonging to the Irkens, it was tooth-achingly sweet. He chased it down with a gulp of water and leaned back with a sigh.

He felt tired. More than physically tired—that was a given. He felt emotionally drained. He would devote his energy to getting himself and his flash drive to the Control Brains. As for Zim, he didn't know.

Arguing with him had felt so… empty. He hadn't been expecting that. Not long ago, Dib would have been chomping at the bit, overjoyed to laugh into Zim's face and tell him he was worthless.

He had been so angry, bursting out with the worst vitriol he could muster towards Zim. With each word, though, it didn't make him feel any better.

In fact, he didn't really know how it made him feel. There wasn't a single thing he had told Zim that made him feel fulfilled or at ease.

Dib continued to stare into the darkness, waiting for the ship to land. It was hard for him to discern what all was going on. From within the battle tank he'd hidden in, he couldn't hear the turbulence once the ship prepared to land on Irk, nor the voices of the Irkens unloading the machinery once it arrived at the base.

One moment, he was sitting in the corner of the tank, backpack hooked around his shoulders as he rested up against it. The next moment, bright light was rushing into the ship from the storage hatch, framing the shapes of two Irkens. Their antennae jumped forward atop their head in shock.

"A stowaway!" one of them shouted accusingly. The other Irken immediately pulled a communication device from his PAK and began to speak urgently into it.

Dib was paralyzed with shock. Within a minute, he was promptly yanked out of the tank and restrained by two of the most enormous Irken guards he'd ever seen.

"Where do we take him?" one of the guards said. "Have we ever dealt with a runaway from Vort before?"

The other guard thought for a moment. "Take him to the underground of the palace. He will be sent back to the prison tomorrow when the transport ship flies back."

Dib's brain was lagging behind him, leaving him hardly able to comprehend what had happened. Was it really over this soon? This anticlimactically?

He was still trying to grasp it as he was hauled to another building, eyes darting this way and that, trying to find any way to get free. He stumbled along between the guards, stopping as they brought him to a single jail cell. This one was far more primitive than the others he had seen, with plain steel bars instead of a laser field.

As they shoved him inside, all he could think was that he was being confronted with the most tedious sense of déjà vu possible.

Meanwhile, Zim was walking down the streets of Irk's capital, Altua, muttering to himself.

"I just have to walk in there, salute and wiggle my… one antenna." He frowned before carrying on. "And then say 'Greetings, Almighty Tallest Purple and Almighty Tallest—'" His face went blank. "What's the other one's name?"

He continued to mumble quietly as he walked through the city. Despite appearing rather showy in the comfort of his own ship, in the streets of Altua, Zim's elite uniform wasn't enough to stand out from the crowd. Quite a few Irkens were dressed in their finest uniforms, flaunting them as they passed by. The only thing that differentiated Zim from them was his height; Zim was easily a foot shorter than even the smallest Irken in proximity.

He continued to walk until he arrived at the guarded gates of the Tallest's posh, masterfully designed palace.

It was situated next to the largest and most distinguished military base known to all of the Irken race. Only the best of the best were able to rise to the surface of Irk and attend the training academy in Altua. Zim, being a member of the Irken elite, had spent much of his time on the base, often with a plain view of the palace as he stood at parade rest or completed sparring exercises with his fellow soldiers.

For much of his youth, Tallest Miyuki had occupied it. Then, for a brief time, Spork. And now, the current Tallest resided there.

Taking a deep breath, Zim swaggered to the entrance, closely following a gaggle of smeets in basic training who were entering in through the gates. Without a second glance, he was let in, too.

He trailed the group up the pathway, then continued on straight after they broke away to the training grounds next door.

Zim found himself lumped in with two more Irkens; service drones from the looks of them. They didn't say anything to Zim, averting eye contact and scuttling along across the enormous, shined floors that made up the palace's interior.

Within a few hundred feet, they disappeared into a room, and Zim was left alone.

"Hey!" a voice echoed from down the hall, and Zim whipped around. "How did you get in here?"

"Ah!" Zim said, promptly ignoring the question. He straightened up the best he could in all his armor and marched down the hallway. "Guard! Please escort me to the Tallest's chambers. I'm sure they've been anticipating me for quite some time."

"State your name and business," the guard barked back without missing a beat.

"I am Zim. Irken Invader Zim, top of Elite squadron 908. I am one of the most highly respected invaders," Zim said, his mouth a thin line. He waved his hand dismissively. "Just bring me back. The Tallest will know exactly who I am."

The guard's PAK opened and displayed a monitor. He searched through a seemingly never-ending list of names. "We have no Invader Zim recorded in our database," he murmured finally.

He gestured with one arm, and a large cable lowered from the ceiling and inserted itself into the top port of Zim's PAK.

The little Irken shuffled his feet impatiently as the guard examined the monitor nearby, displaying his identity and ranking. Whatever was on the screen must not have been satisfactory, for he eventually glanced down at Zim as if he were eyeing a particularly ugly insect. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Zim's one antenna shot up. "Leave? You can't make me leave!" He crossed his arms defiantly and stood as tall as he could make himself. Even so, he wasn't nearly as tall as the guard. Not even by half.

The guard took one step forward, and Zim scuttled back. He glanced up at the guard nervously. Then, whipping around, he dashed the other way.

"Get back here!" the guard shouted after him, taking off around the corner where Zim had gone. The sound of their footsteps disappeared down the hall.

Dib perked his head up as a commotion began down the hall from him in the dark, echoey cell.

At first, it was just the sound of kicking and struggling, with mutters from irritable guards interspersed here and there. Then, to his dawning surprise, a familiar voice rang through the air, traveling down the halls. "Stop! I need to speak with the Tallest! Come on, it will only take five minutes!"

As soon as the owner of the voice turned the corner, thrashing against the iron grip of two guards, he immediately ceased his struggle and contorted his face in disgust. The guards slowly lowered him to the ground and pushed him through the cell door.

"Oh, great…" Dib muttered. "The last person I wanted to see."

"My sentiments exactly," Zim returned.

Chapter Text

If there was a God, he was having a hell of a laugh at Dib's expense.

That's all he could think as he sat in the cell, as far away as he could from Zim, pressed up against the wall with his chin in both hands.

Countless instances of being shepherded through different prisons and shoved into a diverse selection of cells had wearied Dib to the point of exasperation. It was strong enough that it very nearly overshadowed the sensation of failure.

Everything always fell apart at the oddest of times, too. When things were going just a little too smoothly. When the dreaded voice in the back of Dib's head cropped up to ask: Was this it? Was it this easy?

No. It was never that easy.

Getting Zim medical care wasn't that easy. Getting back to Earth wasn't that easy. And now, as he was learning, getting to Irk's Supreme Control Brain wasn't that easy.

This time, though, the universe decided to kick things up a notch. After all, what could be funnier than seeing Dib shoved in yet another jail cell? Ah! Seeing Dib shoved in yet another jail cell with the one individual he wanted to see the least.

Said individual was currently sitting petulantly on the other end of the cell, knees pulled up to his chest as he glared out through the bars. Aside from the occasional cough, he didn't make a sound.

For a city designed by a technologically advanced alien race, Dib was somewhat taken aback by the almost dungeon-like nature of their confinement.

He had been swiftly removed from the warehouse that had received the shipment from Vort, seeing only a glimpse of his surroundings. Altua was enormous, industrial, and completely bathed with an almost-nauseating shade of pink that was cast from its sun.

From there, he was quickly ushered into the wing of another building through a set of double doors. Through there, the guards beelined towards yet another, larger set of doors that opened into a long corridor.

The space was constructed almost entirely of concrete. The hall went on for a few hundred feet before turning a corner. At the end was a plain, simple jail cell and a closed door adjacent to it. Gone were the lasers and forcefields, replaced instead by thick, narrowly spaced bars.

There were some similarities to the other cells he'd been in, though. Just like the others, this one was dimly lit and almost frigidly cold.

Dib rubbed his upper arms with his hands, trying to quell the goosebumps that had appeared.

"Are you just going to spend this whole time sulking?" he said flatly, sneaking a side-eyed glance over at the Irken.

Zim responded by readjusting his position so that his back was turned to him.

Dib had noticed that he was wearing some gaudy military uniform, complete with a mark on his forehead and some sort of device that spanned from the lower ports of his PAK and met at his chest.

"What are you even doing here? What did you think was going to happen?" he went on, his voice husky.

"That's rich coming from you, Dib-filth. I could ask you the same things."

Dib narrowed his eyes. "Well, I couldn't just do nothing. I had to try to save Earth. I thought I could reason with the—"

A loud creaking began at the end of the corridor and echoed down to where the two sat. What followed were the sounds of clacking boots on the concrete flooring and ended with two tall Irken guards standing in front of their cell.

The first had a staff in one hand and Dib's backpack in the other.

They didn't address Zim nor Dib. Instead, the extent of the attention given to them was a vague gesture towards the cell. They seemed somewhat anxious, their already enormous eyes wide and antennae on end. They spoke roughly in their native tongue, eventually retreating into the other room opposite the cell. There, they continued their conversation.

After a few moments of this, Dib began to notice Zim's facial expressions changing slightly as he listened in. His eyes narrowed a bit, and his one useful feeler perked up, raising bit by bit as it strained to hear.

"What are they saying?" Dib whispered.

Zim shot him a nasty look but didn't answer.

Dib thought he could pick up on some words. He heard Vort easily enough and something that sounded suspiciously like Meekrob.

Meekrob…

Why would they be talking about Meekrob?

Despite knowing how little help he'd be, Dib still continually glanced at Zim for any further changes in his expression.

Finally, the two guards walked out of the room, and without so much as a glance at their prisoners, stalked back out through the monstrous set of doors.

"What was that all about?" Dib asked, staring as best he could down the hall until it cut off around the corner.

Zim scoffed at him. "Plans to ship you back to the exact same Vortian prison I just snuck you out of, Earth creature. You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into!"

Dib clenched his jaw, entire body going tense. "Yeah? So? What about you? Your little plan didn't exactly work out, either."

"LIES!" Zim barked back, standing up. "The guards have no idea what they're doing! They can't fathom the relationship between me and the Tallest! The Tallest probably kept it secret from them! Yeah! Their brilliance is so… brilliant, even I can't understand it sometimes!"

"Listen to yourself!" Dib turned to face him head-on.

Zim's eyes shone in the dim lighting of their cell as he followed suit. "No! You listen to yourself! You don't even understand the predicament you're in! You can't just waltz into Altua! It's a miracle they didn't kill you on sight! Stupid, stupid hyooman!"

Once again, they were eye to eye. Just like on Vort, Dib's mind was steadily beginning to brim with anger. The more he argued, the worse it got. He tried to come up with a retort but struggled to gather any words.

Finally, he dropped his shoulders. A heavy sigh followed, and he took a step back from Zim. "We're not getting anywhere with this," he said. "Look, I'm not gonna change your mind, and you're not gonna change mine. We both want to get out of here, so instead of fighting, we should be trying to think of a way to escape."

"Are you suggesting we work together?"

"Do you have any better ideas?!" Dib demanded, the ire from before creeping into his voice.

Zim opened his mouth, then closed it again. He crossed his arms. "Fine."

They both fell silent, mutual disgust plastered across their faces.

Eventually, Dib turned and looked at Zim expectantly.

He stared back at him, raising one brow. "What?"

"Well… aren't you going to use some of the lasers and stuff in your PAK? You know, to blast us out of here?"

Zim twisted his face further into frustration. "These bars are impervious to plasma, lasers, and almost any other weaponry you can think of. Not many cells are meant to keep in Irkens, but these ones are."

To demonstrate his point, a single PAK leg appeared over his shoulder and shot a blue gleam out at one of the bars. Nothing happened.

Dib looked closer at the bars. Indeed, they looked unlike any metal he'd ever seen on Earth. His inspection also revealed some faint scorch marks from what must have been past attempts at escape from other Irken prisoners. He deflated. "Well, then what are we supposed to do?"

Zim thought for a minute. "The guards from before. One told the other that you will be retrieved tomorrow morning to be sent back to Vort. When they open the cell door, we'll storm them and make our escape."

Dib's face contorted doubtfully. "That's your plan? You really think that's the best time to try to escape?"

"Do you have any better ideas?!" Zim shouted, derisively parroting Dib's words from before.

He paused for a moment, then sighed. "No…"

Zim went on. "Based on what I heard, they should be arriving in approximately twelve hours. That gives us until then to figure out how to get past them."

They both fell silent again, thinking. Dib was thoroughly unconvinced that their plan would actually work, but he didn't know what else to do. He figured if they were going to storm a burly set of Irken guards, then at the very least, they needed something to arm themselves with.

Zim had nothing to worry about. He was constantly armed with a plethora of weird, alien weaponry in his PAK. Dib, on the other hand, had nothing but the shirt on his back. He didn't even have his backpack—

Dib's brows popped up, followed by his chin as he looked out through the cell bars and immediately eyed his backpack, hung up on a hook in the doorway of the office the guards had emerged from. They hadn't even bothered to close the door.

"They just left it…" he said in disbelief. Why would they leave it there? Why wouldn't they close the door? Was it some sort of trap?

"What are you going on about?" Zim said, cutting into his train of thought.

"My backpack! It's right there, in the office!"

"And?"

"Well, there might be something in there I can use to defend myself! If you could use your PAK legs to get it, I can—" As soon as the words came out of his mouth, Dib stopped, realizing the chances of Zim actually providing this favor were slim to none.

As if to prove this point, Zim offered him a deadpan stare.

Dib was sure it was his way of shooting down the suggestion. Then, to his shock, a thin metal limb very slowly inched its way from Zim's top port.

It passed through the cell bars easily, then curved at its joint when it approached the doorway. For a moment, Dib was worried it would accidentally close the door, but Zim managed to navigate it through at the last moment, as gracefully as a seasoned seamstress threading a needle.

Finally, poised in front of the backpack, it slowly lifted it off the hook.

The heavy bag slammed to the ground, making Dib jump. The noise echoed throughout the room.

Instantly, the mechanical leg whipped back into Zim's PAK. They were sure a guard would burst in. Several seconds passed in silence.

Finally, Zim summoned the limb again, hooking it on one of the arm straps. He pulled it closer to the cell, stopping when it was just on the other side of the bars and could go no further.

Dib stuck his wrists out of the cell and unzipped the bag. The first thing that greeted him was a sack of very stale donuts from Skoodge. He took them out and set them on the ground next to him.

He returned to the backpack, removing everything out that would fit between the bars. His water bottle. The laptop, with the flash drive still stuck in the USB port. Several wrinkled pieces of clothing. He was getting to the end of it, feeling more and more frustrated by the apparent uselessness of the items within.

He reached the bottom, suddenly withdrawing his hand a little when his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar. He peered into the depths of his bag, then slowly pulled out the liquor bottle he had stowed away long before. Realization dawned on him, and he sat back, dumbstruck. Then, he shot a mischievous glance towards Zim.

"Hey, Zim? You ever had human alcohol before?"

"Heh?" Zim said around a mouthful of donut. He squinted at the human suspiciously, then at the thing in his hands. "How is that supposed to help us?"

"It's not," Dib said, not elaborating. He had all but forgotten what he'd originally been looking for, entranced by this discovery. He twisted the cap until the seal broke and paused to take a very brief moment of deliberation.

In any other circumstance, guilt or logic or any other name for his moral compass would have demanded he put the bottle back and focus on the task at hand. This was not the time to be experimenting with booze he'd stolen from his home pantry. Right now, though, the facets of his conscience felt far too overworked, bordering on burnt-out apathy. They simply echoed back a resounding why not?

He attempted to casually take a swig of it, hiding behind the façade of a veteran drinker. He involuntarily shuddered a bit as the liquid burned down his throat and settled coldly in the pit of his stomach.

Zim noted this with aloof arrogance and scowled.

Dib ignored him and took another, slightly more natural-looking sip.

It was rather ironic that petty thievery gave him as much of a thrill as it did. After flying in a starship, walking among enemy alien races, and being stuck in prison, he still managed to feel the rush of good old-fashioned, dumb teenage rebellion. It was guilt-tinged and wrapped in senseless excitement. After all, he had stolen from his father's liquor cabinet.

In that moment, though nearly every other immature teenager had long before experienced the same feeling of omnipotence in the face of deviance, Dib reveled in it. A tiny voice deep down—perhaps the very last of his critical thinking that hadn't been bludgeoned by exhaustion—told him that it was artificial and entirely temporary. Be that as it may, though, he didn't care.

Without even thinking, he offered the bottle to his nemesis.

Zim scoffed and smacked his hand away. "Do I look like I want to poison my insides? Pah!"

Dib shrugged and took another sip, undampened by Zim's sardonicism.

However, the human's unusual apathy towards his response only served to irritate and confuse the Irken. Zim snarled and turned his back to him.

Maybe twenty minutes passed in silence, and Dib took the occasional swig from the bottle while continuing to rifle through the contents of his backpack. Gradually, he could feel his tensed muscles beginning to slacken. He glanced at Zim from across the cell and was hit with a strange sort of vertigo.

The Irken, who had obviously been sneaking glances at Dib, quickly averted his eyes.

Dib squinted at his annoyed face. "Are you sure you don't want any, Zim?"

He turned around and eyed him nastily. "Of course I am!"

Dib merely shrugged in response. "Suit yourself…" Then he paused for a second. "No shame in being afraid."

Zim froze in dismay. Then, he got up off the ground and stomped over to him.

Dib had begun to slouch a bit where he was sitting. Juxtaposed by Zim's ramrod straight posture, it actually made the Irken appear taller for once.

Zim narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"

Dib smiled slyly and took another drink. Before the bottle could make its way to his lips, though, a gloved claw snatched it away from him. Dib looked mildly surprised, and then grinned up at Zim.

The Irken caught sight of his expression and stared apprehensively at the bottle of clear liquid. He squinted at the label. "Vod…ka." Very slowly, he tilted the bottle forward slightly and tasted some of it with the tip of his wormlike tongue. Immediately, he gagged and glared at Dib's unchanging expression. "How can you drink this swill?"

He shrugged and held out his hand to reclaim his bottle. After a moment of hesitation, Zim turned away from him and held it over his head.

"Give it back, Zim," Dib said, getting to his feet. He suddenly felt remarkably dizzy, as if he'd just been blindfolded and spun several dozen times.

Zim easily sidestepped him and gingerly tipped the bottle back. Before the boy could grapple for the bottle again, Zim took a big gulp. Like Dib, he shuddered noticeably.

Both were unaccustomed to the taste and feeling associated with alcohol, but for different reasons. Dib was an adolescent boy who had never tried it before now. Zim… well, Zim was an alien who had never had any prior inclination to research such substances on Earth.

Watching the amused expression return to Dib's face, Zim defiantly held the bottle with both hands and took another slug of its contents, ignoring the sensation as it burned down his throat.

Dib casually snatched it from him afterwards.

They spend the next hour passing the bottle back and forth, snide smirks melding into wider and goofier smiles as the minutes lengthened.

-x-

After an untold amount of time later, the ambience in the cell became notably calmer as the burning liquid sloshed in their bellies and fogged their minds. The hostility between them faded away, replaced instead with what had to be the most natural conversation either of them had ever had with one another.

"Remember when you made that really slow explosion? And launched me into it?" Dib asked. He was lying on his back with his hands tucked beneath his head.

"Mmmhhmm," Zim hummed. He, too, was lying down and staring up at the ceiling from a few feet away.

"That was really dumb," Dib said dopily, chuckling a bit.

"Nope, it was ingenious," came the breezy rebuttal, as if he were correcting Dib's grammar. He covered a light cough with the inner part of his arm, then thought for a moment. "Remember when I sold more Poop candy than you?"

"I mostly just remember you sulking over the 'mystery prize'."

Zim shifted a bit, suddenly interested. "Mystery prize? What was it?"

"Y'really don't remember?" Dib slurred. "It was a can of tuna."

Even at the edge of his periphery, he could see Zim's expression deflate a bit.

"Y'know, I've been wondering…" Dib went on. "How'd you even find me in that prison on Vort? Like, how did you know I'd be there?"

Zim took another drink from the bottle and clunked it down on the hard concrete. "I'd installed a tracking chip 'n your head three years ago."

At Dib's stunned silence, Zim began to giggle. It was very quiet at first, mostly evident by the subtle shake of his shoulders, but then it steadily rose until he was practically falling over himself.

After a solid minute of looking thoroughly disturbed, Dib reluctantly started to laugh as well.

"And you remembered that, but you couldn't remember whining about a can of tuna for three days?" Dib said, laughing a bit harder.

Instead of getting defensive, Zim simply doubled back in laughter.

Dib joined him, and the two went on deliriously.

Zim's laughter now was starkly different from the typical, maniacal cackling Dib had heard over and over again throughout their time knowing each other. This was a continual burst of squeaky, mirthful giggles. Somehow, it felt more natural to Dib.

It was as if Zim had been putting on a façade for years, and it was all tumbling down now. Even so, he couldn't deny that a major source of his entertainment was directed towards Zim's intoxicated state. It was odd seeing this goofy side of him.

Suddenly, a loud hiccup interrupted Zim's laughter and silenced him. Dib shot him a sideways glance and offered a lopsided grin.

Zim took another sip from the bottle and passed it to Dib without making eye contact. It had gotten far easier to drink as time went on and their senses became fuzzier. Even so, Dib held up his palm in an "I'm good" gesture.

The night wore on, but if the cell was truly as cold it had felt before, neither Zim nor Dib felt it. The two were now sitting propped against the wall with the nearly empty bottle acting as a buffer between them.

Zim had fallen uncharacteristically quiet, aside from the occasional cough. He was drunker than his human counterpart, and it showed. Not only was Dib visibly bigger and taller than him, but he had stopped drinking quite a while before. Zim, meanwhile, had continued to take swigs from the bottle routinely, even as his vision became blurrier. His usually stiff posture was now completely absent, and both antennae hung lazily down to his shoulders.

Both were lost in their own thoughts.

Dib's mind felt cool and relaxed, as if a hiatus had been put on nearly everything he'd been worrying about. It had been a very long time since he had felt even marginally at peace with himself. He closed his eyes, tapping the ends of his fingers noiselessly against the floor of their cell. Then, he sighed.

"Whassa matter with you, Dib-worm?" Zim slurred, misinterpreting the gesture. He shifted his weight so that he was facing him.

"Nothing. As a matter of fact, this is the first time nothing has been 'the matter' in a very long time. Y'know…" Dib tried to process his own sentence, wondering if that combination of words even made sense.

Zim nodded somberly, though, as if Dib had just imparted some incredible wisdom onto him.

The Irken turned his head away from Dib, so that that all the boy could see of him were his droopy, crooked feelers. A couple minutes passed, and he vaguely wondered if Zim had fallen asleep.

Then, he squirmed slightly, and the uninjured antenna rose just a bit. "Y'know… I never properly expressed my gratitude. For… saving my life, I mean…" He seemed to have trouble forming the thought; the strange idiosyncrasies in his speech collided with his drunkenness.

Dib perked up, staring inquisitively at Zim's back. But the Irken had gone silent again. Then:

"Invaders dun' hold such… sentiments." Something caught in his throat at the end of the sentence, and he dipped his head down. His voice had brusquely shifted to a peculiar, almost bitter tone. He was quiet for a moment, pondering his last words thoughtfully. Then, in a very soft voice, "Thank you, human."

Dib stared at him, dumbfounded. His lips pulled down at the corners.

He thought about what Skoodge had told him. "He has a right to know."

Without thinking, he emulated the very same glance Skoodge had given his laptop after speaking those words. He knew showing Zim the recording would destroy him from the inside out.

Once more, though, Skoodge's voice echoed in his mind, contesting the thought. "He'll have to accept it eventually. He's more resilient than you think he is."

Dib drew in a breath and bit down on his tongue. Then, before he could lose his nerve, the words spluttered out.

"Zim… there's something I really need to show you."

The Irken lifted his head ever so slightly. He turned around.

"I mean, I should have shown it to you a long time ago…" Dib went quiet as he lifted the laptop off the ground and opened it.

Straightaway, he struggled to accurately type in his password. Most of it could be attributed to anxiety rather than tipsiness, though, as his hands trembled noticeably over the keyboard.

When he finally managed to type it out correctly, he was instantly greeted with the recording, set up and ready to play. Just as it had been when he'd last opened the laptop.

Numbly, he realized that Zim had found his way over and was sitting against the wall beside him. His busted antenna was almost touching Dib's arm.

Before he could allow his rational mind to make a brief appearance from beyond what liquid courage had been bestowed onto him, Dib pressed play.

His knee-jerk reaction was to look down at the ground, away from Zim and away from his computer. The grunt-like noises of the Irken language rose from the speakers.

A couple minutes in, he spared an accidental glance up at the screen and realized it still had the subtitles up. Of course, they weren't really necessary for Zim, but he didn't dare budge.

The video rolled on, and Dib couldn't bear to look at the Irken beside him.

He heard the smattering of voices, some deeper and some higher. Some louder and some a bit more distant. He didn't know the language, but he'd heard the recording so often, he felt as though he might as well. Every lilt and pause had been branded into his memory.

At last, the speaking tapered off, and white noise took over in its absence.

Dib ventured a glance over at Zim for the first time, immediately trying to gauge his reaction.

The Irken's face was perfectly still, both fuchsia eyes somewhat glazed. His lips, however, were pursed tightly.

"Zim?"

"Lies," came the nearly inaudible response. He hiccupped softly.

"Zim, I know this is hard for you to a—"

"—LIES!" Zim erupted. Placing his hands on the ground in front of him, he unsteadily made his way to his feet. "Thuh Tallest wouldn' ever say that! This… this is wunna your schemes! Yeaah! You're tryna sabotage me, or somethin'!"

He pointed accusingly at Dib, wobbling a bit from the effort.

"What are you talking about?" Dib demanded. Though his voice slurred a bit as well, it was nothing compared to Zim's. "You're saying I faked it? Wh-how the fuck would I have been able to do that?!"

Zim stammered for a bit. "I-It's easy tuh fake these things! Dun act like y'haven't done it before!"

"Zim," Dib said, beginning to get angry. "Your Tallest don't care about you. What you want to do now is a suicide mission. I can't just let you kill yourself over them. Listen to reason!"

"NO! YOU LISTEN TUH REASUN!" Zim yelled. He took a jerky step forward. "You jus—"

He stopped abruptly, his face contorting.

For a moment, it looked as if he were about to break into another coughing fit. Then, a queasy look passed over him, and Dib swore he somehow went a few shades greener.

Dib cringed, two parts exasperation and one part disgust taking form over his features as he anticipated what was about to happen.

Sure enough, Zim clamped a hand over his mouth and retreated to the far end of the cell, where the noises of him sicking up half a bottle of cheap vodka echoed around the concrete walls.

Dib buried his face in his hands and shook his head, waiting for Zim to be finished.

At last, he finished coughing, and Dib turned around to continue arguing with him. A dull thud beat him to it, though, and right as he faced him, he was met with Zim passed out face-down on the ground.

He stood up, crossing the distance between them, and sat down next to the Irken's motionless body. Zim was breathing softly. It almost sounded peaceful, contrasting weirdly with the bout of anger he'd just displayed.

Dib knew showing him the recording would not be a pleasant experience. Even so, his old visions of it seemed to pale in comparison with what had actually transpired.

He sat there dumbly, unsure of what to do now. Eventually, he went back to the other end of the cell, closed his laptop, and shut his eyes.

-x-

By the time Dib roused himself awake and peeked at his computer, the time indicated that several hours had passed. He lifted his head, then immediately lowered it when throbbing pain hit him full force.

Behind him, he heard a low moan. "Poison… Why did I trust you? Stinking human…"

"Whut?" Dib muttered.

"You poisoned me," Zim reiterated. Another pitiful moan followed.

Dib pulled himself up on his elbows and stared at Zim through squinted eyes. "Then why the hell would I poison myself, too? Idiot."

The Irken didn't respond. He was lying on his front, head turned towards Dib. His eyes were also squinted nearly to a close.

Dib sat pressed against the wall, covering his head with his arms. If he'd thought far enough ahead to think about the aftermath of passing the time with hard booze, he probably wouldn't have even suggested it. Hell, he doubted he have even brought it with him in the first place. Both choices had been spur of the moment, though, and neither had been very smart.

They both laid on opposite ends of the jail cell, nursing their respective hangovers.

Zim continually pulled at his antennae, groaning, and screwing his eyes shut.

Dib stayed sitting up, raising his head every now and then to open his laptop and check the time. "Zim?" he asked eventually.

"Hmmmm…" Zim grumbled in response.

"Do you remember… anything from last night? I mean—"

"—No."

The response was curt and far louder than anything Zim had said so far. Dib looked over his arms at him, but the Irken had gone back to grumbling incoherently and massaging his temples.

"Are you sure you don't? You don't remember—"

"—No."

It was spoken in the same manner, a touch more forceful.

They didn't exchange any other words. They simply waited as the hours ticked by, eventually taking out their weapons and hiding them within easy reach when the time drew closer.

Zim had pulled a small handgun from his PAK. Dib had been left to scrounge for anything he could use to protect himself, finally settling on the last of the water in his stainless-steel bottle. It was better than nothing, and he figured he could use it to briefly incapacitate any Irkens who might try to stop him. Still… even he had to admit it was rather pathetic.

Time passed, and the pounding in Dib's head slowly faded to a more manageable ache. It seemed Zim's had as well, for he had gone completely silent save for the occasional cough.

No one came.

Dib had been tracking the hours on his laptop, growing wary when the rotation time Zim had stated came and went. Then another hour trailed along. And another thirty minutes after that.

"This isn't right," Dib said, walking up to the bars and looking as far down the hall as he could before it turned the corner. "I haven't even heard any guards."

He waited for Zim to say something smug or mocking, but no answer came. When he turned and looked at the Irken, he seemed distracted.

"Then we're just going to have to figure our way out ourselves," Zim said finally, wincing and raising a hand to his temple.

"Are you serious?"

"I'm not staying in this cell with you any longer than I have to, Stink-beast." Zim began scanning the area, finally settling his gaze on the door the guards had left ajar the night before. "We can try to find anything they might have left in there. Maybe there's a key."

Dib watched as Zim copied his motions from before when he had retrieved the backpack. A single PAK leg carefully pulled the door further open.

"Well? Do you see anything in there?" Zim asked impatiently.

"No," came Dib's monotone answer. "I can't see anything that far away without my glasses."

Zim pushed Dib out of the way, muttering something under his breath as he did so. Dib caught the words "useless human".

At his new vantage point, Zim squinted into the dark room. On the far end, he spotted a locked file cabinet.

Dib looked on through his own nearsighted perspective as Zim ignited a laser cutter at the end of his PAK leg. The tip of it glowed blue, then plunged into the side of the metal cabinet like a hot knife through butter.

The PAK leg finally connected back to where it started, forming a lopsided circle. A disarmingly loud clang reverberated throughout the room and surrounding area as the piece of metal fell to the ground.

Both Zim and Dib instinctively recoiled, then turned their attention to the doorway around the corner. Zim's single working antenna visibly strained to hear.

"I'll be lookout," Dib said, taking note of it. He moved closer to the edge of the cell to listen for incoming guards.

Zim returned his attention to the cabinet, rifling through the drawers with his PAK leg, occasionally spilling contents onto the floor to better identify them in the darkness.

Dib listened closely for guards, somehow both relieved and skeptical when he didn't hear them. What was going on? Why had they been so agitated the night before? Enough so that they left their office door open? For guards that protected the most important building in Irk's capital, it was beyond strange for them to be so inattentive.

The distinct clatter of keys on the ground reached Dib's eardrums. He immediately snapped his head towards Zim, eyes wide.

-x-

Minutes later, they stood just beyond the double doors, brandishing their weapons closely against their chests.

Dib had traded out his pithy form of self-defense for a small handgun he had found in another of the office's drawers after Zim had unlocked the cell.

Now, he looked down at it nervously, unsure of whether he could bring himself to use it. He'd never held a gun in his life, never mind fired one.

With a terse nod from Zim, though, he swallowed back his misgivings and braced himself.

At the same time, the two burst out of the double doors.

Dib's heart skipped a beat, sure he would be eye to eye with at least one guard standing outside.

Instead, the halls were utterly empty. Not a single person, guard or otherwise, was in sight.

"W…where did they all go?" Dib looked around. His suspicion from before came flooding back tenfold. "Something isn't right here."

Zim scowled. "Sure, complain about everything, even when it works in our favor. I don't have time for this!"

He was glancing around fervently as he spoke. Just as he was about to dash off, though, he paused mid-step. Turning back to Dib, he straightened up and cleared his throat. "I bid you farewell, Dib beast. I hope that when you die at the hands of the palace guards, it's a quick and painless death."

Dib's face contorted into a pained grimace and his fingers tightened around the little handgun. "Uh, thanks."

Zim had already turned his back on him without waiting for a response, though.

He followed his retreating form with his eyes as the Irken sprinted down the hallway and out of sight.

A heavy silence fell over the area, and Dib listened closely for any footsteps or signs of guards nearby. None came.

Even so, it did little to reassure him. He pressed himself against the wall, staring down each end of the hallway as he considered his next move. Zim had seemed to have his own plan worked out immediately upon breaking out of the jail cell.

Dib sighed.

It was easy to feel stress towards things he had smidgens of control over. This was different. It was the feeling of defeat that came with knowing he had officially done everything within his power, only to be met with dead air.

Not only had he gone above any moral obligation, but he had exhausted every ounce of effort he could muster for another person.

It was unfortunately an all too familiar sensation. One he'd felt countless times at skool around his peers. He'd experienced it at home, too. He could set up an entire presentation with solid evidence of the paranormal—and he had, many times—but it would only be shot down by everyone.

Why did I feel like this situation would be any different?

He wished he had time to answer that.

Dib's hand drifted to his pocket, tracing the outline of the flash drive.

The only instance in which he actually wanted time to reflect on his losses was the only instance where time would no longer be granted to him.

Not now.

Now, he had to turn that attention on to his main priority: finding the Control Brains and showing them the truth to ensure Earth's safety.

Taking another deep breath, he quietly headed down the hall.

Shortly after he left, a guard darted down the same stretch of hall, visibly frazzled. Clutched in one hand was a plasma blaster, and the visor of his helmet was lowered over his face.

A radio hummed from his belt; his superior officer on the other end. "Bring all guards to the perimeter of the building! Meekrobian forces have been detected on Irken grounds."

Chapter Text

Do not think. Do not think. Get to the Tallest. They will sort everything out. Do not think.

The mantra went on and on through his head, working in tempo to his footsteps. Zim had slowed to a hunched walk through the empty halls after ensuring he was out of Dib's sight.

The Tallest must be wondering where I've been all this time. Yes, of course they are.

He hugged his chest numbly and picked up his stride.

They haven't been able to reach me on that garbage heap of a ship Tak had left behind. Of course. Do not think. Do not think. Do not—

The constant internal chanting was interrupted by a wide pane of glass that caught his eyes, startling him. He stopped, then turned to face his own reflection. A shallow intake of breath whistled through his teeth. He frowned.

The mark of the Irken elite that had been neatly stamped on his forehead was now smudged down towards his left temple. He lifted a shaky hand and tried to rub away the worst of it with his index finger.

When he dropped his arm again, he realized just how bedraggled the rest of him looked. His antennae were both askew, the fabric of his lavish uniform was noticeably wrinkled, and, on top of it all, he still smelled faintly of Dib's horrid human "alcohol."

He made hasty attempts to tidy himself, brushing over the long fabric of his tunic with both palms and fidgeting with the gaudy accessories on his uniform. He stood in different sideways poses, trying in vain to choose one that would best conceal the bent end of his antenna.

In the midst of it, his eyes went slightly distant, and he found himself staring dimly towards the mirrored sight of his own face. His heart began to beat faster and faster.

No! Do not think. Do not think! Get to the Tallest!

He pinched his eyes shut and abruptly turned his back on his reflection, continuing down the broad hallway. His eyes wandered only to read plaques above doors or signs at the ends of hallways for clues as to where he should be going.

Despite residing in the barracks directly beside the palace grounds in the early days of his military training, he had never once been inside the palace itself. It was an honor reserved for only the most exclusive of the Irken race. Only they and trusted ambassadors from other planets were allowed in.

Zim made his way to a large elevator door and pressed down on the button beside it. It opened, and in the same half-aware manner, he stepped inside.

Do not think.

The inside of the lift resembled his own only in basic architecture. It was far larger, far more lavish, and constructed out of more expensive materials. Unlike his, its walls were opaque, sparing the presence of any wiring or tubing in the walls.

It lazily came to a stop on the top floor, where Zim remembered the broad window leading to the Tallest's main chambers. At least, that's what he had been taught. The throne room was settled at the very top of the palace—symbolically so, as the highest floors were reserved for the most elite. He could still remember his squadron remarking upon it during their first days above ground as smeets. "You see those windows? That's where the Tallest lives! That way, she can look down on the entire city."

By the time it reopened, Zim was greeted with a luxurious interior setting that contrasted quite sharply with the cold, drafty chamber he and Dib had been jailed in. Even the finest bunkers belonging to the highest of Irken nobility seemed mundane compared to the pure grandeur of the Tallest's palace.

Broad hallways opened out, doors lining each side. In thin, dainty Irken script, the descriptions of each room were written. It did not take Zim long to see which room would lead to the Tallest's throne room.

The two largest double doors he had ever seen stood at the other end of the hall, facing him dauntingly. The doors were engraved with decorative patterns, clearly the work of some sort of metal worker. It was quite unusual for Irkens to focus on aesthetics rather than strictly what was most practical, but the palace had always been an exception. It could spare the industrial status quo of Irken design in the name of extravagance. Art, in this case, seemed to be used as a weapon, existing to win over the envy of anyone who bore witness to the palace.

Zim drew his feet towards the entrance, the same three words still echoing with each footfall.

Do not think.

He didn't notice the thin streak of light peering out from between the two heavy doors, hinting that they were slightly ajar. It shot across the floor before fading off down the hall.

Do not think, do not think.

He stopped in front of it, only faintly acknowledging a green smudge on the ground at his feet. His eyes flicked away from it and back again at the engraved doors.

With bated breath, he pushed them inward, his eyes suddenly focusing back in. They frantically searched for and almost immediately fell upon the two figures.

"My Tallest!" he breathed, breaking into a relieved smile.

His legs picked up speed, clearing the large, spacious room that separated him from his leaders. As he did so, the Tallest's faces slowly sharpened into view, not excited at the sight of Zim as he originally assumed, but rapt with terror.

His broad grin faltered at the edges.

Suddenly, as if smoke were clearing to reveal every little detail, his eyes took in more and more.

The inside of the Tallest's throne room was just as lavish as its entrance doors would suggest. Heavily adorned and commodious, it was designed to hold ceremonies and large gatherings. The large window he always remembered seeing from the military base next door was now covered with heavy drapes, making the lighting dim as the sun fought its way from between the fabric in tiny rays.

At the end of the room, the Tallest's thrones stood side by side on a raised platform with several small steps leading up. The first odd thing Zim noticed upon closing the distance was that they were not sitting on their thrones, though. Rather, they were hunched unnaturally beside them.

His expression froze, trying to process what he was looking at.

They were shackled beyond movement.

Both Irkens were on their knees as if they were kneeling before a superior. From dipped chins, strong metal restraints wrapped around their heads, preventing them from making any noise beyond urgent, muffled grunts. Further down, both arms were pulled behind their backs, wrists clamped with the very same cuffs the Irken palace guards had used to detain Zim. The cuffs curled around to cup their PAKs as well, preventing any defensive measures.

"My Tallest?" Zim repeated. He had slowed to a stop, his feet suddenly heavy.

They seemed to be looking not at him, but straight through him, at something he could not see. Instinctually, he twisted around and looked behind himself.

Two bright, narrowed eyes fell upon his.

Larb stepped from the shadows, a half-deranged smile stretched across his face. His clothes were just as raggedy as ever, stained with both new and old blood.

Zim's breath caught in his throat. His brain did not want to comprehend what he was seeing. It was too implausible. Too insane.

His eyes caught on a particularly bright stain on his tunic, and the green smudges on the floor outside the doors suddenly flashed back into his mind with new significance.

Blood. It was blood he had seen.

"Here to taunt me?" came Larb's stilted words. He seemed hardly surprised to see him, somehow. His smile quivered at his lips. "I'm not afraid of you, defective."

One hand lifted, revealing the gossamer light emanating from his plasma blaster as he held it out in front of him.

"What's going on, Larb…?" Zim asked tentatively, paralyzed where he stood. For the first time in a very long time, his tone was level. Meek.

Larb dissolved into the most unsettling laughter Zim had ever heard, strange squeals of every pitch bursting from between his lips. "What's going on? I know what's going on. I-I should have known from the start what was going on!" he rambled, the words flowing together almost incoherently. "I should have known after nothing else in the known universe could kill you. It's impossible! I couldn't do it with the toxin, and I couldn't do it after they forced me to do it."

He gestured towards the Tallest with the barrel of his gun, and both their eyes flashed in terror at the motion.

Zim's muscles tensed. He shook his head over and over, still staring at Larb as if he were speaking another language. "How did you even get in here? What are you trying to do? This… this doesn't make sense."

Larb simply laughed again, just as madly as before. "How did I get in here?" he repeated back. "How did I get in here? Who would be worthier of a private meeting with the Almighty Tallest than the conqueror of Vort? It's easy to get in when you mean something!" An odd, even more distant look passed over his already glazed eyes. "It's just a shame the guards didn't see it that way…" He brushed at the large stain on his tunic with one hand.

Zim still stared at him incredulously.

Larb swallowed hard, seemingly unaware of Zim's second question. His thoughts were spewing from his mind without any sort of aim. "It's like a curse." His voice cracked, and for a moment, it sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "Trying to kill you. You… just… won't… die!"

Zim was trying to inch his way closer, looking for a way to distract Larb. At his words, though, he stalled. Their eyes met.

"You're insane…" Zim said quietly.

In a rush of instant regret, he found himself with the gun in his face instead as Larb rounded on him.

"No! I'm not insane! You're insane! The Tallest are insane for blackmailing me into going outside my programming to murder you! And that's why they must die!"

He turned resolutely back to the Tallest and aimed his gun directly at them.

"NO!" At once, Zim found his legs again. He dove after Larb, tackling him before his finger could press down on the trigger.

Larb stumbled and fell onto his knees, the gun flying from his claw. The shape of it gleamed through the air briefly, then went tumbling down the steps and out of sight.

Instead of appearing distraught or angered, however, he simply laughed from his spot on the ground, pinned beneath Zim's weight. It was a single ugly guffaw that came from the recesses of his throat. "Funny you would care. Considering you were responsible for the deaths of two Tallest."

Zim's face drained of color. "I-I," he stuttered. "That wasn't—" His attempts at speech dissolved into an infuriated growl. "That wasn't the same! What you are doing is treason to the highest degree!"

Larb looked unabashed. Amused, even. "What? Not the same? Because this sounds exactly the same to me, except this is on purpose. Unlike you, I'm not a failure! I mean what I do! I meant what I did the night of the progress convention! And on the desert planet! And in your pathetic little hovel on Earth!"

His rambling seemed to fuel his resolve. Zim felt the ports on Larb's PAK begin to shift and open. On instinct, he leapt off him and watched as four limbs emerged and curled around Larb's stooped form. They flickered once, twice, then lit up in a violent blue around him. His eyes glinted as the light flowed from the ends, pointed outwards.

"If only you had died that night on Conventia like you were supposed to."

Suddenly, a white-hot blast of plasma shot through the room, exploding between the two of them.

Both raised their heads, turning towards the source of it. A plume of smoke rose from the doorway, tendrils of it rising to the ceiling.

As it cleared, Dib's panic-stricken face became visible.

The tiny handgun he'd swiped from the office was held at chest-height, pointed away from him. His bloodshot eyes were enormous. Whether it was because of what he had walked in on, or because he had accidently discharged the gun was anyone's guess.

Zim's own eyes went impossibly wider.

Dib stood paralyzed in one spot. He glanced from one face to another. At last, when he spoke, it was directed towards Larb. "You did it. You were the one who attacked me on Earth. You were the one on Conventia…"

A brief, enraged flicker danced across the Irken's previously unfocused eyes as recognition set in and replaced the blank look he'd given Dib. "Here to rescue the defective again?" he finally growled.

Dib closed his mouth and took a couple of fearful steps back, still eying Larb. He'd taken the flash drive out of his pocket, and it was now clutched in one sweaty fist. In the other, he still held the gun out, but it wobbled noticeably in his hand. He was uncertain of his next move, continually shooting glances back at Zim as if he would know and somehow be able to relay information to him.

Larb broke the silence with a low, derisive mutter. "What did he ever mean to you anyway? Something more than your own life? More than this?"

A laser shot out from the tip of one ignited PAK leg, and Dib reflexively swept out of the way.

"Or this?" Another shot. "Was it worth becoming my target practice?" His words, hardly making a lick of sense, continued to gurgle from his mouth, interspersed with laughter.

He shot again. Then a fourth time. Each shot was off by several feet, more or less. He seemed to be shooting blindly, hardly focusing on Dib's exact location before firing off another one.

Dib, for his part, still reeled out of the way each time, clutching his handgun but too stricken to use it. Larb laughed maniacally, seeming to derive some sort of satisfaction at seeing him yelp and fearfully dive away.

At last, a fifth blast exploded near enough to Dib that it knocked him off his feet. He went skidding across the shined floor. He scrambled back up as quickly as his clunky ankle boot would permit.

All the while, Zim stood stock still, watching it all unfold. In his periphery, he saw movement, and he turned his eyes onto The Tallest, who struggled fruitlessly against the cuffs. He knew from firsthand experience that it was nearly impossible to free oneself from them without some sort of outside intervention.

He dashed onto the platform, stopping at their thrones and glancing around frantically. For what, he didn't know. A key? A code?

Without thinking, a PAK leg rose from behind him, lighting up into a welding tool. It plunged its way into the center of the cuff that bound Purple's wrists together, melting the metal like a knife through butter.

Purple gave a swift jerk of his wrists, and it broke away into two pieces, freeing his arms. He was still bound by his ankles, one of them attached to Red's, and specialized restraints wrapped around both their PAKs, preventing them from using their own tools.

Zim repeated the maneuver on the latter, digging into the metal only halfway before being compelled to look up. He did so just in time to see Larb fire another blast of electric blue. It exploded against the spot where Dib had just been.

Zim's heart churned in his chest, caught somewhere between panic and confliction.

Then, something on the floor caught his attention. A tiny rectangular object lay unassumingly near the area of clearing smoke that took the brunt of Larb's latest blast.

Dib very apparently saw it, too, for Zim caught one glimpse of his eyes, so wide with horror, the whites of them were visible even from across the vast room. Dib looked back at his attacker, then, on impulse, dove for the little flash drive.

Larb seemed to have enough lucidity to piece together what he was after. Aiming his gun at the spot where the flash drive lay—and where Dib was running towards—he pulled the trigger. It stopped just short of hitting Dib directly, but the ensuing blast sent him flying.

For the briefest moment, his body went airborne. He hit the ground several feet away with a sickening thud and lay still. Dib moaned, forcing his eyes open with some difficulty. A great shadow cast over him, and he looked up.

Larb was standing directly above him. A PAK leg curved behind him like the end of a scorpion. With a sadistic smile, it shot out, knifelike tip aimed straight for his forehead.

In the same instant, something flew into Dib's line of sight, and Larb suddenly crashed to the ground.

"That's my enemy, not yours!" Zim growled. He was raised up on his own PAK legs over Dib's form, poised for combat.

Larb grinned wickedly, getting to his feet. His eyes seemed to look through Zim. "T-this! This is why you were never meant to be an invader! This is why, you fool! Fraternizing with the stupid Earth creatures." A peal of laughter burst from his lips, right into Zim's face. "Pathetic!"

His PAK legs realigned around him, hoisting him into the air.

Just as before, back in the depths of Zim's base, they were crouched before each other, eyes narrowed into dangerous, blood-red slits.

Zim pounced, hitting Larb square in the jaw and trying to force him down on the ground.

One of Larb's own PAK legs emerged from behind him and sightlessly stabbed forward repeatedly, stopping only when it hit flesh.

Zim cried out out in pain and stumbled backwards. His hands clapped over the area above his brow, emerald green already seeping from between his fingers. A large gash across his forehead immediately began to ooze blood down his right temple and drip down to the ground below.

"I'll never know why you were even allowed to live in the first place. You're a blight on our entire race. You should have been the one to go! YOU!" Larb blathered, his entire body beginning to tremble. Every word that passed his lips sounded like his sanity had been through a blender and regurgitated back out.

Zim removed his hand from his forehead and gripped his glove in his teeth, pulling it off to reveal his claws. He threw them headlong towards Larb's eyes before immediately whipping his head back towards the Tallest.

Purple had been able to free one port from his PAK and was trying to ignite the tip to form a welding tool like Zim's.

The moment Zim's eyes returned to Larb, the Irken was glaring at him madly, right eye watering and red. As soon as Larb realized where his gaze had been, Zim felt his heart lurch. He could practically see the frayed sinews of Larb's broken mind working, remembering why he had even come here in the first place.

Murderous rage gleamed in the Irken's eyes. He resolutely pushed past Zim before the latter could react and dipped down near the bottom step of the platform, right where his plasma blaster had been thrown. He scooped it up and then summoned his PAK legs yet again. This time, they did not spread around him and lift him up; rather, they rose high in the air and intertwined with the rafters on the ceiling, simultaneously lifting him out of reach and giving him the highest ground possible.

There, he aimed the gun towards the top of the platform, right where Red was hunched over, still trying to mutilate the cuffs binding his ankles enough to slip out of them.

Zim had an instant to decide his next maneuver, and without thinking, he dove towards the platform towards the Tallest.

The throne nearest the window took the brunt of the shot. The plasma ate away at it, melting it down in a distorted heap of metal and noxious-smelling smoke. It clogged Zim's lungs, making him double over and cough.

He ducked over the back of the throne and retrieved his own gun from his PAK. He shot out in Larb's direction, unsure of whether he was making contact. Larb's plasma blaster was far more dangerous than the previously forgotten handgun Zim was wielding.

The Tallest, only able to emote with their eyes, looked from Zim to Larb. They had gone from strategically escaping from their bindings to hysterically pulling at the final cuffs in vain attempts to get away from the volleys of plasma flying inches away from them.

Larb saw this and threw his head back, the pitch of his laugh lilting up and down. "What's the matter?" he shouted towards them. "Need the defective to save you? Cleared out the space in your PAKs where military training used to be? I guess that's easy to do after you've become Tallest!" He fired over their heads, laughing again as they doubled back on their desperate attempts to free themselves.

Zim raised his gun and sent another round towards Larb. This time, his blast connected with one of his PAK legs, still supporting him from the rafters.

Sparks flew, followed closely by Larb as he leapt from his spot on the ceiling and landed unsteadily back to the ground. The PAK leg had been blown apart at the joint. Instead of sucking itself back into the PAK, though, it hung awkwardly like a frayed wire.

Larb glared daggers at Zim and began shooting at him again.

Back and forth they went, Zim popping up over the melted throne to quickly aim and fire. Larb seemed to aim only in the general direction of his target, making up for it in the frequency of his blasts.

About a hundred feet away, in the corner of the room was Dib. He had dragged himself into a sort of crooked sitting position, consumed with staring down at a mangled jumble of scorched black shrapnel that had once been his flash drive.

Zim ducked back behind the throne as Larb shot another round, then raised his head just in time to see Dib turn his head towards them.

Despite what was currently transpiring, and the fact that he was still in very real danger, Dib did not run or hide. He was not trying to duck for cover at the repeated gunfire.

He very slowly lifted his head and stared at Larb, who was facing away from him. Even from a distance, Zim could see that his watery eyes were filled with undeniable scorn.

Then, the boy slowly raised his own gun at shoulder level, pausing in an attempt to steady it. With some difficulty, he cocked it. Then fired. The bullet shot off several feet away from his target.

Larb froze, then turned halfway, having completely forgotten Dib's existence. Right as he did so, another shot blew from the end of Dib's gun.

Like a light switch, the chaos ceased. Everything went silent.

Larb stood perfectly still, shock painted across his face. Then, his own gun slipped from his fingers, followed almost instantly by both legs giving out beneath him. He dropped to the floor facedown.

A small, blotchy circle of blood began to form on his left side, just above his hip. It started slowly, then quicker and quicker, it spread. It claimed all the territory it could through his ripped and ragged tunic, expanding onto the floor in a growing puddle of green.

Larb was dead.

Absently, Zim could see the Tallest cease their frenzied attempts at escaping as they both froze in their spots. He did not turn to face his leaders, though. He did not look towards Dib, whose face was sallow and seeming to cycle through multiple emotions.

Instead, Zim's eyes remained on Larb's body. Or more specifically, the untouched PAK still attached to it. "Dib. Move." It was uttered in a voice so strained, it was difficult to hear.

Dib looked at Zim, bewildered. He was still on the floor near the prone Irken, holding the smoking gun in both hands.

All of a sudden, several things happened at once. Just as Dib glanced back at Larb's body, four PAK legs erupted out of it and flew upward. They curled, then three touched back down to the ground, arranging themselves protectively around the corpse like a spider's legs surrounding its thorax. Larb's body rose inches above the ground, hanging flaccidly from the PAK as the mechanical limbs crawled across the tiled floor.

Dib tried to stumble upwards, then, quickly abandoning the idea, scrambled away from it on his hands and knees.

The PAK crawled to where he had just been, spewing lasers from whatever ammunition had been left. It fired everywhere in the vicinity, adding to the dark char marks etched into the floors and walls from prior blasts.

Leaping over the ruined throne he'd been taking cover behind, Zim ran towards it, dodging laser blasts as they glided within inches of him.

Dib continued to lurch backwards. His leg dragged along the floor as he, too, flinched away from them.

At last, Zim ducked beneath the poised PAK legs, freezing for one single moment as he became enclosed by them.

Larb's corpse swung limply within the cage that had surrounded them. The PAK was programmed to sense and destroy any enemy force that might tamper with either biological host or mechanical shell.

Zim turned just in time to see the tip of a PAK leg slicing through the air and towards his face. He narrowly evaded it. As soon as the leg was grounded again, another one repeated the move, trying, as it had been encoded, to skewer him.

Just as before, Zim flitted around it, heart hammering in his chest. As it missed him, he took the split-second opportunity to lunge towards the PAK still affixed to Larb's back, wrapping his fingers around and beneath it. With all his might, he pulled at it.

For a moment, it didn't budge. He could feel the PAK legs stumble and twist.

He pulled again, and this time he heard a distinct click. The PAK legs whipped back into their ports in an instant, sending both Zim and Larb's corpse crashing to the ground.

Zim landed roughly on his side, trying not to lose his grip on the PAK. He quickly recovered and got to his knees. With a final forceful tug, it came free from Larb, a smudged, bloody dome that Zim now held helplessly in both hands.

For a spell, it felt as though time had stopped. At once, with the abrupt ceasing of any more immediate threats, Zim felt his skyrocketing adrenaline begin to dip. He very slowly pushed his way to his feet, hearing his shaky breathing and not much else.

He looked around the room in something of a daze, taking in the damage. It had been absolutely obliterated. Wires and tubes hung sparking overhead, monitors had been blown to smithereens. The more decorative and ornate features of the room hardly resembled anything more than scrap metal.

At last, his drifting eyes stopped to rest on Dib. He was still very clearly shaken, looking from Zim to the remains of his flash drive, back to Zim, and over to the Tallest in rapid succession.

The Tallest.

Slowly, Zim turned around.

The two were almost completely free, having fully separated their wrists from the cuffs and the restraints from their PAKs. Red was still fumbling with the last cuff that held both their ankles together, stabbing it repeatedly with the end of one PAK leg.

The only other things that remained were the restraints that had been placed around their heads and over their mouths, preventing them from speaking.

Zim, in the silence that had settled over them, quietly bent down over Larb's body, searching his pockets and coming away with a small remote control.

He walked up to the platform and stopped directly in front of the thrones to face the Tallest. With the press of a button, Red's restraint clicked open, followed closely by Purple's.

For a time, they simply stared at one another.

At last, Red stood to his full height. "Look what you've done," he finally said, gesturing to the blood on the ground at his feet. His voice, though hardly raised, still echoed throughout the room.

Zim held Larb's PAK to his chest tightly as his antennae peeled back against his skull. His expression, previously fraught and rigid, faltered a bit. "W-what? What do you mean? I—"

"—Save it. Neither of us want to hear it," Red snapped.

"Yeah!" Purple exclaimed accusingly. "You drove Larb to insanity! None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you."

Zim swallowed thickly, confusion washing over him. His heart was still throbbing in his chest, trying to calm itself after cheating death. "How could that be? Zim did nothing," he squeaked out. "I-I rescued you, my Tallest! If it weren't for me—"

"—If it weren't for you, we would not have lost our most influential invader, and Irk's capital would not be under attack right now!" Red shouted, more rage building behind his voice with this second interjection.

A part of his brain began to stir restlessly, looking for some sort of retort. Some sort of explanation that could paint Zim out favorably. Anything. A smug smile. A laugh he could even halfway imitate. His mind reeled, urgently searching to supply him with something.

Nothing came. Instead, he parted his lips slowly. "Irk… under attack?" The feeling of the words on his tongue made him feel sick.

"Just look! Look outside!" Came Purple's immediate response. One skeletal finger stabbed through the air, pointing vehemently towards the closed drapes.

Still holding the bloodied PAK close to him, Zim tensed up, then shuffled slowly towards the window.

The part of his mind that wasn't desperately scrambling to repair the breech in his ego was now struggling to make sense of his current actions. He walked as if he were in a nightmare, his legs feeling as if they were working of their own accord. This wasn't the status quo as far as he was concerned.

The Tallest, his beloved leaders, would never steer him wrong. They adored him. Trusted him. Gave him a mission, and a SIR Unit, answered calls with wide smiles and laughs, and promised him he was making Irk proud.

After all, they had always had an unusual sense of humor that Zim had hardly understood. Could it be that this was all a joke? Was it an elaborate test of some sort? Yes! Surely, it was!

Halfway along, he turned and looked back at the Tallest, hoping to confirm this. Perhaps they would drop the act. Instead, Zim felt an unexpected jolt of electricity shoot through him at the pure venom in their eyes.

He lifted one hand and pulled the drapes aside just enough to see what was on the other side.

His eyes widened.

Outside, far beyond the gates, were legions of Irken soldiers, all pointed away from the grounds. Though he couldn't see what they were fighting, Zim could see ammunition flying from both directions from hazy clouds of smoke.

"The Meekrobian army has attempted to lay siege over Altua," he heard behind him.

"I don't understand," he said finally, willing an edge to his voice. He turned and let the drapes fall behind him. "Surely, my Tallest. You… you are under stress. You speak madness. How could this be my fault?"

"You put us in this situation! Because of you, we had to carry out the declaration of war!" Purple yelled.

Red still seethed with anger beside him. "I'll tell you how it's your fault, Zim," he growled lowly.

Zim's antennae flicked his way, eyes wide.

"It all started when you proved you were unable to be a competent trainee, scientist, invader, or even an exile without causing mass chaos. Nothing could stop you. Not even our attempts to put shmillions of miles of distance between you and the Empire. Did you really think your 'mission' was real? That we ever had any intention of claiming Earth? After this long?"

Once again, Zim's brain went through the motions, looking for some way to brush off Red's words. Instead, he could only stare into the taller Irken's face, feeling as if he were pinned beneath a microscope, unable to flee the scrutiny he was currently under. "But my Tallest—"

"—Did you actually think any of the real invaders at the progress convention hadn't already conquered their planets years earlier?"

Zim's eyes shone with confusion.

"We summoned them for a reason. Your existence evaluation did nothing to rid us of you, so we took matters into our own hands. All you had to do to make Irk proud was die, and you couldn't even do that. Instead, your diseased body had to enter a bio scanner and alert the Control Brains. They panicked. Pressured us to declare war on Meekrob. This would have never happened if it wasn't for you. This war wouldn't exist!"

Red's face colored furiously with his last words.

Beside him, Purple piped up. "Once again, you are the common denominator in everything wrong with the state of Irk!"

Zim squeezed his eyes shut, as if this were all a horrible nightmare that he would will away. When he opened them again, a stirring of anguish shone across his face.

Red took a breath, then glared back at him. "You would have been better off dead years ago."

"No," Zim whimpered.

"Everything you touch goes to ruin!"

"Stop."

"You're broken!"

"Please. My Tallest—"

"—Defective!"

"I…I—"

"—All you do is destroy."

Any feeble reply Zim had abruptly became caught in his throat. Devastation broke across his face.

All you do is destroy.

That's all he had ever been told. All he'd ever held a reputation for.

Attempts at showing the Irken race he could be a respectable part of it—or at the very least, earn a shred of redemption in the eyes of his Empire—had been blighted with this label. It followed him everywhere he went.

It was supposed to have died with him…

He looked back down at his hands. His fingers shifted, sticky with the deep green blood that still coated the PAK. He looked at Dib, who looked more like a child than Zim had ever seen him. The human had stood up, and was slowly inching his way forward, perplexedly ogling the Irkens. In his still-trembling hands were the remains of the flash drive.

Zim's eyes dropped to the broken device, lingering for several seconds. Deep in the recesses of his mind, something stirred. An insane, reckless feeling that swept over his blank face and left his entire being feeling numb. It was a feeling that couldn't be explained to a single soul with any accuracy. It was beyond words.

It settled at surface level, somehow shrouding the carefully constructed wall that had been erected from birth. The very same wall that allowed Zim to grasp at control in his life. How he should have known it was only strong in his mind's eye… in reality, it held the flimsiest of support.

All he knew at that moment, was that one persistent, overpowering thought practically screamed out at him.

All I do is destroy? Fine. I'll prove you right, then. I'll destroy.

Without blinking the haze away, he clenched the PAK closer in his hands and took one step forward. Whether it was bold or weak and jerky, he did not know. He did not care.

His eyes were set on one room, nestled just away from the Tallest's thrones. He knew what was inside. He'd learned it many years ago in a smeethood class he'd long since forgotten about. Beyond the doors was the Supreme Control Brain, sometimes surrounded by other Brains, sometimes destined to stand vigil alone.

He walked towards the door, ignoring the sudden change in atmosphere that broke out around him.

"What are you doing?" Purple demanded. When he got no answer, he shouted it again with more force, causing his words to echo off the walls. Again, he was ignored.

"Stop at once, Zim!" Red began to yank again at the final binding encased around his and Purple's legs.

Zim ignored him, continuing to breeze onwards.

He didn't pay any heed to Red's and Purple's continued shouts, though they buzzed faintly in his ear like the sound of background noise in a crowded room. He didn't hear Dib as he shifted and stepped forward, quietly calling Zim's name in a raspy, confused voice.

He walked towards the door in a dream. It opened, revealing a perfectly pristine conference room that gaped inward and contrasted quite sharply with the destruction of the room he'd come from.

At the end of the darkened room was the silhouette of the Supreme Control Brain.

Zim walked across the threshold, still holding the PAK against his chest. His heart, by all accounts, should have been bursting out of his chest, and yet it quieted significantly. Just like the room he was standing in, it remained almost eerily calm.

His eyes had immediately latched onto the Brain, not leaving it despite its lack of activation. It was in a sort of hibernation mode.

Zim stopped and stood before it for just a fraction of a second before he was tackled to the ground, causing him to practically throw the PAK across the room. It went skidding across the floor, leaving streaks of blood in its wake before coming to a stop several feet away.

"STOP THIS!" roared a voice in his antennae. "How dare you defy your Tallest?"

Zim had wrestled his way from Red, trying to reach for the PAK lying nearby. He finally made contact with it and snatched it up again in his arms, holding it so that the curved side was pressed against his abdomen.

Red began trying to wrench his arms away from it, shouting a constant stream of vitriol at him. Behind him, Purple yelled something as well, but it was lost in the commotion.

At once, a bright light erupted throughout the room.

All of them stopped abruptly, practically falling over themselves by the blinding light.

Despite every instinct telling him not to, Zim turned, squinting, towards the source of it. The many ports coming from the Supreme Brain had erupted into spectacular illumination as it came to life. It held this intensity, then dimmed to a softer glow before its audience.

Zim hadn't even noticed that Red had ceased his attempts to pull the PAK away from him. The Tallest was staring at the Brain, looking dumbstruck. Over one shoulder, Purple mirrored the expression.

"Tallest Red. Tallest Purple," it started, its voice both foreboding and disturbingly monotonous. "State your business. The latest orders demanded you to remain isolated in the throne room under armed security."

"It was breached," Purple began, a curt tinge peeking through his obvious fear.

The Brain remained silent for a moment. "Is this… tiny creature responsible for it?"

"No," spurted Purple's response. He shut his mouth tightly immediately upon saying the word.

For the first time, the Brain truly looked down upon Zim, his military fatigues stained with both his and Larb's blood.

"State your business, Irken soldier."

Zim's mouth was slightly open. With a swallow and a flicker of something in his eyes most aptly resembling melancholy, he turned away fully from his Tallest. Both shoulders squared, he simply raised Larb's PAK over his head in front of the Brain.

A brief pin drop silence passed. Then, a long tube trailed from behind the PAK, attaching itself to the topmost port and raising it from Zim's hands.

"What are you doing? Stop it! This wasn't an order from us!" Red barked at the Brain.

A booming voice spoke out in response. "The Irken who owned this PAK is clearly deceased. Regardless of the circumstances preceding it, the PAK's stored knowledge must be added to the collective."

Red shriveled where he stood.

The screen below the Brain sparked to life, sifting through Larb's life memories in rapid fire.

Zim continued to stand his ground, staring expressionlessly at the Supreme Brain. He could see glimpses here and there of little things he remembered.

The familiar halls and simulation rooms of their underground training academy during smeethood. Irk's skyscrapers just outside the invader training academy. The briefest glimpses of other Irkens of all shapes and sizes. Then, later on, Vortians of all shapes and sizes.

The memories cycled through, being added to the collective. Then, all of a sudden, they froze. On the monitor was a rather unassuming scene: a dark lot with an Irken Voot Runner parked nearby.

Then, like one of GIR's movies, memory slowly reversed itself on the screen and began playing again.

Zim watched through Larb's point of view as, in the darkness of the very same conference room as the progress convention, the other invaders spoke in low whispers. The Tallest's voices joined them.

"I'm sure you all know the real reason you're here. One day of listening to Zim make a fool of himself is a small price to pay for what we will accomplish tonight. Is there not a reason Zim wasn't invited to last year's progress convention? Or the year before?"

His body felt numb as he listened on. An almost nauseating feeling of déjà vu swept over him. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to watch it. And still, he continued to do both.

"Spearheaded by Invader Larb, it is essential that this mission be executed as discreetly as possible. We cannot afford to have anything come back to haunt us. It must look like an accident."

More words were spoken. Words he didn't want to hear. Words he couldn't bear to hear.

Then, Larb's head turned away from the Tallest and towards one of the invaders who had begun speaking.

"My Tallest, while the attempt to deactivate his SIR unit was unsuccessful, we do not believe it will hinder the mission. After we expose him to the J-636 toxin, his biological shell will gradually become too weakened to continue functioning. The cause of death will appear to be due to natural causes and will be documented as such by the Control Brains."

Larb's head turned back to the Tallest just in time to see their bright teeth shining in the darkness as satisfied grins stretched across their faces.

What followed were wobbly footsteps and muttering in the darkness. The same shot of Zim's Voot showed up across the screen, followed by an overshot view of Larb's hands fiddling with a large canister. He strapped it onto his back and held out the end of a tube to Invader Spleen before giving hushed directions to him.

The dark figures assembled around Zim's ship, staring at each other shrewdly and awaiting cues. For the briefest moment, a hissing sound arose as Larb twisted a knob on the side of the canister.

It had only hardly started before Dib's distress signal blared through the air and lit up the Voot.

All hell broke loose. The invaders scrambled, abandoning the mission. Larb looked to be following, but suddenly halted. He yelled something and threw the canister at a passing Irken, then beelined back towards the ship.

As the Voot grew closer, Zim could hear his own voice bellowing out from inside the Voot. "GIR! WHAT DID YOU DO?"

GIR mumbled something incomprehensible.

Then, Larb's wobbly point of view became even more disjointed as he climbed onto the hood of the Voot and pointed the gun forward. A shot blasted open the windshield, exposing the occupants within.

Zim was suddenly face to face with himself. The Zim in the memory stared back out at him, eyes enormous with horrified confusion. His face was dark with lack of oxygen and he could see his chest rising and falling uneasily as he tried to breathe through the haze of fumes in the cockpit.

The Brain froze on this image.

Zim stood in the glow the Supreme Brain, still facing away from everyone else. Without consciously realizing it, his joints buckled, and he fell to the floor on his knees. He stayed there for a moment with his head lowered.

Then, a deep sob rattled through his body. He sucked in a ragged lungful of air, only to release it in another, even louder, cry.

He didn't stir as someone appeared on the ground beside him. He hadn't even heard him enter the room, but he didn't object. Didn't move as arms wrapped around his body and held him close. Desperately, he threw his own arms around the sweaty figure and grasped it as if it were keeping him from falling off the edge of the world.

And as his world collapsed around him, Zim's cries filled the air while he and Dib clung to each other as if this gesture alone could smother the insufferable pain deep inside and choke it into nothingness.

Chapter Text

It could only have been a handful of seconds that Zim and Dib held their embrace. As they did, though, a floodgate seemed to open between them. It shattered any residual guardedness and animosity. It united them in their brokenness. In vulnerability, they clung to what was left.

Then, as quickly as it had formed, it was being forced apart. Tugged at so easily by yet another outside force. Dib opened his sunken eyes. Zim was being pulled away from him somehow.

He let go, staring dumbstruck at two heavy cables that had surreptitiously wound their way around them and latched into the lowermost ports of Zim's PAK.

The cables lifted him into the air and whisked him directly in front of the Supreme Control Brain. On either side of Zim, the same had been done to both Tallest. All were at the mercy of the Brain, lifted by identical cables that had attached themselves to their PAKs.

Dib stood up, unsure of what to do or where to go. Before any sort of idea could take form in his head, a blast of light appeared inches from his face and permeated his vision in its ferocity. He startled, blinking back the smarting in his eyes. The light dimmed to a translucent glow, and he realized what it was. A forcefield had erected itself around him and locked him into place.

He began to panic, desperately glancing around for a means to escape.

It was useless.

The shield was an all-encompassing dome, transparent except for the vaguest tinge of blue.

The Brain spoke again, and something in the menacing, robotic boom demanded his attention, for he stopped what he was doing and looked up again.

"Whatever has occurred here has clearly been done with the intentional omission of authorization by the Irken Empire."

Instead of shrinking away or fighting the hold, all three captives were unnaturally submissive. They hung from the cables they were plugged into. Even so, they tensed up at the Brain's next words.

"Consequences will be in order."

Without any warning, Tallest Purple underwent some sort of spasm. His muscles twitched violently, then slackened. The ports on his PAK lit up all at once.

Upon the screen, a series of Irken characters appeared.

"Irken Almighty Tallest Purple. Smeetery clutch 6033231B. Royal Elite, squadron 713. Private First Class prior to inauguration. Inaugurated 4075th Tallest in Empire history."

Dib squinted at the screen. It must have been a chart of the Tallest's vital statistics.

The screen flickered, and Purple's memories flooded through much like Larb's had. In this case, however, it seemed that they were cycling through in reverse order, beginning with the most recent ones. They went by so quickly, only blurs and bursts of color could be seen.

Dib had to force his eyes away a few times. The flashing of light was an assault on the senses.

Every now and then, it would slow, and an occasional face or room could be made out. Several times, it stopped altogether, and a memory would replay at its normal speed for all to bear witness to.

It was clear enough what the Brain was doing; it was searching for evidence. Anything to elucidate what had transpired. Questioning was worth very little when this method was at the ready. Words could lie. Actions seldom did.

After what felt like an eternity, the screen finally went blank. The ports on Purple's PAK went dim.

Wordlessly, the exact same procedure was done on Red. He, too, tensed up as electricity shot through him and his statistics and memories were splashed up on display.

When it was finished, the Brain finally spoke.

"Tallest Red. Tallest Purple. Under Irken law, it is forbidden to act without the accordance of the Control Brains. This is a regulation that all members of Irkenkind must acquis to, under penalty of incarceration or deactivation. Above all, the leaders of Irk must uphold these values."

The Tallest withdrew further into themselves, still dangling before the Supreme Brain.

"Irken Zim."

Zim's muscles looked like they'd simply lost the will to function, leaving only the cables to hold him up. At the sound of his name, though, he raised his chin just high enough to show his face. His eyes registered nothing. Not fear, nor intimidation, nor even a morbid curiosity. He stared vacantly ahead, the brightness of the Supreme Control Brain's ports reflecting off his eyes.

"…Your Honor." His voice was so low—so devastated—it didn't even sound like it belonged to him.

He flinched just as the Tallest had, and then the screen lit up with his own statistics.

"Irken Zim. Smeetery clutch 6033233B. Royal Elite, squadron 713. Military Research Scientist, Vort Research Station 9. Encoded Invader Class for Operation Impending Doom I. Charged with crimes against Irkenkind following the destruction of Altua via frontline battle mech. Re-encoded Food Service Drone and sentenced to exile on Foodcourtia…"

The Brain stopped abruptly and went quiet.

"Brought before Control Brains on Judgementia to undergo an existence evaluation on multiple charges, including manslaughter following the deaths of two previous Tallests…acquitted."

Zim didn't respond.

Hesitantly, if such a thing was possible for the Brain, it began to cycle through Zim's memories. After several seconds, a scene from Zim's memories lit up the screen. But it wasn't the conspiracy, nor his illness, nor even the PAK replacement.

It was Zim, years earlier by the looks of it, standing on a tiny platform before three Control Brains and a horde of Irken onlookers. He was shackled, and his head was covered with some sort of blinder.

"Irken Zim. Your time has come. Prepare yourself for all you deserve."

Dib took a step forward, pressed his hand against the forcefield holding him in, and peered closely at the screen. What was this?

Zim was viewing himself viewing himself on the screen, like some sort of bizarre inception.

The existence evaluation played in cold silence, all watching as pieces of Zim's life were picked apart before another set of Control Brains not so very many years before. Occasionally, a scene would jump, or audio would appear to glitch.

The Tallest's memories hadn't done that, Dib thought. The bewilderment etched plainly on his face deepened.

At last, the Zim upon the screen was being delivered the verdict by obviously malfunctioning Brains, who declared him "Best Irken Ever" while the Tallest argued over one another in the background, yelling at the Brains, at the crowd, at anyone who would listen.

The memory ended and the screen went blank. Only the Control Brain's eyes remained, dimly glowing.

"Existence evaluation: acquitted," it said again, slowly.

Without another word, the Brain went through Zim's memories just as he did with the Tallest's, pausing and replaying several.

Dib squinted through the forcefield. It was…odd. He hadn't imagined it the first time with the existence evaluation. The playback of Zim's memories simply didn't transfer well. Not like the Tallest's.

Some memories were disjointed. Broken. Every now and then, when a memory was played back, it would begin flawlessly through the eyes of Zim, then cut to an entirely different setting. Like a record skipping, it occurred multiple times.

The Brain played through several, observing along with the others as hollowed-out memories like swiss cheese cropped up here and there.

At last, the screen went blank, and tension simmered in its wake.

"Irken Zim. Your memories have notable gaps in them. Combined with your criminal past and botched existence evaluation, it is clear your ID PAK is defective."

Dib dropped his hand back down to his side and frowned. "Wait," he said, face twisting in confusion. "That doesn't make any sense."

As soon as the words left him, a ripple of anxiety shot down his spine.

The Brain seemed taken aback. Looking past the three Irkens, it sharply turned its many eyes down at him.

It was the first time it had directly acknowledged him.

Dib shrank under the intense scrutiny, then recoiled even further as a tiny scanner snaked down from the ceiling and passed over him briefly. It emitted a low bleep, and one of the screens attached to the Brain blinked to life with an error message.

SPECIES NOT RECOGNIZED.

"Identify yourself, alien."

His voice caught in his throat as he answered. "Dib Membrane. From, uh, Earth."

"And what is your species?" it demanded.

"Human."

"What did you say before?"

Dib blinked, trying to refocus. He swallowed hard.

"What you said didn't make any sense. About Zim's ID PAK being defective."

He was beginning to stammer, caught up between intense intimidation and the half-baked formulation of his own thoughts. "That isn't Zim's PAK. I mean, it isn't his original PAK. He wasn't born with it. It's a transplant. I don't think…"

Dib's rambling words died on his lips, and he blanched as the Brain lowered its victims slightly to give him its full attention.

"Impossible. No records showing approved PAK transplant for Irken Zim is in the collective, nor are they marked within Irken Zim's personal medical records—"

"—Because it wasn't approved," Dib fired back.

In his periphery, he could see Zim turn his head just slightly to peer down at him.

The Brain went quiet again, and then Zim twitched again. His head whipped back around to face the monstrous screen in front of him.

The same song and dance. For the umpteenth time, memories flitted across the screen. They were slower, though. It was easier to catch a glimpse of a face or room. At last, Dib saw the blurry, indistinct memories of Zim's med bay explode into stark white. It was Zim's first memory inside Skoodge's medical bay.

"Wait, slow down," Dib breathed.

The memories moved at a more comprehensive speed.

Suddenly, his eyes widened. "Stop!" he shouted.

The screen froze onto an image through Zim's eyes, looking down at his lap while sitting propped in his hospice bed. There lay the old PAK from an aerial view.

"See? That's proof that he doesn't have his old PAK!"

"That proves nothing, alien," the Brain said. "Irken bodies are capable of withstanding a certain amount of time without the PAK attached to allow for maint—"

"—Yes! Ten minutes! I know!" Dib interrupted again. Adrenaline was coursing through him. He was beginning to feel bolder with each passing second. More frustrated.

"Just look at the PAK you're currently plugged into! It's obviously newer! And I bet…" His eyes went blank as an idea came to light. "I bet those things have to have some sort of serial number, right? Check it!"

The same monitor that had shown up with the error message lit up again with Zim's stats. At the very beginning of the page, a notable gap came up in the registration info, so obvious, Dib could see it plainly before the screen went blank again.

The Brain didn't speak for a long time.

"How could both of Zim's PAKs be defective?" Dib demanded, breaking the silence. "This one is brand new. It isn't damaged. Maybe some of the information that was transferred to it didn't get there all the way, but still. The PAK, itself, is fine. What is a defective Irken, then?"

The question hung in the air.

The Supreme Brain still didn't respond.

Dib began to wonder if it had powered down or malfunctioned. He fidgeted with his hands, sneaking glances down at the floor and back to the Brain.

"A decision will be made after deliberation," it said at last, noncommittally.

Of all the things it could have said, Dib did not expect this. His face froze in a strange, half-concerned gaze.

A whirring of technology broke the tension.

A forcefield identical to Dib's erected itself around Zim, and he was simultaneously lowered to the ground and cut off from the cables that had attached themselves to his PAK.

Before either of them could react to what was happening, the flooring beneath them opened, swallowing them up and out of sight.

-x-

Rather than the pits of hell, as Dib's broken imagination had conjured up, the trapdoor instead deposited them into a cold, empty room.

The forcefields flickered off as the ceiling closed shut again, effectively locking them inside. There were no doors. No windows. Only headache-inducing florescent lighting and a few chairs that lined the middle of the room.

In a fog, they both drifted towards them and sat down.

Dib's half-formed thoughts began to fester and multiply. They filled his brain, leaving more questions than answers.

The concept of defectiveness gnawed at his mind, taking the forefront.

He'd meant his question to the Supreme Brain earnestly. What was a defective Irken? Because it didn't have anything to do with their PAK.

Zim was living proof.

He'd had two PAKs, yet there had been no obvious difference in his personality or behavior. At his core, he was the same as he'd always been from the moment he woke up from surgery. Paranoid, destructive, ill-tempered. Skoodge and the many disrepairs in his home's med bay could attest to that.

And what was the "evidence" at that existence trial thing supposed to prove? That Zim couldn't follow orders? That he didn't do exactly as he was told?

Causing destruction on his own planet went directly against everything the Empire had primed him to do. Many of Zim's actions went against reason. They could be attributed to mental illness, perhaps, but technological failure?

How much had to do with Zim's PAK and how much had to do with Zim's brain? The real brain, made of flesh and blood and nerve cells that still existed inside his head?

Machines could be broken. Living things were more complicated.

One thing remained clear, though: an Irken's ID PAK being the sole reason for insubordination was a scapegoat.

It was bunk.

It was a lie.

And the more Dib thought about the Supreme Brain's response, or lack thereof, the more he suspected he had caught them in it.

He had caught the head of Irken hierarchy in a lie and they both knew it. He'd been able to identify it from the other side of the glass, where he'd spent years shielded from whatever psychological tactic it was that kept Irkens complacent and other races afraid.

He'd had the privilege of seeing Irkens, interacting with them, and even earning minute scraps of their trust.

Every one of them he had seen had the PAKs affixed to their backs with very little variation in size or design. The PAKs, he realized, looked disturbingly like tiny incarnations of the Control Brains, themselves. Surely, there had been a time when they had lived without them, right?

When had this marriage taken place? When had these machines bound themselves to the tiny green creatures? They were parasites, and the Irkens were conditioned to see them as lifelines instead. They weren't seen as burdens, reasons for needless deaths, or devices that betrayed any and all privacy.

They were to be seen as powerful. An extension of oneself.

Any Irken who didn't see things this way didn't belong.

With a deep, shuddery sigh, Dib lifted his head. He turned to look over at Zim and immediately regretted it.

Never in his life had he seen such a defeated looking creature.

On instinct, he dropped his eyes back down to his lap and drew his lips into a tight line.

An Irken who thought differently, talked differently, and defied orders proved to be a menace to society. They were a threat, plain and simple. No anomalies could exist in a culture like Zim's. The mere idea of a heretic belonging among a race so deeply manipulated into their own propaganda was far too dangerous to conceive.

Was that was made a defective?

It was as good a guess as any.

Something still didn't add up, though.

Why, then, did the Brains conducting Zim's existence evaluation malfunction? If it was their very job to identify a "defective" Irken, then why couldn't they handle it when they saw one in the flesh?

Was it that Zim's PAK really was corrupted?

Or perhaps Zim's line of thinking simply did not fit into the mold the Control Brains had shaped for their society. He was too singular-minded…

That still didn't seem to explain it.

Dib tasted blood, then realized he had begun chewing at his lower lip.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shake his mind of the thoughts altogether. More and more contradictions and mysteries kept popping up, and it was lending him nothing but a slurry of frustration.

This isn't important. Not right now.

Not with the situation at hand. Of all that was flooding through his mind, his own life should be a part of it.

He had no idea what was going to happen. For all he knew, he was currently living his final few moments at the mercy of the Irken menace. Any second, he could be transported back to the Supreme Brain and vaporized where he stood.

Perhaps that was why he was so entrenched in his dystopian conspiracy theories, like some sort of amateur Orwell. It was an escape. Even the ensuing headache was easier than having to settle into the reality he was now facing.

Meanwhile, Zim was facing it head on right beside him.

Dib felt an unexpected sadness creep in as this dawned on him.

Once again, he turned to face him, and this time, he didn't look away.

Zim's mouth was parted just hardly, not in fear, but in some sort of broken awe. He was frozen in place, swallowing a lifetime of despair all at once.

He didn't want to push his boundaries with Zim in such a delicate state. A hug, or really any contact at all seemed to be inappropriate somehow. And yet, no acknowledgement was remiss.

Dib scooted closer so that their shoulders were touching.

Unconsciously, Zim leaned in closer as well, though his eyes remained fixed ahead at nothing in particular.

They sat leaning against one another as time ticked on.

-x-

At last, grinding mechanisms split the silence and they were transported back to the room holding the Supreme Brain.

The Tallest were gone, leaving nothing but the oppressive presence of the Brain as it ordered them forward until they were standing directly beneath it.

The Brain addressed Dib first, to his mild surprise.

"You claim to be human, indigenous species to planet Earth."

Dib nodded once.

"Your species must not be advanced enough for extended and widespread space travel."

He opened his mouth, then hesitated, wondering what he should say. He decided on the truth. "We're not."

"And your planet is located on the furthest reaches of Irken-known space."

A massive hologram lit up the room, spanning wall to wall. The planet signifying Earth shown red against soft blues.

He nodded again, eyeing the red dot.

More agonizing silence.

"You shall be charged with trespassing on Irk, trespassing on a restricted Irken government facility, and disrespecting Irken authority. The penalty for any alien who does not abide by the strict rules set by the Royal Irken Empire is death."

Dib's head spun. Beside him, he was numbly aware of Zim's muscles going rigid.

"But-but—" His eyes darted around the room for any sign of escape. The doors were sealed shut.

"But, NO!" he shouted, then shut his mouth. He forced a shaky break in, then out. "Why would you kill the first alien from Earth to make contact with you?"

The Brain didn't so much as pause before answering. "Formal contact with primitive planets is inconsequential to the Empire. And yours is too far from Irken space to be of any use. You and your planet will not be missed."

Dib flinched. "I managed to make it here! If I could, then my planet must be worth some acknowledgement. And Zim spent years there! If he could only go back—"

"—You have assumed, alien, that Irken Zim's penalty is not immediate deactivation."

Zim's antennae raised a little, but he didn't otherwise react.

"Why would you do that?" Dib said, somewhat taken aback.

Zim actually raised his head at that, if only to steal a dazed glance at Dib. Even the Brain seemed inquisitive, as it didn't immediately interrupt.

"He just saved your leaders from being shot execution-style by some unhinged maniac. He might have snuck in to see the Tallest, but it was only because he was so desperate to fight in this war, for your people. He—"

"—He has caused countless destruction, and his existence evaluation—"

"—Declared him innocent!"

"It should have been a mistrial—"

"—But it wasn't!" Dib's adrenaline was beginning to catch up with him. The blood had long drained from his face, and his limbs felt numb. He wracked his mind for anything he could say to sway the Brain, the highest power of all of Zim's ruthless, planet-conquering race.

"Look, Zim was exiled to Earth for years before this. If he could only go back to Earth"—he swallowed hard— "If he could go back to Earth with me, I'll make sure he never goes near Irk again."

He eyed Zim. All through Dib's fervent pleading, Zim hadn't made a single sound. He only remained slumped where he stood, bowed forward so that his face was hidden.

The Brain had gone silent again, seemingly considering what Dib had proposed.

"Please!" he begged again, piercing the silence. "Nothing he did was meant to directly harm your Empire. He's destructive, but his intentions weren't bad. Even you can see that! Think about what he's done today. He saved his leaders. You saw it on their PAKs! And, he uncovered an entire conspiracy! The entire reason this war is going on. He could have just saved millions by making sure that Larb guy's PAK was delivered to you.

"He's always wanted to serve this Empire just as much as any other Irken. Probably even more! He just… doesn't belong in it."

Dib felt Zim shrink a bit beside him, but the latter still said nothing. Dib, himself, didn't even know how much of what he was saying was what he truly believed. It all felt like babbling to him. Attempts to persuade the Control Brain that Zim was no heretic and Dib was no alien threat. He needed to get both himself and Zim out of here or die trying.

"It's not even Zim's fault he's off Earth. Just let him come back with me, and I'll make sure he serves his exile."

The Brain said nothing. Dib felt his heart hammer away in his chest. His knees went even weaker, and he knew that if he dared shift his weight or move in any way, they would buckle. He focused in on one of the Brain's disturbingly glowing eyes and didn't look away.

"Human Dib," it said at last. Dib raised his chin.

"…You will be allowed to leave the planet Irk today under a set of conditions: as the first of your species to make direct contact with the Irken Empire, you must assume the role of ambassador for your planet of origin. Any summons to Irk must be obeyed. All other times, you are to remain off the planet. Failure to abide will result in immediate, uncontested execution."

A sharp breath of air filled his lungs. He heard the words as if suspended above his own body.

"Your planet will remain unharmed as long as you abide by these conditions and ensure Irken Zim does not break the exile placed upon him. By agreeing, you are agreeing to keep Zim away from the planet Irk. Do you accept these conditions?"

His eyes, always magnified against his glasses, grew wider still as the weight of the Supreme Brain's pronouncement of their freedom set in and he felt a tremendous weight begin to lift from him.

"Yes, I accept."

The Brain then addressed Zim.

"Irken Zim. A long and deserved criminal record has followed you since birth. If not for your actions today, however, these recent acts of conspiracy and treason might not have been uncovered until long after the damages of war had already been suffered. Ultimately, on this day alone, you have done an honorable deed for Irkenkind."

Zim didn't respond. Didn't blink.

"You will be granted the same privilege under a different condition: you will never return to this planet for the remainder of your life. Do you accept these conditions?"

Even at these words, he still stood with all the animation of a statue. His face, now fully visible, had taken on an ashen, sickly waxiness comparable to when he had been on the brink of death.

Dib stiffed beside him, waiting for his response.

Somehow, the strength to do or say anything evaded Zim. Anything other than simply existing was akin to impossibility.

A hand rested firmly on his shoulder, and it was enough to prompt him to look in Dib's direction.

His shallow breath caught in his throat. Dib's eyes seemed to pierce into his soul, not in a disparaging sense but with a sort of hopeful gleam.

Then, at last, he stirred. Swallowed. His eyes focused in enough to make contact with the Supreme Brain.

Then, in a gravelly voice, "I accept your conditions."

Chapter Text

Short-Lived War Ends in Irken Victory

The Meekrob attempt to lay siege on Irk's Capital City, Altua, ends with Irken victory, according to palace-stationed Control Brains. With this victory comes what the Brains hope to be a compromise between the two races.

New developments have allowed the Irken Control Brains to make an executive decision to seek out a compromise between the Meekrob and Irken species. The Irken militia has been ordered to cease fire while this is underway.

As such, thousands of drafted Irken soldiers have been relinquished of their duties and have been honorably discharged, allowing—

"—Arrival on Planet Devastis, District 495 will be in approximately 30 minutes. All passengers are required to remained seated while the ship enters the stratosphere."

Skoodge glanced up at the speakers, where the clear, robotic voice had originated from and set his tablet down in his lap. It was still open to the news story he had been reading, casting just the slightest amount of light over him and the surrounding Irkens sitting nearby.

With a satisfying stretch that managed to pop several joints in his back and between his shoulder blades, he surveyed the scene around him with a sort of tranquil appreciation.

The transport ship was filled with Irkens, each of them enroute to wherever they had come from prior to being drafted into the war.

Indeed, it had been short-lived. Skoodge had only very briefly been stationed on Irk and had obviously not seen combat.

Now, they were all returning to Devastis, where Skoodge and his comrades had docked their ships. From there, it would be only a brief trip back to Elixus. Back to what he knew to be his true purpose in life.

He shut off his tablet with a press of his finger and stowed it away. He had only been rereading the article, anyway.

With a long, content sigh, he sat back in his seat and prepared for landing.

"—recently discovered planet on the edge of the Vexer solar system. Dubbed 'Earth,' the first of the planet's species has made contact with Irkenkind, paving way to a new relation."

Prisoner 777 perked his head up, turning his attention from his plate to the TV screen mounted directly above him.

He was in the bleak, sterile canteen on Moo-Ping 10, eating the second meal of the day. Normally, he ignored the televisions, which were constantly turned to Irken-run news channels and therefore held next to no credibility.

Now, though, he was paying them his full attention.

"As of now, Earth has been labeled a peaceful relation and an ambassador for the planet has been named."

Very briefly, a shot of Dib appeared on the screen, looking just as tired and gaunt as he'd remembered him. Something in his face, though, was different.

A smile flitted across Prisoner 777's face at the sight. The light in the human boy's eyes told him everything he needed to know.

He had heard very little about the young alien, except that he had somehow broken out of their old prison on Vort. From then, he had hoped he would escape unscathed.

Dib had done more than that.

Irken news was ridiculously biased, and one had to do the heavy-lifting and read between the lines when consuming it. He had no way to know for sure, but in his heart of hearts, he was positive the Earth boy had done something bigger than merely make contact with the Empire. He'd secured the safety of his planet. Somehow, he'd done it.

"Next up. Tonight's top story is on the unexpected inauguration of a new Tallest, announced by Irken Control Brains early—"

He tuned out again. He had already heard this news from several other sources, including his fellow prisoners' chatter.

For now, he would let the small scrap of news on the boy turn over in his head. His happiness, if vicarious, could not be dampened.

Lightyears away, the Spittle Runner hurdled through the cosmos.

In the cabin, Dib and Zim sat side by side, allowing the silence to fill the air with any and all lingering emotions that came with it. Tensions were high, but for entirely different reasons. For now, a question of alliance was not one of them.

They sat comfortably in each other's company, something that was an entirely new experience. In return, they were offered a faint glimmer of the world's sincerity through the other. A physical embodiment of genuine concern and caring. A lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

It might not have been much, but in the grand scheme of things, it felt like everything.

Not all was fixed, nor would they be for quite some time. A somber truth was that some broken parts might never be as they were before.

Injuries needed tending to, as did physical health. Mechanical repairs must be made. Worse than all those combined, though, was the damage that could not be seen with the naked eye.

Accepting who they had become in the aftermath of what they'd endured would be a feat far more substantial than anything else.

All that could be said is that they were on their way into the unknown, free of perceived destinies, and for once, it was met with just a margin of open-mindedness.

A gateway for healing.

A gateway of hope for better days ahead.

~The End~

Chapter Text

So much has happened to me in the time has taken to finish A Parade of Indignities, and I have had the great privilege of meeting countless people along the way. Some are people I know in my personal life, and others are people I will only ever know behind a keyboard. Some have stuck around since the very beginning; others have quietly faded away as new interests have caught their attention. Regardless of where they have come from or where they may have gone, I am thankful to everyone who gave this story a chance and touched my heart with their support. I am honored my writing has been able to be a part of so many lives.

I would like to thank every person who has played a positive role in my life and my writing endeavors.

Firstly, I would like to thank both my parents for their endless love and support. My mother and father both built their livelihoods in the writing/editing profession and saw to it that I and my brother grew up with an appreciation for the English language. I devoured countless books as a child and used to daydream about stories of my own. Eventually, I started writing these stories down. It stuck with me, and my love for creative writing was always met with enthusiasm and gentle guidance as the years went by.

My father, to whom this story is dedicated, went above and beyond in his support. Despite his unfamiliarity with the source material, he expressed a great interest in reading Parade when it was still in its early stages. Whenever I would try to explain that is was a transformative work, and that the story would be incredibly hard to follow without proper context, he brushed it aside. He would simply tell me that he wanted to read it because it was written with my unique style and encompassed my enthusiasm for something creative. He wanted to admire my work as a wordsmith first and foremost. He wanted to read it because it was mine.

That meant the world to me.

In mid-2019, my father passed away. I miss him every day. He was a man who expressed love and compassion in the purest and most admirable ways, with no ulterior motives whatsoever. He was the sort of person who asked for nothing more than one's company and who enjoyed nothing more than seeing his loved ones immersed in their own interests. In so many ways, my father taught me who I want to be as a person and as a writer—which was another wonderful trait he possessed. My father used the English language like a skilled surgeon uses a scalpel. He could plant the most vivid of images in one's head with only few words, and behind every word was a passion that only a true artist could display. Though he never got to see me finish Parade, his example continues to leave a lasting impression on me.

Thank you, Dad. I love you.

Alongside my mother and father, I have many amazing friends to thank. These are friends who are not involved in the fanfiction community, but care enough about me to excitedly encourage and support my hobby. I even named and based a character off one friend. Skluf, in all his derpy glory, is a homage to you, Chandler. Thank you, dear friend.

Next, I would like to thank my beta readers, Fauxpromises and Jaspicosmer. One of my favorite authors, the revered "father of science fiction," H.G. Wells once said, "No passion in the world is equal to the passion to alter someone else's draft." My beta readers gave me the ultimate compliment by enjoying Parade as readers, and then subsequently offering to edit it for grammatical errors. Because of their second set of eyes, Parade is a far more polished story than it would have been otherwise. For that, I am endlessly appreciative.

Next, I want to thank the many wonderful individuals who drew art for this story. Some art was gifted to me by anonymous readers and friends of mine, and others were pieces that I commissioned by artists who were also fans of the story. I now have a beautiful collection of drawings from artists of all backgrounds, styles, and levels of experience. I love each and every piece of art I have received over the years.

Last but not least, I would be remiss if I didn't extend a special thank you to all of my amazing readers and reviewers.

Being part of a community like this is odd sometimes. We all connect to one another behind monikers and nicknames, sometimes completely obscuring our actual identities behind our online personas and remaining largely anonymous. And yet, at the same time, we share deep parts of ourselves through art, writing, and other input through social media. It has never been lost on me that I am communicating with real people behind my keyboard.

Every reader who has left reviews, both on Archive of Our Own and FFN, holds a special place in my heart. Every comment I have ever received has left me feeling all the more confident and filled with happiness. It's a powerful feeling that every reader wields, and even one-word responses or emojis have never failed in giving me a burst of joy that lasts the whole day through.

To every person who read Parade, but never commented, I thank you, too. With every fanfiction novel, there's a silent group of those who actively read and look forward to new chapters but keep themselves anonymous. I see you, and I appreciate you.

Links to related content:

A Parade of Indignities Spotify playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5DLG8EdRbqYa2zJpgbYALM?si=u8VGbMepQH6XujoOq2X7JA

My Tumblr, where I’m most active: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/rissynicole

Whether you have stumbled across this story 10 minutes after I post this or 10 years, kudos and comments will forever be appreciated. Never hesitate to reach out to me, personally, either.

Thank you, everyone.

Much love,

RissyNicole