Author's Notice:
This story can be read as a stand alone. Or, it could be considered a companion to my other work "Inevitable". I always liked this idea, and decided to write a short blurb about it. I enjoy Zim's inner workings, and I feel he would be a ruthless leader, but have a nostalgic side. Anyway. Please enjoy and tell me what you think.
"Failure"
'One-Shot'
By: Emo Fox
Failure.
They had all been failures.
Zim leaned back in his command chair; his claws hooked on the edges of his armrests as his crimson eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the human whom stood just a few feet beyond him.
Dib's back was to him, the human's finger pressed on the domed windshield as he followed a line of Irken text, stumbling with the words. Dib's accent was thick and stammering, worse than ever.
Zim's antennae twitched in irritation, the lengthy stalks quivering as his muscles tightened. The drones that ringed the edge of the Tallest's platform attempted to ignore their leader's budding hostility, but it choked the air and dried their mouths.
Zim just didn't understand what he was doing wrong. All the prototypes should have been perfect; there was no reason for them to fail, to come out so horribly.
Dib turned, his amber gaze falling on the Irken who resided in the curved backed chair; eyes as pure as gold, but just as flat, "Where are we headed again?" He murmured, his hand still pressed against the windshield, obscuring their dotted flight path and the blinking images on the screen.
The tall Irken sat up stiffly in his chair, leaning forward, claret eyes rooted to Dib's expression; to the milky white of his skin, to the unruly crop of sable hair, to his usual attire(the clothes he wore on Earth), "You can read Irken, and I've already told you." He grunted, keeping gaze with the Earth child.
"I'm," Dib glanced to the screen, weighing his words before he looked back at Zim, "I'm having trouble reading, and remembering."
Zim growled; no matter how this Dib looked, it was not Dib. Dib would have never admitted defeat so easily, even to something so petty as forgetting; he would have flushed, color finally glowing on his face, would have grudgingly asked Zim to remind him, Zim would have goaded him, they would have argued—
There was no arguing, not with any of these prototypes. Not with a single one. They were all too complacent and Zim couldn't for the life of him understand why. Why couldn't he capture Dib's original fire? Why couldn't one be right? Why?!
Zim snarled a frustrated hostile sound as he jerked himself up from the chair, his anger reaching a boiling point.
He was mad at himself, mad at this Dib, mad at his entire situation.
Dib pressed his back up against the windshield, biting down on his lower lip as he braced himself for Zim's anger, "Zim?" He questioned, his tone quivering.
Zim halted, remaining on the platform as he surveyed the meek human. He watched those pearl-white teeth as they gnawed his lip raw; a nervous habit his original Dib had, the action ceased his anger, threw him into the past for a brief, blissful moment. This Dib was too submissive, too fearful, but it gained more basic mannerisms than all the others; it did help him pretend a lot easier than the others had.
This clone, number twenty-six, was the closest he had gotten to a perfect reproduction; but it was still off, still not the original, but Zim was losing hope he'd ever make the perfect clone, that he'd ever re-create his mate.
The communication drones around them had been on edge, the heavy silence tensing their bodies, their antennae stick-straight in the air, awaiting any order from their Tallest. Hoping something would break the dry tension in the air.
But, just as quickly as the anger came, it was gone. Zim sagged back in his chair, the collective around them relaxing with his posture as he raised a hand and beckoned the youth forward, "Come."
Dib didn't hesitate, stepping up on the ledge and going right to Zim. With easy grace he draped himself in the Irken's lap, "I didn't mean—" He started to apologize, but Zim silenced him with the tip of his talon.
"Stop it." He hissed, hating the apologies. Dib had more pride than that, just like Zim, bull-headed enough to rarely concede even if he had been wrong.
Dib remained silent, his legs draped over the armrest, his head tilted against the curved top of the chair. His amber gaze was intent on Zim, watching him with an almost child-like innocence.
Zim allowed himself to pass into illusion, remembering his stubborn dirt child. The one he went to school with, the one he'd chase for hours across fields, streets, anywhere. The one he plotted with, the one he claimed as his mate, the one he rose to power with.
Zim's talon traced from Dib's temple to his jaw, down the curve of his neck, following the milky throat to the hollow. He remembered all the times he had fought with his human, all the times he had clawed, bitten, fucked, his human.
The Irken's blood grew hot, remembering Dib's needy sounds, to his breathy promises to his keening cries of silly human love.
Irkens didn't love.
But Zim imagined this might be what love was, what love could have been. This insatiable obsession.
It was all-consuming, and there was no way to cure it, not until his original mate came back; and that wasn't possible, there was no getting his Dib back, not ever.
Zim's antennae wilted, his hand halting on the human's shoulder, a heavy weight as reality swamped into his illusion. He swallowed thickly, forcing back whatever emotions tried to swell inside of him, ignoring the burning in his throat as his dark eyes flicked back to the clone's expression.
Dib was watching him, his eyes almost curious, having not once made a move to touch him, or even ask what was wrong.
This Dib lacked insight; and the ability to feel Zim, to just know him, to understand the emotions inside, to understand he needed physical contact to sway the pain away.
No, this Dib didn't understand him, didn't love him, not like the original.
Zim's hands fell, arms wrapped around the teenager's waist to hold him awkwardly to his chest.
He wanted Dib back.
He just…he wanted him back, so badly, he needed him.
Zim's lips pressed against Dib's neck, the skin too soft, unblemished and perfect. He moved up to his jaw, to his ear, the smell of his hair was almost synthetic; wrong. His Dib had smelled like Earth, something indescribable. Even with all his years in space, on the Massive, Dib had retained that long-ago fragrance that Zim didn't know how to replicate.
But, no matter how much Zim wanted, this clone was not Dib, and it would never be Dib.
"Zim?" Dib asked, his tone almost confused, his hands resting on the alien's shoulders, almost to push him away.
His voice was the same, the clothing was the same, but just about everything else was different; and the everything else was what pissed Zim off, was what brought him back to reality, was what killed him every time all over again.
"Get off." Zim snapped, and the Dib complied, stumbling over himself to get off the Irken leader. Zim stared hard at the youth standing confused before him, watching him a long moment before he turned and stalked away.
This clone would be killed, like the others.
It was time to start work on clone number twenty-seven.
This time he was going to get it right. This time he was going to get his Dib back.