Chapter 2- still Gaz's POV. A bit weirder, I think. This reads best if you put a sad song on; I recommend "Boston" by Augustana or "Candy" by Lovedrug.

Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Invader Zim or any of the characters or locations involved. Jhonen Vasquez and Nickelodeon do.

I sit on the sidewalk outside of our house with the same blue notebook and pen in my hand, still watching the cars go by. It's been three weeks since I last visited Dib's memorial.

Three weeks since the bush, the flowers, and the card were all removed by the city's Sanitation department, which apparently exists to pick up things that don't need to be removed and then ignore the rest.

I almost tried to stop them, asking the more important-looking of the two people there if they had any authority to remove memorials. I went to the city hall and submitted my complaints in a small wooden box that looked as if it hadn't been checked in years. I wrote a letter to the mayor explaining the injustice of my situation.

But in the end, I just stood and watched as they dumped the flowers and card into a bag, pulled up the bush, put it in a bigger bag, and drove off.

They didn't notice when a flower fell out the back.

And they didn't notice the needle I stuck in their tire.

The sun finally starts to set, the colors of dusk muted by smog and airborne filth. It starts to get cold as the night comes in, so I pull on my sweatshirt, wincing as it ruffles my hair sprayed head. I didn't really expect to see the culprit today. Dib was killed on the poor side of town and we live on the wealthy outskirts. The two don't mix very well.

Still, I follow the sparse stream of passing cars with my eyes. They don't look right; somehow I think I'll know when I see the killer.

More minutes and more cars pass by, all new and shiny with custom plates and fancy paint jobs. They reek of money and pride and overblown egos; you can almost smell the smugness. The contrast from the filth of the main city is painfully blatant.

Slowly the sky notices that the sun has set. It turns to blue, then black, like a massive paper screen pulled by an invisible hand. The stars come out, one by one, sliding into their usual patterns and winking at me like old friends with new secrets to tell.

I remember how Dib used to watch the stars late at night. He'd climb out onto the roof and stare at them for hours and hours, motionless and silent, waiting for something better to come. Then when dawn came, the stars would disappear and he would come back down with them in his eyes.

I shake the memory away and scold myself silently. Three cars have passed in the time I was lost in thought, and I didn't get a single one of their license plates. I squint off into the darkness and think that I probably wouldn't have been able to see them anyway.

I get off the ground with a grunt and head back inside, pausing to let the door sensor recognize me. It has a tendency to overreact to strangers sometimes. There are still bits of burnt fur left over from the last squirrel to cross our lawn.

I walk in and the house is dark and quiet, the only sound a soft humming coming from the supercomputer/generator/water heater/toaster in the basement. Dad isn't home yet. He hasn't been home for well over two weeks, actually. Sometimes his pre-recorded projection screen will come on and remind me to feed the puppy.

I shuffle to the kitchen and flip on some lights, wincing at the brightness from the reflections. The room is spotless, all chrome and stainless steel. It reminds me vaguely of Dad- clinical, shiny, and perfect, but colder than ice. He never was one for affection. When Mom left he simply turned to science and stopped caring.

I settle into one of the chairs, grimacing at the chill of the metal. There's a newspaper and an apple on the table. The apple is mine, it has a worm inside it and I'm waiting to see how long it takes to hatch. The newspaper was probably brought in by the house or, hopefully, the maid that shows up every few months to vacuum the already spotless floors. I like her. She sometimes tells me about her kids back at home.

I pick up the newspaper and idly flip the pages, browsing past blurred pictures of buildings and people and clothes. All grey. Why is everything so goddamn grey?

I focus on the words instead and start to play a game I invented when I was first learning to read. I'd flip through the pages and randomly select a word, then put them together to make a sentence. It used to make me giggle when I was little. Then I grew up and actually read the stories I was using.

I never played the game again.

For the first time in years, without knowing why, I start at it again, at the headliner. My first word is Campsite. I briefly notice the word 'poisoning' near it and hurriedly turn the page.

The game goes by quickly after that, and I begin to realize why I liked it so much. My sentence starts to take shape with words like bamboozled, competition, typewriter, pinkness, chimney, all sorts of stupid things. I keep going, picking up words like caravan, meeting, hit-and-run…

Wait.

I flip back to the last one, my sluggish heart picking up a little. It had to be a coincidence, it had to be…I was being stupid, no one cared about my dead brother except me.

Still, I spend fourteen minutes scouring the paper to find that tiny phrase, and find it I do.

"D. Grisaille, age unknown, was arrested today for the hit-and-run murder of Dab Membrane. Motive unknown, alchohol is suspected to be involved. "

I have to read it a few times for the message to sink in. The typos strike me as ironic somehow, underneath my shock. No one cared about Dib when he was alive, why should they care now that he's dead?

Why should they care that the only person who wanted to save this world is sitting in a hole in a godforsaken cemetery somewhere? Why should they spell his name right or give him more than just a tiny blurb on the back page next to the obituaries? Why should they care?

A tiny spot of moisture lands on the paper, darkened by mascara and eyeliner, blurring the words into a smear of grayness. I lift a stunned hand to my cheek and sob in surprise. I haven't cried in years, not since Mom left. Not since Dib held my hand and said, "It's going to be all right, Gaz. It's going to be all right," and didn't let go until I stopped crying.

I let out a shuddering breath and give in. "It's not all right," I whisper.

And I just sit there and cry.

Minutes pass by, the hands on the clock creeping along on their destined paths as the tears run down my face and onto my sweatshirt. Dimly I marvel at my lack of self control, my shaking hands, my soaked shirt. No one affects me like this. No one.

No one except Dib.

And no one except the asshole who killed him.

And then it's over, my tears dried up and the trails on my face drying in the cold air. The sobs come to a close, my fingers stop their trembling. In seconds my wet face is the only sign of my outburst.

I guess sustained crying takes practice.

I take a deep breath, trying to work past the pain in my throat. It stings like lemon juice on a paper cut, and my breath comes in whistles. I massage my neck with black-painted fingernails and try to figure out where I go from here.

I have the name of Dib's murder. Good.

I know that s/he is probably still at the police station. Okay.

I can't really do anything about this. Not good.

I don't even know which police station. Bad.

Even if I did, it's not like I can start a lynch party or anything. Very bad.

I seriously doubt that anyone else cares. Atrocious.

I decide to stop before I work myself into a deeper rut than the one I'm already in or run out of synonyms for 'bad'. Despair will get me nowhere, I tell myself. I need a plan.

And instantly I think of Zim.

Before I slap myself for being stupid, I pause to think about it. He is the only other person to have cared (maybe) about Dib. And he does have a large arsenal of exotic weapons.

Weapons are definitely a plus.

And we did work together once, when Tak came. He may not have executed a brilliant plan, but he was destructive and that's what I'm looking for. So Zim is a possibility.

Other than that…

I spend a few minutes thinking about my alternatives to the insane alien bent on world conquest and come up with nothing.

My situation is beyond desperate.

I sigh and lean the chair back, staring at the metallic ceiling and the blurry reflection of a darkly dressed Goth splayed across it.

So Zim it is.

I am so screwed.

Well, this is it. The ending is a tad rushed, and I'm not overly happy with the chapter as a whole. Took much longer to write than the last bit; I think I'm afraid of plotlines...

Review s'il vous plait.