I Left My Heart At Schloogorgh's
Author's Notes: This is a partner fic to Mizander's story 'Filthy, Stinking LUV'. And...also to that one chapter of 'Frequency', apparently. I was the poster who wanted a Skoodge romance with an insane stalker OC. I don't remember my reasoning behind that, actually. I think it was mostly that you see a lot of Tallest and Zim romances with really perfect original characters, and that seemed the antithesis of the OC norm. And also, I have to admit...Skoodge is one of my favorite characters.
And to show my love for Mizander, (strictly platonic, of course,) I will now attempt a PARTNER-FIC! Bow to the might of the fic!
I shouldn't have to even say this, but I don't own Invader Zim. Or anything else. Pfft.
The battlefield was bloody, body-strewn and austere. Standing amongst the wreckage of what was once a beautiful, flourishing race was a single figure. Short, skinny, and straggly, it pulled itself to its feet, a banner grasped in its gloved hand.
A voice boomed from the sky. "YOU HAVE CONQUERED THE DISGUSTING, FILTHY SPECIES OF THE PLANET GORSNARCHERAST! WHAT DO YOU THINK?"
The lone figure tossed the Irken banner to the side and squinted up at the heavens. "Well.." it started to say, and then glanced to the left at the sound of a low moan from one of the fallen victims. It was almost impossible to tell what the thing looked like through the blood and wounds covering its body. For some inexplicable reason, the creature's head was relatively clear of injuries, save for a particularly deep cut directly above its eye.
"Help!" the creature rasped painfully, "Oh, GOD it hurts!" It pleadingly reached out one clawlike hand, groaning.
The figure stared at the writhing alien on the ground before it, and then sighed. There was a flash of metal and light as an equipment arm snapped out of the figure's pak, moving too fast for the eye to see. It stuck something onto the creature and withdrew.
The dying alien crossed its eyes as it tried to look at the brightly colored band-aid that the arm had stuck on his head.
And lo, there was a sudden flash of light, an assortment of mechanical beeping and suddenly, everything went pitch black...
The figure, a female Irken, stared at the black interior of her testing helmet. The words 'Game Over' flashed at her in neon red letters. Wait. Where'd the planet go? And the voice? And-
The anvil of realization made a crash landing on her head as she slowly recovered from the effects of the virtual reality program.
Her request to be transferred to Devastis had been accepted, despite her inferior height, and she had been granted the honor to be the very first to take the entrance exam. This day was to be her triumphant arrival into the elite military program! Her shining moment of glory! The day she finally proved her worthiness as a citizen of the proud Irken Empire! And now that she had taken...wait...that was the test?
Crap. -
"You FAIL the preliminary military qualification test, on account of improper attitude towards the elimination of an inferior alien species!" announced the control brain, "You will be encoded into Food Services." Wires shot from a compartment behind her and injected themselves into her pak, writing her new employment code into its system.
"What?" she yelped, waving her arms helplessly. "That's not possible!" she added, flying in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary. "I SHALL TRY AGAIN! I promise to try my utmost in-"
"No." replied the control brain, calmly.
"But-" she tried.
"No."
"But-"
"No."
"But-"
"You have been encoded. Congratulations on your new and shiny future in the food servicing business. You will be transported to the planet Foodcourtia to begin your new assignment." The control brain went on, as if she hadn't said a word against his decision. She was really beginning to dislike the control brain. She gave the blinking lights of his Survival Apparatus a defiant glare. Then she winced and cowered.
"But-" she tried one last time, as the wires withdrew from her pak and a metal compartment rose from the floor. Four wire tendrils grabbed her, pulled her into the compartment, and strapped her snugly into a small cushioned chair. She had the time to notice that it was upholstered in something resembling paisley plastic before a cheery voice rang out from the speaker behind her chair.
"Welcome New Food Service Drone. Please refrain from any movement during the shipment process. OR YOUR ANTENNAE WILL BE RIPPED FROM YOUR HEAD! Destination: Foodcourtia." The hatch slammed shut and sealed itself.
"Congratulations." Control Brain said magnanimously, and the metal compartment and its contents were summarily disposed of.
In laymen's terms, she got shipped out in a big metal box.
All in all, she thought grimly as she tried her hardest to stay motionless, it was not a good way to start her week.
Foodcourtia.
Ah, what could be said about the famous planet of fast food restaurants? How could one possibly capture the essence of such a magnificent place? The truth is: there are no words in any of the spoken languages in the known universe to describe the sheer essence of the wonder that is Foodcourtia.
That didn't stop her from trying to sum up the total experience in three rather vulgar words as her waiting compartment was unloaded with a rough jolt, and the wire 'seatbelts' released their grips on her arms and ankles. A thin, blue line of light traced the outline of the sealed hatch as she glanced woozily all around her, alerting her that someone, presumably a worker at the planet's port, was opening the box with a laser cutter.
In a short while, the cut square of metal dropped to the floor. She squinted at the sudden bright light, catching a glimpse of a uniformed alien of some sort as it moved on to the next waiting compartment, laser tool in hand. The smell of burning grease and meat wafted through the air, and the clamor of the snack-craving masses filled the air. She stared at the port and employment area of Foodcourtia with dread.
And then she realized that this was no way to act.
This sort of behavior was ridiculous. Why should she dread what was most certainly the job best suited to her? Yes, she should be proud of her assigned area of work! Not anyone could be in food service, after all. She began warming up to the idea as she continued that train of thought. In fact, it should be considered an honor that her superiors saw fit to entrust her with such an important task as the preparation of food. Not anyone could deep fry snacks, after all, right?
She rose dramatically from her seat and clenched her fist, raising it high in a gesture of triumph and valor. The light from the neon signs illuminated her, creating the world's tackiest halo as she posed there, one hand on her hip.
"During this long voyage to my assigned planet and job," she began, her voice trembling with emotion, "I have thought extensively about the results of my placement test." She leapt from the paisley plastic chair and strode purposefully out of the compartment, stepping over the sizzling metal door. "I thought LONG and HARD! And I have decided that it was fate that placed me here! Yes! This is indeed my intended purpose in life!" She gesticulated wildly at the tangled, greasy, commercial mess that was Foodcourtia.
A small group of freed Food Service Drones gathered around as she spoke. Not out of any interest in what she was saying, really. It was just that it had been a long trip, they were bored, and it looked like something was happening that might need a crowd. Someone began to pass around a container of popcorn.
"It only shows the GLORY of the Irken system!" she shouted, causing a few of the assembled drones to cheer.
"Irken system ROCKS!" yelled one of them.
"YES!" she agreed, "It does indeed rock! To show my appreciation for it, I shall strive mightily to be the best food service drone ever encoded! I shall conquer mounds of grease in the name of our Tallest! I shall wipe dishes cleaner than the surface of the shiny planet Bob! Through hordes of customers..."
The description of whatever she was going to do that was involved with hordes of customers was lost forever as the gloved hand of a guard reached out and grabbed her by the neck of her standard red uniform, cutting her tirade short. "Silence, hideous new food slave!" bellowed the guard.
She was silent. Physical intimidation worked wonders. The small crowd began to edge quietly away, leaving one particularly stupid food service drone behind.
"Silence ROCKS!" he cried cheerfully, nearly spilling his container of popcorn.
Both she and the guard stared at him.
"Well, it does." he grumbled.
The guard decided to just ignore him. "Employees of Foodcourtia are not to engage in unnecessary speaking." he continued, now holding her aloft by her collar as he gave her the Glare of Authority.
She dangled. "Really?" she asked apologetically.
"Yes."
"Oh."
An awkward pause stretched out.
"Well, then I look forward to keeping my mouth shut?" she tried. "Sir?"
"You do that." The guard replied darkly, and released his hold on her collar. She fell to the ground with an undignified thump and a cloud of dust.
"Ouch." she muttered, after much consideration. The remaining member of the crowd of Irkens munched a handful of popcorn and nodded in silent agreement. After a few more minutes of laying on the ground, something sunk in. "Waiiit a second," she said, in tones of dawning realization, "Hideous?"
"Yes, you are." Replied a passing alien.
She glared at it,. pulled herself to her feet, and began to dust off her uniform. Maybe she wasn't the most attractive Irken in the universe. Maybe her head was a bit oddly shaped. Maybe her eyes were a particularly dim color red. Maybe her antennae were crooked. But she hardly thought she was hideous. Homely, maybe. Or plain. Or-
"Ugly!" shouted a small child, pointing excitedly.
That was it. She drew in a breath to retort, probably with something that would get her punished for unnecessary screaming, and was interrupted by the demanding voice of a vidscreen presenter.
"Newly assigned Food Service Drones," thundered the announcer's voice, "All newly assigned Food Service Drones, please report to the hiring facilities. I repeat, all Food Service Drones report to the hiring facilities. All those who fail to do so will be immediately exploded."
Everyone on the port turned as one to stare at the vidscreen.
"EXPLODED!" roared the announcer with a disturbing amount of excitement. She wasn't willing to bet that he was joking, and scurried toward the direction the other Irkens were headed as fast as she possibly could. Which was she admitted to herself a she headed along with the crowd, was not very fast. She wasn't built for speed. Actually, what she was built for was up for debate. There were an astonishing number of things that she was bad at. She began to list them to herself as she panted, overexerted by only this short run.
Like interdimensional algebraic equations. (Failed it in the general Irken schooling.)
And building equipment. (Everything she built fell apart in a number of days, and most of them ended up looking like something a smeet had assembled with paste and Popsicle sticks.
And creating snacks. (She burned them. Even the ones that weren't meant to be cooked.)
And putting on her boots. Speaking of which, were hers even on the right feet? She glanced down to check and was jostled roughly by one of her fellow Irkens as she stumbled and banged into his shoulder. She mentally added her lack of coordination straight on the list. This was almost fun.
In a sort of...depressing way.
Okay... she was bad at positive mental games. She continued.
Piloting cruisers. (Crashed one into a mailing facility and had to work off the payment for ten years in community service on the planet PetHomia.)
And dancing. (The feet of those she tried to dance with would never again be the same.)
And drinking Vortian Fire Brandy. That particular thought brought memories of her younger self in the Junior Training Academy, when she was a tender fifty years of age. She wondered if they'd cleaned the scorch marks and vomit stains off of the wall yet.
Probably not.
And-
Her train of thought was brutally de-railed as she collided once more with the Irken in front of her. He turned and shot her a glare, and she pressed her antennae flat to her head in apology. It hardly worked, he gave her a disgusted huff and turned around again, muttering something under his breath. She caught the words 'clumsy idiot' and, unsurprisingly, 'ugly.'
She refrained from commenting.
The Hiring Facilities seemed to be made up of a series of a large enclosure, surrounded on all sides by a chain link fence that would have looked much more imposing if it hadn't, like any other wall or fence in Foodcourtia, had been coated with advertisement. Flashy posters were plastered over every available space, some overlapping each other. A few neon signs, blinking and flashing their messages at passing guards and food service drones, were strapped to the fence itself with wires and metal rings.
As she read a few of the signs, (Pizza of The Universe! Blorfies Nachos, Supreme! Low Prices!,) an enormous vidscreen projected from the raised dais in the middle of the enclosure. It flickered the Irken symbol for a few minutes, and then showed the helmeted face of an announcer. He or she smiled benevolently at the assembled crowd.
"Hello, new Food service Drones." The announcer, who was definitely a he, by the sound of it, said. "Today marks the glorious moment of your NEVERENDING toil- er...employment here on the planet Foodcourtia. Here you will be shown to your new employers, the Frylords, and they will proceed to take you to your new workplace!"
A few of the members of the crowd cheered. She thought she heard the familiar voice of...whatever his name was, rising above the noise of the crowd to yell: 'Frylords rock!'
She thought he said 'rock', anyway.
The announcer on the vidscreen held up his hands to call for silence. "Yes, yes." He said, sounding impatient. "All food service drones line up on the dais." There was a pause. "NOW!" he roared.
It sounds impossible for a large crowd to simultaneously coordinate themselves, rush forward as one, and line up all in a matter of seconds. It may sound like something that could never happen. It may strike you that, in the rare and marvelous occasion such an event was pulled off, the lucky and astonishingly talented crowd that achieved the impossible feat should be awarded medals or at least a week of vacation. And all that may very well be true.
Unfortunately, that crowd wasn't the lucky crowd, they didn't coordinate themselves correctly, and many unlucky Irkens were trampled by the boots of those rushing to take their place on the dais.
And of course, she was one of the unlucky ones who found themselves becoming one with the dirt in ways she never thought were possible.
Before she had time to peel herself off the ground, she and her fellow trodden masses were yanked off the ground with big metal claws and thrown in a heap on the dais. As she tried to free herself from the tangle of arms and legs, pushing at what appeared to be somebody else's backside in her face, a tall, thin Irken with a snooty expression picked his way over to the heap of dirty Irkens and pulled out an inkpad and stamp from beneath his uniform.
A few seconds later, she sported a very fashionable 'Discounted' mark in red ink across her forehead. She was given a sign around her neck that read: 'half off wages.'
It must be the alignment of the planets, she thought, as she stood uncomfortably in the 'bargain bin' section. But she hadn't recalled reading any of this in her horoscope that morning.
Sizz-lor made his way through the crowds outside the Hiring Facilities. It was relatively easy, even on Foodcourtia, for him to get through crowds with little to no obstruction. People generally gave him a wide berth. It was unwise to mess with someone who looked as though he could easily crush your head between thumb and forefinger. To add to that, the expression on his face at the moment was enough to make any sane person keep very carefully away.
Sizz-lor was, to put it mildly, pissed off.
Zim, the new Food Service Drone,( make that slave,) was managing to do all the work assigned to him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, in doing that work, he'd cause at least ten new problems. It was actually costing him to have Zim working there! To try and make up for that, he assigned Zim the chores that the hired employees wouldn't, he gave him the worst customers, and made him clean the ghastly restroom stall number 13. This worked only marginally, with Zim doing those chores the other employees worked more quickly, but all the resulting disasters of Zim's attempts to clean up or serve customers balanced out the profit he should be making. It was frustrating, to say the least.
Especially since the last time Zim tried to rid the stalls of the toilet monster, he actually flung the thing out of the stalls and into the restaurant, maiming a few customers and killing off one of his staff. The customers were placated with free meal coupons. The staff member, however...
Sizz-lor growled, desperately wanting to pummel something. Preferably something short, green, and stupid. Thanks to him, he had to go out of his way and find some other food service drone to take Gnar's place.
He stopped in front of the enclosure. "Sizz-lor." He grunted. A wire identification cable slithered out of the gate and attached itself to his pak, checking his information before he was let in.
"Frylord Sizz-lor" a mechanical voice announced, "Please take your Hiring Pass." The cable withdrew, and he was handed a plastic card, with a pin to attach to his apron. He stuck it on as quickly as possible, wanting to get this all over with so he could get back to his restaurant. Zim was being left to nearly his own devices once more.
His eye twitched slightly at the thought.
The gate opened and he stepped through, shoving through the crowd of employers until he was standing in front of the platform. There were maybe twenty or so drones left there, twenty-five including the substandard, discounted ones. Those were the ones he was interested in, he didn't need anyone incredibly skilled to make up for the kitchen worker. All they needed to do was push buttons and tend the frying pits. Besides, anyone would be better than Zim.
He chose one at random, a skinny, short little runt of a thing. His posture marked him as subservient, which he approved of. He didn't need any insubordinance. "You!" he barked, stabbing a finger in his direction. Everyone else instinctively stepped back a pace. The targeted drone stared at the finger as if it was dangerous, and then looked up timidly, his antennae quivering with fear.
"Y-yes, sir?" he asked.
"How good are you at pushing buttons?"
"Um...I push buttons quite well sir."
"Excellent. You're hired." He grabbed the drone by the head, lifting him clear off the platform. "We'll discuss your wages later. There's about to be a catastrophe at Schloogorgh's." Sizz-lor, clutching his new employee tightly, began shoving his way through the crowd once more
The drone grunted as he was banged into a few of the bystanders too stupid to get out of Sizz-lor's way, his legs dangling in the air as he was carried off. "But- I- okay." He said meekly.
"What was that?" Sizz-lor roared at him.
"Um...Oh! Yes, of course, my Frylord!" he squeaked.
Satisfied, Sizz-lor hauled his new kitchen worker through the crowd.
A few minutes later, he spoke up again. "Um...my Frylord, how do you know there's going to be a 'catastrophe'?"
"You'll see soon enough." Sizz-lor muttered darkly. "With Zim without proper supervision, something terrible always happens."
And as if on cue, someone started screaming.
-Of course, in actuality, she didn't say 'crap'. She uttered a particularly venomous Irken swear word which is unpronounceable in inferior Earth languages, and actually refers to the digestive processes of a winged creature on the far-off planet of Bleeblop.
-Yes, Even on Irk, they had Popsicles. Of course, the range of flavors was vastly different. Nacho flavoring in green-colored ice was the most popular variety. /size