I wrote this for two reasons:
a) I wanted to see if I could do a minimalist approach to a story and get away with it
b) I think that the control brains are probably the weirdest thing from the entire show (think about! A computer that controls an entire planet! It's freaky!)
Hope you like it!
Disclaimer: Nothing from Invader Zim belongs to me. The show is owned by Jhonen Vasquez and Nickelodeon.
"Defective."
It is cold, it is final, it is right.
It is a death sentence.
I've said it thousands of times, only to see the ones it destroys instantly replaced by hundreds more, waiting and ready to fulfill their purpose.
I've given the sentence and watched in apathy as the consequences take effect. The defective Pak is ordered to shut down, cutting off the life support of its host as it goes.
The death of a defective is not a pleasant one.
I am a control brain, and this is my purpose: to keep order.
If that means eliminating those who have done nothing but to feel, then so be it.
That is my purpose, and nothing else.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Today is a day like every other. I do not, cannot, sleep, so I don't wake up. I merely mark the passage of another night and send yesterday's records to the Archives.
For a few hours, I merely monitor the everyday events of traffic, weather, news, et cetera. I do it all the time, and it is practically effortless.
But then, a message comes from Inquisition. Possible defective noted, it says. Drone will be sent in 0:0:34 seconds.
I am surprised, in the cold and expecting way only a control brain can be. Usually I would have sentenced at least five defectives by now. Must be a slow day.
In comes the defective, into the atrium where my main core resides, her hands bound before her and her boots magnetized to the hoverdisk she comes in on.
She stares at my metal core, an octopus-like structure with several opaque eyes and hundreds of ringed tentacles that connect to the walls, to the floors, to other cables.
Drone noted for possible defection, comes the message. Suspected of sabotage.
Sabotage. So she decided to question the way things are. How clever. How fatal.
Automatically I send an information probe out, plunging the jack into the drone's Pak. It whirs for a moment, aligning itself with the wiring of the foreign device, then silences as the data flow begins to start.
All the while, she never takes her eyes off me.
I wait for the information to format itself to me so I can read it, then plunge into it.
And for the first time in my life, I feel sick.
She is just like me.
I set my cameras on her purple eyes again and just stare.
They are so deep, so dark. They are knowing and caring, accepting.
She is aware that she is defective.
She knows she will die, horribly.
She is not afraid.
The knowledge I have gained makes me reel, the streams of data I send to keep things working rupturing as my concentration wavers. Dimly I am aware of traffic jams, blocked signals, all sorts of chaos on the surface.
And for once, I don't care.
I have looked into myself. I have seen what no one else but I can see.
I am a control brain, and I am defective.
The drone's thought patterns are identical to mine, her wiring nearly the same.
Her madness is mine.
She feels my shock, her head jerking upward and her face twisting in pain as waves of information break free and hit her like missiles.
"Stop," she cries.
Her voice brings me back, back to a dark room where a drone and a control brain lie connected by a thin metal wire, their thoughts linked in madness.
Madness? I hear, and it is her, thinking back to me. We are not mad.
We are not, I realize.
But we are defective.
Defective, and you still control the world.
Defective….
I laugh in the nearest way I can. The irony of a world dependent on order but controlled by a defective…
The streams of information are reforming, putting me back in contact with the rest of Irk. The other control brain, on the far side of the planet, demands to know what happened.
Progress, I tell it.
I receive only confusion, so I send it a false report about a faulty cable that is now repaired. It was believable; it had happened before.
Satisfied, the other brain and all the programs that attend to me go back to their normal routines.
Except for one.
Your decision, pesters the Inquisition messenger.
Slowly, I unhook the cable from the defective drone's pack, noting that she still does not take her eyes from me.
Madness, I think.
"This one is not defective," I say, aloud. "Recheck and alter detection programs."
The messenger records the order and sends itself back to Inquisition. A thousand other things instantly fly in, begging for my attention.
Instead, I speak again. "This drone is suitable for a higher rank. Reprogram the Pak for Internal Management."
I watched as the bonds around her wrists dissolve and the hoverdisk releases her boots. She rubs her fingers to get the feeling back in them and gives me a curious look.
"What a mad world we live in," I say.
"What a mad world you control," she says, and I watch in silence as the disk takes her away.
Kinda short, but it was fun to write. It took me maybe a half hour.
Reviews make me squeal like a sugarhigh puppy. Apparently it's hilarious to watch, so leave a few for the sake of everything you hold dear.
(P.S. I'm okay with flames and negative reviews as long they make sense. If yours says something like "OMG lyk ths wuz sooo bad i h8 u im gunna eet ur hed" than I'll get confused and probably break down in horrible, horrible tears)