Disclaimer: I do not own Invader Zim, that pleasure belongs to Jhonen Vasquez or Nickelodeon or Viacom or all three or none of the above, just not me.

Author's Notes: This story isn't your usual fic – which is probably a bad thing. Read at your own risk. (May cause carpal tunnel or toe fungus.)

Warnings: Lots of bad things. Character death. Overdramatics. Shiz to the nizzle.

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Choices that We Make

Fingers clenched about his throat, his mortality rushing ugly black into his face. He is an animal, but the monster holding him is baring teeth, gleams of blood and spit and sweat littering his pale skin. In a flash, inherent training from birth erupts crystal-clear, fed by the machine. He is a volcano and metal bursts out of his back.

It should have been fatal, but the monster lets go and rolls away, and his arms and a leg catch onto the sharp metal points. Blood, screams, a moment of eerie suspension before he crumples. The sick sound of suction precedes the clicks of those deadly legs returning to their resting place, and he stands over the monster.

Tears of pain. He smirks. "You never learn, do you?" Height is everything, and he accentuates this by crushing his boot on the monster's throat. "Not today, Dib-stink. Pitiful human." Despite the bloodlust that pounds through his veins, he knows there will soon be vomit and more tears, a pitiful display he would rather miss.

Mercilessly stepping across his opponent's neck, he walks away without looking back, humming a familiar tune. It is only when he turns the corner that he collapses, hard breath tearing his throat to pieces. He's bleeding from his gut where shrapnel rests, and considers calling for his robot. After a moment of critical analyzing, he concedes and takes out a communication device, hoarsely barking orders with the oh-so-pleasant sound of retching as background noise.

When he is spread-eagle and being tended to by sensitive robotic arms, his mind wanders to the monster. He supposes that he somehow dragged himself home, but something nags at the edges of his conscious, nibbling persistently. A feeling in the depths of – no. He does not feel. The arms peel away and there is nothing reminiscent of damage save for a vivid scar. It will disappear in time, erased by his ever-vigilant Pak, just as the shadows of empathy.

………………

He rolls over and groans loudly, waves of pain and nausea clashing until he empties out his stomach. Exhaustion…he is too tired to move away so he collapses instead, head tilted so he won't choke. Blackness edges around his eyes, blurred sights in front of him. Vaguely aware of a stranger screaming, he decides it is not worth staying around for what happens next.

"…stab…we can't…alone?"

"Yes."

Darkness.

There is a glove pressing his cheek when he wakes up, but he doesn't move immediately. Opening his eyes tentatively, he sees an unfamiliar face. "Good morning," an unfamiliar voice says, and then the eyes turn away. "He's awake, Professor."

"Ah! Excellent." He tries not to think of an autopsy as his father hovers over him, opaque eyes focused on his face. This illusion, however, doesn't fool him – he knows those eyes are elsewhere, roaming the room with reckless abandon. "Son, you were stabbed by a madman. Do you remember what he looked like?"

"It was Zim," he replies bluntly. His father jerks back, laughs, and waves his hand dismissively. Scowling, he rises up in the uncomfortable bed only to collapse again.

"Of course it was, Son. Well, back to REAL science for me!" Without any hesitation, he leaps out of the room, sharp laughs echoing throughout the empty halls (as painful to him as a boot on his throat).

"Well then," the nurse cheerily says, "it's time for your tests. The doctor will be right with you."

"What tests?" She turns and he looks up at her face.

"Your psychiatric tests, silly! The professor requested we did them." Empty giggle and five steps later, he is alone to mull over his wounds. A soft tapping outside his window jerks him out of his reverie and he looks up. Fury wells inside of him at the eyes that stare at him and he flips the bird. The alien laughs and he can hear it almost as clearly as if the window were open; a clawed finger points to a wall in the room and he follows it.

Get well, human!
Love, Zim

Brilliantly shining black marker, the lines are impeccable and thick; the only message neatly printed on the large whiteboard. Carelessly ripping the IV out of his arm, he staggers across the room to the window and forces it open.

"Fuck you, space boy," he bites vehemently as the disguised alien crawls into the room. Despite the fact he is a foot and a half taller than the alien, he feels much smaller, fear that he can't fight curling in his stomach.

"What," he snidely replies, a cocky smirk displaying serrated teeth, "you don't like my present?"

"What do you think?" It's not a question, really, and he's glad the alien doesn't reply. "What do you want?" he asks irritably, hobbling back to his bed. "Come to kill me in my sleep? Some invader you are."

"Who are you talking to?" a strange voice replies. He turns on his heel, the sudden movement pushing him into a moment of vertigo that topples him onto the hospital bed. A doctor walks over and stands near him, looking down with chilled blue eyes.

"Zim," he explains breathily, sitting up. But when he looks at the window, it is shut, and the only proof that the alien had ever entered the hospital is the gleaming message on the board. Thick swallow, he recomposes and looks back up. The doctor is frowning. "He was here," he insists.

"You may think so," the doctor says, falling into a low, soft voice that he assumes is supposed to be soothing. The doctor pulls a chair up to the bed and takes a seat, lightly cradling a clipboard in a hand, pen poised. "But, if you think about it, you and I will both agree he wasn't really here."

He doesn't look up at the doctor; with shaking hands he slides the IV back into his arm. Clenched fists, clenched teeth, coiled muscles like a stressed spring, he shuts his eyes and counts to ten. Resiliently his jaw refuses to open, so he doesn't respond; merely shoots lasers through the opposite wall.

"Well, then," the doctor drones, nearly whispering, "let's begin. Shall we?"

Pride taking hold of him by the throat, he stolidly stares at the message and doesn't say a single word.