Eyes watching, narrowed eyes, angry eyes. He knows it but he does not acknowledge it, merely pretends to eat while trying to keep the food as far away as possible. Garbage, not food. Boots, heavy, beat the tile, a beeline for him, and he busies himself with rubbing his eyes so he doesn't have to look up. The boots stop and the monster slams his hands on the table; he and the next table over jumps and look at the monster, scandalized.

"You," he grits out, amber eyes slits, "could have killed me." He takes a moment to survey the monster, and there is a long burn across his neck, curving up to his ear.

"That's a problem?" he snaps, no sympathy flickering in his squeedly-spooch. Refusing to wait for a reply, he stands, empties his tray on the monster and leaves to a chorus of laughter. There is no violence – only eyes on the back of his head. He imagines there is something deeper than upset, but it's been a long day.

Long…such a miserable week. Hesitation, he slides into a bathroom and leans against a stall. It was a neat trick, laying the box on the monster's windowsill – the pressure released when opening it, which he knew the monster would. Acid. A native chemical to Vort, something potent and hard to clean; he draws the picture of the monster's neck from the fresh memory and smiles. He probably would have died, if his father wasn't so used to such incidents, he muses, and then laughs.

………………

The moon is high. Smiling from its perch, it is waning and this makes him angry, because another dead moon means another month on the pathetic dirt-ball excuse for a planet. He grits his teeth and steps out, eyes level and head high. Never, never, would he lose faith in his race, but lately he's been losing faith in himself, in the integrity of the mission.

Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, he wishes the monster had died. When he realizes this means there is a reluctance to let him die, he laughs, high-pitched and a little frantic, and orders his Pak to eradicate the thought. Soon he is left musing over the moon again, eyes tracing the craters meticulously.

The next morning, the monster is not in class. But the monster is never not in class. At lunch he looks for the sister, but she's nowhere to be found either. Suspicion tightens his squeedly-spooch, but he makes it slide, telling himself to enjoy the absence of bickering and insults that are emptier than the monster's desk.

Day falls into night and again into day. Announcements over the school intercom start, typical nonsense that bores him to tears. Just as he's found a comfortable slumped position, he hears something that jolts him back into reality.

"In other news," boredboredbored, "Dib Membrane has been committed to the local hospital and is in critical condition." Pause. A low sigh. "There's a get-well poster in the senior commons. Feel free to sign. Now, for the pledge…"

Whispers and laughter interrupt the earth nation's flag salute, rumors like wildfire – suicide, drugs, his father blowing up the house. He hears one person mutter, "About time," and wheels around, eyes turned to slits in fury.

"Tell me," he grinds out, clenching shaking fists, "is it common for you stink-beasts to have so little empathy for your own kind, even when said kind has done you no wrong?"

"Yeah, yeah," he replies boredly, staring as if he'd said the stupidest thing ever. "We all know you two are queer."

"This has nothing to do with deer! You should at least recognize his superiority over you and – " Eraser thunks his head – he squeals and ducks under his desk. "You dare strike the almighty ZIM?!" Waves his fist to more laughter until the teacher finally does his job and tells the class to shut the fuck up before he has to pull out the tazer again.

Not an empty threat.

At the end of lunch, he ventures timidly to the communal get-well. It is littered with messages and names, but overriding the entire upper-half is a spray-painted word that he does not recognize. Stares at it several minutes, but it's useless without his Pak to translate it. A passing girl is victim to his clawed hands and she begins to shout in surprise until he points.

"Earth-monkey, what does that mean?"

She looks up at the message and her face pulls into a disgusted expression. "It means…well," she searches for a sensitive way to put it. "It's an insult. Means he's gay."

He gives his Pak a moment to translate. "Gay? As in…happy?"

Discomforted by the situation, she adjusts her backpack and sighs, looking down the hallway away from him. "No, as in he likes guys."

"The male of your species?"

"Yeah. Um, I should – " she mumbles; points vaguely away.

"And that is a bad thing? Like…a defect?"

"Okay bye!" Practically running from the situation, she's almost home free, but he belts out one last question.

"How do you say it?"

Frantic to escape, she has no inhibitions of shouting back, "Fag!" before disappearing.

He stands and stares at the word, chin in hand. "Fag," he repeats softly, considering the taste in his mouth as he does. The bell for lunch's end rings, and he leaves, the stark black spray paint bright in his mind.

With double the letters, that is.

DEFECT.