A/N: This is a silly little idea/drabble that occurred to me while getting out of the bathtub. I promptly laughed out loud and nearly died, as my momentary distraction made me slip on the bathroom tile. Fun.
Smikka is a terribly unappreciated character--I've never seen any fanfictions or fanart containing him (or any of the "Screwhead" people). I hope to remedy this by developing him. He has a lot of potential, as do a lot of the minor IZ canon characters. In case you don't remember who he is/what he looks like, here's a pic:
h t t p : / / w w w . i n v a d e r z i m . t v / i m a g e s / c h a r a c t e r s / s m i k k a 2 . jpg
"So, tell me more about how you came here."
The mild blue eyes of an alien therapist blinked kindly at her most recent patient.
Two of her arms were folded calmly in her lap. The other two cradled an electronic clipboard, beset with a stylus and an emergency security button.
She sincerely hoped she wouldn't have to use the latter. But it was always nice to have... just in case. Armed guards were just behind the walls of the soothing room... automated robots designed specifically to target and restrain patients who got just a bit too out of hand.
Of course, the room wasn't actually a wonderfully tranquil shade of green, nor was it furnished so comfortably. It was all a hologram--used to mask the harsh, metallic natures of the walls and the procrustean, prison-like appearance of the entire building.
Smikka pressed a trembling hand to his lip. It was encased within a thick glove, worn from the strain of manual labor. A loincloth-like skirt was the only thing that protected his yellow body from the elements.
Currently, that body was hunched over in an expression of pain, a wretched figure perched carefully on a stool before his therapist.
"...The Irken machine. I escaped from the Irken machine."
"I see," said the therapist mechanically, offering a friendly smile. "Smikka, won't you sit down elsewhere? That stool seems terribly uncomfortable."
At this, his eyes widened dramatically--almost comically.
They bulged insanely, apprehending the therapist like as if she was the barrel of a gun.
"I will not sit on a chair the color of the Irken machine."
His voice grew tremulous, absurdly deep for someone of his size.
The therapist frowned, gesturing kindly at the chair.
"But it's a fine chair. Shucks if it's maroon. I believe you should try sitting on it. It will be like sitting on an Irken. Sitting on your fear. Don't you agree?"
Her voice was the sweetest of honey, but regardless, Smikka would not budge.
He made an incomprehensible garble, spitting a few times between strangled words. The screw in his skull seemed to tremble in an unspoken fury.
Sensing her patient's discomfort, the therapist cleared her throat.
"That's okay. Conquering your fears can be hard. But we'll work on it. One day, you'll be able to sit on whatever color chair you want. Okay? Why don't we try working on a different fear? You should tell me about... boxes."
She leaned forward expectantly.
Smikka made a high-pitched noise reminiscent of a teapot. He leapt to his feet, balancing precariously on the stool.
"Boxes?"
He nearly screamed, words beset with a furious loathing. The color rose in his face.
"You want me to talk about boxes? Well, I'll tell you about them!" he roared passionately, making a wild fist gesture.
"Every single day.... I had to package boxes! Ship boxes! Monitor boxes! So many boxes! My... life....revolved-around-boxes!"
His fists were clenched as he stared towards the zenith of the room--as if yelling at some unseen force, some audience. Accusing them of some horrible crime.
"Day in and day out... no, no, there were no days! They just blurred together--blurred together like so many packages on a conveyer line!"
Spit flew out of his mouth.
The therapist blinked, absently taking notes with one hand. Another was casually inching towards the emergency button.
"Ah... ha. I see. And how did all of this make you feel?"
"How did it--how did it make me feel?" Smikka cried, baritone voice echoing strongly around the room. "Horrible! Absolutely horrible! There was no escape from them. No escape! Even when my shift was over and I was escorted violently to my quarters, still--still I had to contend with them! The boxes!"
A dramatic hand gesture.
"Not even in the barest slums of its vile heart did the Irken monster see that they take my evening rations out of their boxes!" He gasped. "No... I had to sit there, in my cramped living space, staring at it--staring at it!--until I finally mustered the nerve, nay, the intrepid passion to rise, to eviscerate the the package, to chew on the bare life sustenance that was provided!"
The stool began to rock back and forth dangerously.
"And when I succumbed to my exhaustion, I awoke the next morning to be slave to more boxes!"
Smikka's voice continued to bounce around the room, separating in a straggled manner, echoing in his head. Boxes... boxes... boxes! His eyes continued to bulge, growing minds of their own. His body was thrust upwards, grappling at the air, made insane by his fears and hatred and poetic drabble...
"And then! Then! When I tried to speak, the ruthless overseer, the heartless swine, the vile guard sees it in his power to tase me! To muffle my suffering! My endless lamentations! Pouring, no doubt, from every fiber of my being! Everyday he witnessed it! Everyday they witnessed it, and yet they did not show mercy!"
He pointed at the maroon chair with fervor--passion boiling from the depths of his visceral emotions.
"No tolerance for impertinence! No room for free will! The others lost hope, but not I! They tried to control me, oppress me with their weapons, their mocking laughter! I shall never forget that--that... horrible... laughter!"
His left eye squeezed shut, the glint of its fiery sapphire depths suddenly extinguished.
"How it bounced off the boxes! Traveling everywhere! Endless! Floating above my head; tantalizing, tantalizing! How I would have liked to seize it, to strangle it before their very eyes!"
Smikka paused, heaving. Breath rushed hotly out of his mouth, from between the lines of his munted teeth.
His legs were spread apart, loincloth hanging skimpily between them.
The therapist blinked nervously, glancing briefly at the swaying, heavy-duty fabric. Her eyes travelled back up to his face, too apprehensive to allow herself to become distracted.
She opened her mouth in preparation to speak, but was cut off abruptly.
"...But, no. I waited. I waited patiently, pretended to follow their orders--pretended that their brainwashing tricks had fooled me into becoming a drone! And they nodded, buying it. Buying all of it!"
Smikka nodded, himself, intoxicated by his own storytelling, consumed by the need to enact it.
"And then, when the time was right, I took charge. I leaped up. I... I switched the addresses on TWO PACKAGES!"
Forgetting he was on the stool, the little alien jumped--as he landed, the stool pitched. Yelling, Smikka lurched forward, making an accidental lunge towards his therapist.
She screamed piercingly, backing away. Her hand instinctively slammed the emergency button.
Immediately, two shadowy forms leapt out from behind the pastel-colored walls. Restraints cut through the air, flying out from within the mechanical drones.
One latched onto Smikka's ankle, dragging him backwards.
"You have been verified as a threat. Prepare to be sedated..."
A mechanical voice floated through the air. It meant nothing to Smikka.
"I switched them! I switched them!" He continued to scream, lost in his storm of remembrance and passion.
"I switched them, and I kept switching them! They couldn't oppress me! Not me, for I am Smikka Smikka Smoooo--"
A needle whistled through the air.
It plunged into his leg--and then the pastel walls suddenly turned gray; color drained from the room, like water from a bathtub. The maroon couch turned black in the obscurity of darkness, and Smikka saw no more.