"Stupid Zim." Dib grimaced, pulling the trapdoor closed behind him. His whole body hurt, aching like he'd been through a hailstorm, which wasn't that far off. Zim's stale sandwich tornado had been a nasty, barely cohesive mass, but held together just enough to knock Dib about and buffet him with hard bread.

"How're you holding up?" Dib asked over his shoulder, checking the equipment. "Same as always, right?"

There was no answer, of course. There wouldn't be.

Sometimes Dib wondered why he kept coming up here, kept spilling out his day to this statue, kept the digital cam feeding images to his computer. He'd set up the camera shortly after discovering her, to make sure she was safe from any dark creature that might try and sneak in to reclaim her. He'd given up trying to wake the Glass Lady by age 9, and just last year he'd confirmed she wasn't enchanted after he begged a session out of Agent Tunaghost to determine if there was any magic on her.

Still, there was something comforting about his little ritual. Granted, he only came up once a week now, unless it had been a particularly terrible day and he needed to vent. Like the day he'd found out how little Dwicky really cared about saving the Earth. Or the day Zim's contact lens fell out and nobody cared. Or the day Zim was abducted by a giant alien in front of the class and nobody saw. His mouth turned down. At this point, he hoped the statue wasn't enchanted, because it had seen him cry that day.

"Today's invasion plan was pretty stupid." Dib sighed, "But it sure hurt. Who knew bread could be a dangerous weapon?" He glanced up at her face. It was the face that still gave him the tiniest bit of doubt as to whether or not she was pure statue. He still remembered impression he had of the look on the face when he'd first seen her. It had been an expression of fear, with the distinct feeling of attempting to outrun something.

Now the expression was softer, more pensive and thoughtful. He could, of course, have imagined that it was fear, likely it had always been this thoughtful expression. But he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that it had subtly changed over time.

Ridiculous of course, but still there, in the corner of his mind.

Crack.

He'd become accustomed to the cracking sounds in the attic as well, they'd become as familiar and dependable as a metronome to a music student. Sometimes, when he'd worn out all his words, he'd just sit there, watching the light play off the Glass Lady, listening for the crack every thirty minutes.

He opened his mouth to address her again, then sighed, slumping to the ground next to her and resting his forehead against the clear glass. "Lady," he said quietly, "I'm tired. Nobody believes me about Zim. I'm practically invisible unless I'm shouting, and then I'm 'Crazy,' and Dad isn't even ignoring me from the basement anymore. Now he's ignoring me from his lab." He closed his eyes. "Maybe he's got a point. Maybe they all do, I'm talking to a glass statue. I probably am crazy. Even old man Lars throws stuff at me and screams some nonsense about my glasses burning my face off, he hardly reacts to anyone else. Maybe I was just born with the worst luck."

He lapsed into silence, pointing the lamp he'd installed in the attic directly at the statue. He used to pretend the patterns spelled out responses, until he outgrew pretend. He used to color pictures for the Glass Lady and pin them up on the wall so she wouldn't be bored while he was gone. Some tattered and worn papers still remained on the wall.

Crack.

Time flew up here sometimes. He hadn't meant to stay an hour. He had homework to do, and files on Zim to catalogue. He got up, stretching. He ran a hand down one of the Lady's arms gently. "Guess I'll be back in a few days."

Climbing down the trapdoor stairs, he wondered to himself how long it would be before he outgrew talking to the statue. Not that it would make any difference to the statue, but he got the feeling he'd be melancholy on that day. It would be like giving up sleeping with stuffed animals, because you know you've gotten too old for them. A sad, but necessary part of growing up.

Of course, some just roboticized their stuffed animals into guardian night terrors that fed on human flesh. Dib gave Gaz's door a wide berth as he slipped into his own room. Leaping onto his chair, he spun himself around a couple of times before settling down to organize his files. He clicked onto the feed in the attic to download the weeks' footage of absolutely nothing happening, send it to his hard drive, and connect to the live feed.

The half-hourly cracking had become his clock, and a comforting nighttime noise. That was why he kept filming, he reasoned.

He checked his homework folder. Nothing he couldn't do in the five minutes before Skool in the morning. Grimacing, he rubbed his side and decided that notes on Zim from today could wait. A hot shower was the more pressing need.

He glanced at the loading bar on his computer, and frowned. He'd gotten lazy about downloading the recording data, and had left it running for a few weeks. The compressed file would zip through the footage as it downloaded, playing everything at a higher speed. He didn't like the idea of his sound-clock speeding up, even if it was just for downloading's sake. He'd have to make sure he didn't put it off so long next time.

He accepted the download and turned to leave the room. It would be over by the time he was done with his shower.

Crack. Crack. Crack. CRACK. Crack. CRACK. Crack. Crack. CRACK.

He paused, glancing back. Was it his imagination, or did the cracks have different tonal qualities?

He shrugged uneasily. It was just the attic creaking, always had been.

Every half hour. Perfectly. For years.

He slipped slowly back into his seat, staring at the footage as it zipped by, listening to the cracking. It was most definitely changing up and down in pitch.

Suddenly his fingers gripped the edge of his chair, his knuckles flashing bone white. He could see himself in the footage, zipping about like a squirrel on steroids, flashing in and out of the footage like mad as it rolled through the time, that was to be expected.

But at the same time, with exceeding and painful slowness, he could see the glass lady's arm stretching farther out, ever so slightly, as the entire statue slid imperceptibly forward.

…..

Note: Important PSA: I am not advocating giving up sleeping with stuffed animals because you've gotten to old for them. (cradles Big Puppy close) I am not of the opinion this is a necessary part of growing up… Dib is though. (end PSA)