Dib Membrane died on a Tuesday afternoon.
In everyone's opinion, it was a rather strange day to choose as your last. The sun had barely even begun to heat up the chalky sidewalks around the school; the week was such an infant that Zim had not even begun to push his new and brilliant plan for world conquest into fruition.
It was a pointless day. Just far enough away from Monday to have some ray of hope, but much too early to regard as exciting. This particular day itself was sticky with sun, and the sweat clung pathetically to the clothes of children everywhere, sweat beading in every nook and cranny of the pliable human skin. The heat radiated from underneath their feet, and the droning of the nameless teacher did little to break the monotony that drizzled along throughout the day. Although it had been many years since they had studied under the terror of Ms. Bitters, almost every student would have exchanged her dark and harsh humor for the drawl of the older class instructors.
Finally, lunch- the taunt and painfully short Irken was testing the acidity of his lunch sludge, watching incredulously as the tips of his steel fork melted and bended away in parts when dipped into the sizzling substance. When he wasn't busying himself with this, he took time to ponder and criticize the human's slick sheen of skin-water- a protective layer against the all mighty Irken race?! – which he himself was void of. Perhaps a blessing; these wormbabies seemed miserable under the tyranny of their own sun, while Zim was more than used to the extreme temperatures that space travel put its children through. Every once and awhile he gave a heavy, heaving pant, attempting to blend in with the moans of humans around him; eyes scanning for the hints of his dark colored nemesis, the proclamations of normality already poised at the point of his tongue, prepared to combat the accusations of the pale-colored fleshsack.
But those accusations never came to light. In fact, Dib seemed absent from lunch entirely- his sister sat alone, her fingers occupied upon the pads of a game slave. This was curious, perhaps, but not unheard of. It seemed even the most intelligent of this useless species could fall prey to disease every so often. Zim grimaced to himself at the thought- his arch enemy, covered head to toe in horrible, disgusting earth germs- and made a mental note to bring new gloves and cleaner the next time they fought. A quick disinfection before he collided fist with face, causing the thick bloodcandies to spurt from his nose and get all over both their clothes; the irony of this was lost on Zim.
Lunch continued.
Finally, finally-! The clack of boots against linoleum. The only kid in the whole school who would still come to class with a suffocating trenchcoat and ridiculously thick black shoes, despite the grips of the sun's rays against their necks.
Dib-stink!
Zim sat up against his table, a zipper grin arched across his face. Finally. Finally the promise of at least some conflict to break up this painfully stuffy day. Even if it was only witty banter, the arguments he exchanged with the taller boy provided some sort of entertainment; the Dib never ceased to prove himself a worthy opponent to the incredible intelligence of Zim, albeit lately his visits to his base- break ins, they should be referred to as- had been less frequent, his banter less passionate. Zim was sure this could only be blamed on the terrible "School Anzy Ity", an apparently terrible disease the taller humans spoke of on the TV. None of which bothered him whatsoever, but the Membrane boy seemed constantly concerned over proving himself a worthy offspring to his father; perhaps it was this that had weighed down the lithe youth, and cemented the slump in his body with which he took everywhere. How obnoxious.
This was irritating to the Irken, as it distracted the Dib-worm from what he considered to be his true purpose; being a formidable, but in the end easily defeated opponent for the great mission. What purpose could these pathetic, human teachings have if the Earth was slave to the great Empire, after all? The human seemed incompetent of understanding this, as much as Zim attempted to provoke him afterschool by stealing his things or ranting aimlessly, endlessly in his direction for as long as it would take to evoke a response. Even now, as Zim waited and perched on the end of his plastic chair, the black-clad boy drifted by without even a hateful glance of recognition. Infuriating child! Worthless earth-stink! Did he not understand the importance of the amazing, all powerful Zim? Worthless, pathetic human!
He crossed along Zim's table to the hunched over form of his sister, who glanced up lazily and uncaringly- an expression that turned into questioningly as he pressed a small square of folded paper into her hand. He gave no audible answer to her unheard questions.
How dare he acknowledge the scary girl before the all mighty invader?
"Dib-smell!" Came the irritated shout; clawed fingers digging into the soft, cheap wood. "Stupid big-head, where have—"
The words did not fully fall from his mouth before Dib tossed a glance his way and pressed the barrel against his temple, pulling the trigger in one jam-packed second.
Later, Zim would recall the resonating "pop" with which his teenage enemy ceased to be.
Cafeteria chatter turned into animalistic terror; screams and shrieks and pumping adrenaline replacing the idle gossip and sloppy feeding. The Irken stared. He picked up Gaz's screaming through the chaos, heard her barely contained rage and horror amidst the trampling herd of flocking dirtbabies. No goodbyes, no arguments, no insults. Just a piece of sweaty notebook paper, folded over and written a thousand times, clutched in the palm- a testament to what once was but no longer is.
Zim struggled to move but found himself unable, mind still racking and absorbing every technicolor detail he could get his hungry eyes on. Bloodcandies, rich and red and bright, which seeped from every orifice and shined magnificently, deliciously in the light of the sunny day; brain and bone, pink and white respectively, which clung and drooled against the tables and, he noted with a dazed disgust, across the front of his invader's uniform. Humans were horribly messy, he thinks, the bodily gunk splattered across the boy's glasses; and even through his wig the soldier-trained antennae could hear the final thud of his heart against his chest, devoid of blood and life.
Dib's heart.
That's when the shrieking began. Or so he thinks- such a strange, guttural noise to come from an Irken, that he hardly believes it comes from his throat at all when it registers on his antennae. He feels perhaps he should throw up, but doesn't know how. The Dib-human, dead. By his own hand; a concept foreign to him when he arrived here, not only taboo but unheard of on his home planet. You died for the cause or from a physical illness of some sort, but never the way these humans sometimes did; full and fat with madness, brain poisoned with emotion.
His pak legs clatter against the ground, the noise of the schoolchildren loud as he flings himself closer, peering over the grotesque body of his enemy, and yet the only creature to ever regard him as important in the entirety of the universe, the only one to ever give his fruitless efforts purpose and cause and effect. Something instinctual, deep in his mind, screams to save him; tells him to cart the body off now and revive it, heal it, before the human authority and all their clunking dumb foolery ruins the chance and Dib is truly gone. Another part of him screams for victory- dismantle the body, eat his flesh, wear his blood as a flag of pride! The battle for earth has been won, the disgusting child is dead and there is no one left to stand way of his brilliance.
Neither of those sides are plausible, the small, logical conscience reminds him within. The Dib is dead. There is no saving to be done, and yet the way his few organs twist and shudder within him reminds him that this is no victory for Irk.
Suddenly, painfully, Zim wishes to speak. It is a horrible, alien impulse; rocked with emotion and totally unlike the stoic sensibility of the Irken mind and way of life he embraces so well. And yet he feels the need to say something to justify all those years fighting and living and existing together, now that they are abruptly and terribly over.
Gaz is silent now, and the wails of the human sirens bounce gleefully around the room. It's only a matter of seconds until they burst in through the door- Zim mustn't be found here. The last thing he needs is the pathetic, earthly government investigating him.
It's over. Time to go. Without the burden of keeping up a normal attire, he needn't attend this horrible place of learning any longer.
He can't explain the pressure in his chest.
There are no words in Irken that would suffice as a goodbye; no word like the human "mourning", or "friend" or "brother" or even "lover" that would feel appropriate to utter now. They simply did not exist.
He racked his mind for a moment, feeling the voices just behind the door and the pace of their steps as vibration.
When he speaks aloud, his tongue is slow with the foreign taste of sorrow; alien, alien. Alien emotions, unnatural feelings pumping through his veins, and there are no words to say. Regret. Remorse. Respect. What kind of disgraceful invader would ever let themselves be overcome with such human creations?
"Stupid Earth-monkey," he growls, and leaps from a nearby window, adazed.