Dib sat in a cramped office, waiting for the guidance counselor to show up. The lady at the front desk had said he'd be in soon. In the meantime, Dib's eyes wandered to the decorations on the wall, mostly framed psychology degrees and inspirational quotes. He didn't want to be here, and for the first time in his life he'd rather be at school.

The door opened, and in slipped what Dib presumed was the counselor. He had long, unnaturally smooth black hair, and where his nose should be there was just a flat expanse of green tinted skin. The counselor took a seat behind the desk and rolled up his sleeves. "You are the Membrane child, correct?"

"Yep."

"Your file suggests that you are a well-functioning member of adolescent human society. What brings you to the institute?"

Dib shrugged. "My dad wants me committed, and he figures this is another step closer to locking me in the nut house."

The counselor leaned forward seriously, knitting his hands together. "This is not a nuthouse, Dib. It is a mental health facility. And we sympathize with our patients. I am Doctor Zim. I have been assigned to your case. Let's take a look, shall we?" Zim opened a manila folder and scanned its contents. "I see you've been fighting in school."

"Self defense."

"And you threaten other students."

"People keep saying I did, but I didn't. I don't know where my dad got that idea."

"Maybe from this." Zim took out a piece of paper and put it on the desk so that Dib could see. It was a sketch on a piece of college lined paper depicting a number of blindfolded teenagers lined up against a wall. Dib had signed his name in the corner.

"I've never seen that drawing before in my life," Dib lied.

"Well, whoever drew it has artistic talent." Zim slipped the paper back into the folder and set the folder aside. "What do you like to do for fun, Dib?"

The question took him by surprise. "TV, I guess. And video games."

"I, too, like games on video. What sort of games do you play?"

"I don't see where this is going."

"Answer the question."

"Fine. War games, I guess. The apocalypse variety."

Zim's eyes widened slightly, but his expression didn't change. "And you channel anger into these games?"

"I'm not angry."

"Oh, but you have cause to. What sort of things do the kids at school say to you?"

"They mean well."

"Perhaps, but what do they say?"

"They don't..." He paused. "They don't talk to me at all. Not directly. They talk about me, I suppose, and within the vicinity of me. They think I'm depressed, or too smart, or something. I can't really put it into words."

"Have you ever confronted them on this?"

"When I do I make things worse."

Zim nodded sagely. "You know, Dib, many would think that you're overreacting, but I've been where you've been. But the taller they stand, the harder they fall." He reached forward and slipped something into Dib's hand. Upon closer inspection, it was a gun.

Dib narrowed his eyes, studying him. "I don't think you're doing this counseling think right."

"It's a bit unorthodox, yes..." Zim's eyes widened and blazed with an unseen fire. "But the humans deserve it, do they not? They're never going to find happiness in their lives as it is. You shouldn't suffer with them."

Dib smirked and pocketed the gun. "Fine, but don't expect me to use it. Can I go now?"

"Of course." Zim's pupils contracted, and he watched without seeing as Dib left the room. The humans, so pathetic. Their treatment of the unstable will be their downfall yet.