A/N: Well it's been a long time boys and girls (more girls than boys though... I wonder why that is...) but here's chapter 7 of Going On. Being in the Navy, I sometimes don't have all the time I would like to do what I love to do. That being said, my priorities are to do the thing that I get paid for before the thing that I do as a hobby. I hope you all understand. To make up for it, this is NEARLY a triple length chapter, so please be kind and write me lengthy reviews, folks, even if you hated it.
Any criticism helps.
This was a hard chapter to write, because it represents a change in focus for the fic. Dib is no longer alone, going slowly crazy... he has a focus for his rage now, and a deep and abiding purpose. Unreasonable? Perhaps, but remember, when sanity grows thin, the impossible starts to appear possible.
This chapter is also a bit different from the others, as the perspective is going to change some. I don't want to ruin it for you, but bear one thing in mind. Up until this point, this has been Dib's perceptions of events past. We have caught up to where Dib himself is in the narrative, which enables me to do some... neat stuff. For those of you who are confused, please read to the end. I promise... it'll all make sense. Or if it didn't, at least I got you to read my chapter to the end, so Nyah!
With that bit of stupidity over and done with, lets move on with the show.
"I am the master, come down from the edge of space and time. Flesh and steel intertwine. I am the future, sacrifice your soul and succumb to me. Led to your fate, you'll be mine. Scream but no one hears my pleas. Faceless, Madness, falling to their knees! Bow Down, in the platinum haze! Twilight Cathedrals, spreads the system plague! Forging secret thrones, in the void unseen! Merciless judgement in the Church of the Machine!" -Symphony X, Church of the Machine
I do not know why I am being forced to wait this way.
I should clarify this statement. I do know why I am waiting. I am waiting because I have not been told to move. I watch Gif in front of me, apparently bored, checking his weapon for the forth time in five minutes. The skin around his eyes is tense and darker then normal, indicating an increase in anxiety. This is also verified by the .25% increase in antennae movement. I could perscribe him a mild sedative.
I SHOULD perscribe him a mild sedative. As the team medic, his well-being is my job.
I am not going to.
Why you ask?
I do not like him.
Does this seem petty to you? It should, and that makes perfect sense. I am a petty individual.
Let us define petty, for clarification.
Petty. Of little or no importance. Inconsequential. Insignificant.
That is me.
I am not entirely sure why I am on this team, really. I think there was some hope that by including a team medic, there would be an increase in team efficiency. Some egghead bucking for influence who has never been out in the field probably ran a simulation on a control brain and saw an increase in mission efficiency. Which only makes sense... I mean, soldiers get injured, that is a fact of life. Soldiers are also not very good at putting themselves back together, especially when their guts are spread out over the floor. That is also a fact. A medic in the right place can save lives, decrease casualties, and increase morale.
On paper, that makes sense.
In reality, it amounts to nothing. Paper does not account for uncounted years of prejudice and elitism. No soldier is going to listen to a body mechanic. It is beneath them. So when I tell them they cannot, I repeat, CANNOT walk on a leg I just reattached, they do not listen. They sneer. Then they scream when the leg breaks, or the neural connection frizzes out, or any number of perfectly logical malfunctions occurs. Then they die.
Guess who gets the blame?
I am not combat trained. This is not a part of my given priorities. I can fix anything, mechanical, biological or otherwise, but I cannot shoot a laser to save my posterior.
They issued me a sidearm. I know that it is a Shooty Tek S-766 Mark II particle laser (red, my choice). I know that it is capable of three modes of fire, I know that it reloads through a rechargeable energy cell in the grip. I can break it down and put it back together again blindfolded, with one hand, in seventeen seconds.
The extent of my arms training with it is as follows; point this end at the enemy.
I think.
Does this not make any sense to anyone else? Is it really that hard to upload the appropriate information to me?
I have tried downloading it myself. I have been told such information is classified.
The team leader, Tig, shouders me out of the way and has a muted conversation with Nis, the tactical officer. It could have been worse. The team leader simply ignores me unless I am needed. Some of the other team members (Gif is one of these) are not so polite.
Gif turns to the team leader and shoulders me into the bulkhead, crowding Tig and Nis in his efforts to hear their conversation. Not having anything better to do, I go to the recently vacated viewport and look outside.
It is dark. strange and ominous shapes crowd the landscape, which is littered with thousands of junk created nooks and crannies for monsters to hide. Droplets of some unidentifable liquid run down the glass of the viewport. I frown. It is a reddish liquid with specks of solid matter in it. I note that it is falling from the sky.
There is something familiar about this.
Ah. My Pak has reminded me that this liquid is on file. A class 4 cautionary note is attached to the file.
This could affect the mission. I have to speak up.
I HATE speaking up.
"C-commander..."
They do not hear me. This partly because they do not expect me to speak, and partly because I don't really wish to be heard.
"C-commander T-Tig!"
Commander Tig glances in my direction, a look of mild surprise flickering across his features. I imagine that for him, it is as though a table had just spoken to him. I try to look authoritative.
I fail.
"What is it, Medical Drone?" That was Nis. Nis, of the black uniform, and the pale lime complexion. I catch him watching me sometimes. I do not like his stare. Some indescribable... thing stirs in his eyes when he thinks I do not see him watching me. It makes me uncomfortable.
I try for speech and can find no air to give my words life. I gasp like a grigitizik removed from the water.
They look annoyed. Gif fingers the trigger of his weapon.
Self preservation forces the words out of my clenched teeth.
"Sir... this... liquid falling from the sky. It is a class 4 solvent with cellular necrotic tendanc-"
Their eyes glaze. Tig frowns at me. "So what? What does it mean, idiot?"
I breath out hard and stare at him directly. "If you go out there unprotected, it will burn you."
All attention now focuses on the window. Tig frowns as though he had not considered this bit of information.
"How long before it stops?" He asks me.
As though I am the resident expert on this phenomenon. Oh wait, I am.
How fortunate for me.
"I-I do not know..." I mutter weakly, holding my hands out placatingly.
He narrows his eyes at me. Then he turns to the rest of the team. "Suit up. Full environmental gear, you have five minutes."
He turns to me. "Medical Drone Vic?"
I perk up just a little. Perhaps some words of praise? Maybe just an acknowledgement of my competancy?
"Suit up. You're going first."
I should have known.
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I have a damn cramp.
If you're familiar with this kind of pain, you know what I'm talking about. You wake up in the middle of the night, when all is peaceful and the house is quiet, stretch serenely, and suddenly the big muscle in your calf decides it would much rather contract like a startled clam. The resulting pain is so agonizing that all you can do is gape at it like an idiot until it goes away.
I have such a cramp, and all is NOT right with the world.
It might seem redundant, but I wish those fuckers down there would do something. I mean, they're here for a reason, right? They can't very well find out who sent them a prank phone call without actually LEAVING THEIR FUCKING SPACE CRA-
Wait. What if they don't HAVE to leave their ship? What if they're scanning the area right now?
Christ I'm so fucking dumb... of COURSE they've got some kinda detection gear. All this planning and I miss THAT? It's like... planning a bank robbery and then getting caught because you forgot to fill the getaway car up with gas.
Calm down. Nothing we can do about it now. Just deal with it.
Gaz... if you don't have anything constructive to say, then shut the fuck up.
This isn't a game.
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Combat Technician Jen stops fiddling with the scanner controls and turns to Commander Tig. I would very much like her job. SHE is a valued member of the team. She is combat trained, and operates the various scanning and interface equipment.
Of course, this is not what I was intended for. The Tallest decided that I would be a medical drone, and so, medical drone I am. I am very good at my job.
For what it is worth.
Which is, apparently, not much. I find it somewhat ironic that if I were not doing the periodical maintenance and inspections required of her equipment, that she would be as useless as I am perceived to be; SHE cannot fix her equipment if it breaks.
I suppose it is also due the fact that she is taller than me. Only two inches, but taller nonetheless.
Still, it could have been worse. I could have been a table-headed service drone.
Jen is speaking, and it grabs my attention. Regretfully, our jobs sometimes crossover, especially where lifeform detection and identification is concerned. Or as Gif would put it, marking the doomed and finding out where it hurts the most.
Gif considers himself an artist. I am not sure if that is his idea of a joke.
"Sir, initial scan reports numerous instances of biological matter, but no advanced forms of life."
Commander Tig scratches the base of his antennae thoughtfully. "There is something alive out there, then? I thought this planet was a trash site." He turns to me. Expectantly.
It takes me a moment to snap to attention.
"Er... planet LB426, designated Dirt, is a waste disposal depot planet so designated due to the hazardous nature of its weather patterns. All indigenous life was scoured off following standard conquest protocols. No slave races are registered to this planet."
I thought about it. I am not supposed to give my opinion on things, but if I do not provide some explanation for the life currently residing on this planet, despite the fact that it was last surveyed approximately fifteen years ago by an Invader washout Tak, and this information is obviously out of date, Commander Tig will think that I am withholding information from him. I do not know why he thinks I would do something like that, but I do not wish to be punished again.
Hesitantly, I continue. "However, the possibility exists that some lower life form may have found itself a part of the trash dump, and found enough nutrients to flourish here."
Tig eyes me suspiciously. "So what you are saying is... some alien FILTH managed to tamper with highly advanced Irken technology, and is now lying in wait to ambush this team?"
Jen snorts derisively. "Any HIGHER lifeform would have shown up on the scanner. She is obviously misreading her data."
Tig shakes his head. "I thought so. Medical Drone Vic, when we return from the mission, remind me that you are to be given 24 punishment cycles."
I hang my head. "I was only trying to-"
He is not listening to me. He seldom does, even when he asks for my input. Now I have several hours of agonizing pain to look forward to once this mission is done.
Sighing, I pull on my helmet and step into the airlock. I draw my sidearm, hoping I am holding it in the right direction. I hope for alot of things. I hope this environmental suit works as it is supposed to in this hazardous environment. I am not sure if it will, of course, I have maintained it to the best of my ability, but sometimes, things do not work as they are supposed to. I hope there really is not something waiting to tear into my fragile personage.
Unbearable pain may not be much to look forward to, but it is far better than dying on some garbage dump of a world.
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This cramp is goddamn unbearable. That's it. I have got to massage it. No helping it. I need...
Hold on a second... did that thing just open?
It did! I slip down the side of the hill on my belly an inch at a time (which is alot more difficult then it sounds, on this greasy pile of crap) my eyes on the small figure making its way out of the hatchway to that not quite right ship. The figure is in some sort of suit, but I can tell its YOU. Well... probably not you, Zim but...
The figure is about three or four feet tall, carrying what appears to be a very lethal looking pistol of some sort. It pauses in the rain, looking unsure of itself, lifting a gloved hand and watching the rain fall on it.
I wonder what's going on through that insectile head. Is it afraid? Is it angry? It's rather surreal seeing someone move... someone who's actually there.
Even if it's one my races murderers. Ridiculously, I have a suicidal urge to rush down there and greet it. Have a conversation with someone who isn't me.
I stifle that impulse, squash it down. This isn't first contact, this is war. I now know what all those books I read written by soldiers who'd actually served in the wars they wrote about meant when they said that the waiting was the worst part. The euphoria I feel is almost... intoxicating. I have to fight to keep from moving any faster than I already am, and I probably shouldn't be moving at all. I wonder how many ambushes ended in failure because some dumb schmuck couldn't sit still long enough.
I pause and watch carefully as four more suited Irkens make their way out of the ship. These take up a very professional looking perimeter just forward of the first Irken's position. I note that two of them are shorter then the others, but about the same height. The tallest one is still only just over five feet tall.
If what was true for the higher ups is equally true for the combat teams, that would be the leader.
Well mister team leader. Lets see how you handle several weeks of planning and trap laying coupled with several years of frustration and rage.
Oh god I... I think I'm enjoying this.
If not then... why am I smiling?
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I am not enjoying this. This is the part of every mission that I dread. That first few minutes as the ship is exited, and the perimeter is checked. I have nothing to do but wait, in this most tension filled of times; I am useless until someone gets hurt, and worse, I am expendable.
Well I suppose I am always expendable, but there are instances where I am LESS expendable.
The suit radio crackles, this strange, deadly weather phenomenon is playing havoc with our communications.
CRSSSHHHBRK "-Not seeing any sign of infiltration... just random bits of junk." This from Tactical Officer Nis. It is hard to tell with him, but I believe he is somewhat bored.
"I'm tellin' you, this is nothing but some damn technical foul-up because some egghead like HER," Gif is, of course, directing this at me, "Didn't do their damn job before they got themselves killed."
"Maintain radio silence, Gif. No unneeded transmissions. I shouldn't have to tell you this every time." Commander Tig inserts firmly. I do not know why, but his admonishment of Gif gives me a small thrill of satisfaction... it is not for my sake, but I can almost pretend it is.
That is... remarkably sad.
A loud sigh, this one from Jen. "Commander, I'm not picking up anything but random static and ghost biological traces. I think this "liquid" of hers is screwing up my equipment."
As if this is MY fault.
"Keep scanning, and watch your step. Something doesn't feel right about this." Tig notes. I heard that he turned down an offer to take the Invader test. I am at a loss as to why, and he has never said, but I think perhaps it is because he ENJOYS what he does.
I take his words to heart, as he has survived several past missions (this coupled with his natural tallness make him the obvious choice for team leader since our last one got shoved out an airlock). Encounter teams are somewhere beneath Invaders but above simple guards... in fact, most Invaders are culled from ET's. I think partly because of the combat experience they inevitably receive, and partly from the hatred of all things not Irken they develop. Commander Tig has a healthy amount of both, so I watch the ground at my feet and try not to be noticed (by my own team and by any unpleasant things out there waiting for an Irken snack).
Combat Technician Jen, however, does not. Perhaps she has reached that terminal state of boredom where the mind shuts down, or perhaps she is simply too busy monitoring the scanner. In any case, one minute she is there, among us, the next she simply disappears.
The minute after that, she is screaming.
For a moment everyone stares at the hole where she used to be standing, different reactions coming from different team members. Commander Tig's helmet is flicking around, looking for some sort of outside threat. Gif has taken up a prone position, his laser rifle pointing this way and that, also searching for a threat. Nis's biomechanical movement enhancers have extended, lifting him just slightly off of the apparently treacherous ground, his own sidearm searching the hole which has opened up.
Jen is just screaming, and when I recover enough from my shock for training to kick in, I find out why.
The hole she has fallen into is not terribly deep, perhaps only two thirds her own height. This might have been enough to make her trip and sprain something, but not enough for her agonized screaming. It was even less likely considering her bulky survival suit. However, the foot long, hollow metal poles, cut at an incredibly sharp angle, which currently pierce her left shoulder and right hip would do the trick under any circumstances.
Let alone the fact that they have holed her suit, allowing the flesh destroying liquid, quite ingeniously half filling the hole and the spikes themselves, into her suit... and body.
This clinical review of her grievous injuries does not come from me, it comes from that cold, machine part of me that whispers such things. It ignores her thrashing that makes the reddish liquid tinge slightly green, the curious way that her left arm flops uselessly at a crazy angle (compound fracture, I note) at the muddy edge of the pit. It ignores these things and spurs me to action, despite my treacherous stomach and reeling sense of horror. My own extra set of limbs comes out of my pak and I brace its metal limbs in a tripod formation around the hole, then lower myself enough to reach past the flailing, shrieking thing that is my teammate and grip the metal pipes which pinion her. I am unable to remove them from the ground, so I remove the cutting tool from my belt and plunge my glove covered hands once again into the murky liquid. Two quick snips and the spikes are free. I cradle the quivering thing that was Jen in my arms and lift her out of the hole, laying her beside it.
Commander Tig wastes no time. "M.D. Vic, Jen's status."
"Working here, Commander." I reply, my hands and other various useful appendages at work. I have no time to answer him, not if I am going to save her.
"Almighty Tallest, get her out of that damn suit!" Gif roars, his gun ALMOST pointed at me.
"M.D. Vic-" Tig starts.
"Do you want to watch her dissolve into a little green puddle right in front of you?" I snap, quite surprised at myself, but then, I always am, when I'm working.
"Er.." Gif pales.
"I did not think so."
"M.D. Vic, get her back to the ship and-"
"That will not be necessary, Commander." I say, straightening. My antennae want to droop, but the suit will not allow them to.
"Why not?!" He roars.
"Combat Technician Jen is... dead."
"What?!" Gif thunders, grabbing the front of my suit. I wince because it hurts, and look down as submissively as possible.
"T-the liquid... it got into the w-wounds. I could not stop it from dissolving her tissues... the contact area fully necrotized in seconds, there was nowhere to p-put the bandage... she l-lost too much blood."
"GIF, CALM DOWN! THAT IS AN ORDER! VIC, FIND HER SCANNER, I WANT A FULL SCAN, AND I WANT IT TWO MINUTES AGO!" This is the most angry I've ever seen Tig.
I almost hate to say this, but...
"I-I do not know how to use the scanner."
"I DON'T GRIBDING CARE, VIC! FIGURE IT OUT!"
"Quiet."
Everyone stops and looks at Nis, who has just spoken in that quiet, methodical way of his. He is staring off into the distance, shielding his faceplate with one gloved hand.
Gif and Tig immediately cover that area with their rifles.
"what is it, what-"
"Shhh." Nis whispers slowly.
"Something is out there."
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I admit, the pit was a good idea. Actually, it worked a little too well, but then, I hadn't expected it would be raining when they showed up. I can't imagine being impaled with effectively acid covered spikes hip deep in an acid pool could have been very comfortable.
Good. I hope it was fucking agonizing. I hope it was the worst possible squirming-oh-my-god-please-kill-me sort of pain possible.
Of course, I could hear it screaming, but if there were words, I couldn't make them out through the thick suit it wore. One of them, the first to leave the ship actually, somehow managed to get its fallen companion out of the pit, and appeared to be trying to patch it up. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem to work. It did provide a nice distraction though, and while they were busy watching their teammate scream, bleed, and smoke, I made my way closer, clutching my makeshift detonator in one hand and my pipe weapon in the other. As I get closer, more details become apparent to me.
Damn it. The friggin' thing had the fuckin' audacity to die on me.
I'm sorry, did that sound somewhat compassionate? Allow me to explain. I was HOPING that it'd be grievously wounded but survive. That necessitates at least one of them to carry the wounded, which would have meant one less gun pointed at me, thank you very much. Compassion has no place on THIS battlefield, no sir.
Wow, it's a mess. Really butchered itself on those pipes. I wonder how they got them loose? I arc-welded those damn things to that friggin' plate at the bottom the pit. Oh well. Spider-boy (the one that's on his little spiderlegs right now) is looking off into the gloom in the opposite direction of me. In fact, the whole team is looking that way. I wonder what they see.
Oh well. Since I have an opportunity... I might as well take it.
Need to get them away from the damn ship. What better way then a little chaos?
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"What is it Nis, what do you see?" This from Gif. He sounds eager. Of course, this is his favorite part. He seems to have completely forgotten about Jen, or rather, Jen's corpse lying at his feet.
"Something... moved in that clump of trash over there. I think-"
Whatever Nis thought at that moment immediately became irrelevant. In any case, it was also probably wrong, because I managed to see a blur of moment, just out of the corner of my eye, and then it was upon us, from the completely opposite direction that Nis was pointing (so much for tactics). It towered over us like a mountain of living garbage, a fast moving, ferocious thing, and yet oddly silent, as though it was aware that quietude was a necessity. It swung something in one hand that whistled through the air like living thing, striking Nis in his upper back just above his pack. Not completely stable on his biomechanical appendages, Nis shot through the air like a cannon shell, releasing a single pained, wheezing grunt as he tumbled several yards away. The force he must have been struck with was incredible, to throw him so far, and yet he still managed to get off a couple of shots.
Unaimed, of course.
The superheated beams of coherant light spat hot fizzing little steam clouds of the liquid into the air, startling us all and setting several small fires that immediately went out. "It" took off at an incredible loping pace at an oblique angle from where Nis had fallen, shrieking and whooping like an alarm klaxon. Gif and Tig immediately opened fire on it, but the drifting moisture and the dissipating clouds of steam (not to mention the suddenness of its arrival and departure) caused them to strike only trash, adding more chaos to the fray.
Baying like deranged SIR units, the two burlier members of the team took off after their prey.
Of course, they did not notice that "it" was running in the opposite direction of the ship, but I certainly did. Unfortunately, Nis undoubtedly needed immediate medical attention, and my duties (as my Pak so thoughtfully reminded me) lay with him, rather than finding safety.
I picked my way through the entirely too hazardous terrain towards where Nis had been bludgeoned.
Strange though... I could almost swear that it had been yelling-
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"COME ON YOU COMBAT BOOT WEARING, GREEN SKINNED, MANTIS LOOKING SONS OF BITCHES!" I screamed, gestulating wildly. Not the best insult I could come up with, but in times of stress, one makes do I suppose.
I think I dislocated something in my shoulder when I batted that strange looking one out over the hill, but fuck if he didn't clear some serious territory. I don't have time to be proud of myself, because here comes fatty and tall-boy, and they look a bit steamed about me using their companion as a piƱata. Fucker almost shot me too, but I imagine it's a little hard to hit someone from upside down with the shit knocked out of you. Still, his friends aren't under any such limitations, so I know I've gotta beat feet.
I do the worlds most inspired Gene Kelley impression, only I don't much feel like singin' in THIS rain.
Fuckers are going for it! They're really following me! Well two of them are... I don't know where the other one went. That's not good, but I'll figure it out, I'm making this up as I go along. A THWACK! noise and a scream of pain tell me that one of my booby traps has found a booby. Hehe. I dive into a pile of trash and turn to look, just as several beams pass overhead. I freeze for a second, and fatty comes into view, and he looks like he's breathing hard. That slender, deadly looking little rifle swings this way and that, telling me he doesn't know where I am.
"Where are you, you piece of disgusting alien FILTH! I'll get you! You killed Jen, you BASTARD!"
Funny, it never really occurred to me that they might have names. I mean, intellectually I figured, well duh, but it's just... a little odd.
Fuck that, this is war. No compassion. NO. FUCKING. COMPASSION.
I pocket my detonator, then leap out of my cover with a scream, weapon held high in both hands. Bringing my weapon hard, I am surprised and painfully shocked when he parries it overhead with his rifle, that dark faceplate just translucent enough for me to see the narrowing of his alien eyes. He quickly hops back, then brings the rifle to the ready position, snapping off a shot at my chest.
Luck. That's all it is. Just luck.
I happened to have the pipe close to my chest, and the bolt strikes it right between my hands, searing it in half and lighting my shirt on fire. I drop the scalding hot pipe like a... scalding... hot pipe, and beat out the flames, rolling to the side to avoid another shot.
The Irken grins nastily behind his faceplate and snaps up on his spider legs to get a height advantage. I scrabble in between his spider thin legs and spin quickly. Fighting against Zim, I learned a valuable lesson, and that lesson is that something on four extra legs does not turn very quickly, and I use this to my advantage, standing up to my full height and surprising it, then grabbing its stubby little legs and yanking it hard into the floor. This seems to stun it a bit, and I'm certainly not going to give it a chance to recover. I grab its bulbous head and slam it into the hard, trash covered ground.
I do it again.
And again.
When I look at my hands and I see green stuff staining them, then I stop.
It's not moving.
I just... killed an Irken with my bare hands.
What the... hell is wrong with me?
War. No compassion.
I pick up the rifle and shoot it once to make sure it's dead (and that the rifle still works). Amazingly, it works like I thought it would, and there is no recoil at all. It's like playing laser tag.
He.
Heh hehe HA HA HA!
Ok, that wasn't funny.
Before you even say anything Gaz, no you don't get a turn.
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I hear shots in the distance and hear a scream of pain over the radio. It is not very nice of me, but I hope it is Gif and not Tig. Not that Tig is any nicer to me, but at least he does not actively enjoy making my life a nightmare world from which there is no waking.
I spot Nis and judging from the angle at which his lower body is aligned with his upper body, that he is not going to be walking with his lower set of legs any time soon. His faceplate is cracked, but not so badly that the deadly liquid can get in. There is blood on his forehead, and his eyes are staring off into space, either stunned or badly concussed.
"Tactical Officer... can you hear me?" I mutter, leaning over him.
Apparently he can.
His gloved hands grab my upper arms painfully and he pulls himself up to just scant inches from my startled face. Our faceplates are almost touching.
The flicker of that nameless something I had seen in his eyes is an inferno.
"Medical Drone Vic. How nice of you to... care for me." He says sibilantly, his claws making indentations on the material of my suit. I try to shake him off.
I fail.
"T-T-Tactical officer N-Nis... you have to let me h-h-h-help-" I stutter frantically, straining to be rid of this... obviously very deluded Irken soldier.
He is much stronger than me. He smiles. "I see you. Watching me. I know... what you want..."
"What are you talking about?! L-let go of me! I have to-"
He is strong. Terribly strong. With only his upper body he bears me to the ground, dragging himself painfully on top of me, his damaged faceplate making scrabbling noises against mine.
"Want to help me? You can help me. You have just. What. I. NEED!" His releases one of my arms and reaches for the seals on my suit. I become frantic.
"NO! NO! TACTICAL OFFICER, I CAN'T!! L-LET GO! LET-" I slam my hand against his faceplate and he grimaces, then backhands me.
HARD.
I am stunned. The world has become a crazy patchwork of sounds and sensations, reeling sickeningly in my head. He is going to... going to...
A sharp FFZZZZZT! noise captures my attention immediately and I glance down in shock.
I have seen the effects of a laser blast to the head. It is not pretty. There is no projectile to penetrate the flesh, and make a mess in that way, but the contents of the Irken skull were never meant to be instantaneously superheated. Nis' visor had a large melted hole in the front, the chromatic lens fully darkened in an autonomic response to intense radiation in a vain attempt to protect the wearer's eyes. Through the hole I can see the steaming remains of Nis's head, spit open from the internal pressure and sizzling. No blood of course. The heat cauterizes the wound almost instantly.
It is still not something I want to see after being...
What... was he thinking?! What was he trying to...
Wait, who fired that...
I shove Nis' body away from me and skitter backwards on my posterior, looking up...
And up...
And up...
It is tall. Amazingly tall, at least as tall as the Almighty Tallest, 6 feet or more. It is thinner then I had originally thought, painfully thin, but so covered in rags and trash that said detrious was almost indistingishable from its actual bulk. It has hands, pale, soft looking things that were none the less unsheltered from the liquid which ran from them and onto the laser rifle (Shooty TZ-5000 Mk. V tactical Laser Cannon, and if I am not mistaken, Gif's weapon. Somehow, this does not comfort me) held in a most professional manner, steam still slowly rising from the focusing lens inset into its muzzle. Its face was the most alien of all in that it was so familiar, a boxlike contraption giving it a disturbingly Irken visage, and yet the long strands of thousands of little black... what, antennae? Growths? Parasites? Which hung lifeless from beneath the trash covering its head.
It stared down at me, alien and unknowable, and I was petrified.
Mighty Tallest, it is...
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Hideous.
So I've seen Irkens before. I never really thought about how absolutely unpleasant they are. Insectile and... small, but all sharp angles and claws and... yeeeeooockk.
Their females aren't much better, at least, I think this one's a female. It's certainly shaped female, sort of. At least, I HOPE it's female, considering what that other one looked like it was trying to do to it.
I HOPE it's not what I think it is, but while I may not have gone through puberty during a period in which any appropriately sexed (or anyone, for that matter) individual was around, I DO know what horny looks like, and that's what I saw.
It looks... scared. It... she... lost her pistol somewhere. No, there it is... not too far away. Probably got knocked out of her hands when this one grabbed her. She's not even looking at it, she's looking at me.
I wonder what I must look like to her?
Especially since right now I look like shit even by MY standards.
Oh well. It doesn't matter.
I should shoot her. She'd shoot me, I'm just "filthy alien scum", to her. No compassion.
Why does the thought of... killing her make me so nauseous, then?
When did IT become a HER, goddamn it?
Ok, so there's a perfectly logical reason not to kill it. I might need it, I mean, how the hell am I supposed to pilot that ship, anyway?
Ok so...
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Now what?
This is the thought that runs through my head. I mean, I am defenseless. Even if I could get to my gun, which I have apparently lost... I do not even really know how to FIRE it... and it is so strong, and so fast...
Still, I wish it would do something... I mean, it is just standing there, LOOKING at me.
Is it trying to decide if I am.... tasty?
I hope not.
I think... I think it is thinking. It is obviously intelligent. It has set these traps, isolated us effortlessly, and it is able to pick up and instantly use complex Irken weaponry, something even I am not capable of.
That is a depressing thought. Even this alien... THING, is more advanced than I am.
A sound draws my attention and behind it I can see the Commander, rifle held in one hand, the other hand clutching a wound that pours green from his side. My eyes widen..
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SHIT! FUCK! The glare on the faceplate obscures it but I catch just enough... only my many years of observing Zim enables me to catch the telltale widening of the female's eyes. I turn, but I'm gonna be too late and I know it, I knew I shouldn't have waited, waiting in this kinda situation is fucking stupid!
I turn, but not nearly quick enough.
Not by a long shot.
And this is NOT a long shot. There he is, the taller one, looks like he caught my swinging spiked "log" trap, only because he's a little taller than your average Irken, he got a nice belly wound instead of his fucking head taken off. The bastard is only ten feet away.
He can't fucking miss.
And so, without further adieu, he pulls the trigger.
Any criticism helps.
This was a hard chapter to write, because it represents a change in focus for the fic. Dib is no longer alone, going slowly crazy... he has a focus for his rage now, and a deep and abiding purpose. Unreasonable? Perhaps, but remember, when sanity grows thin, the impossible starts to appear possible.
This chapter is also a bit different from the others, as the perspective is going to change some. I don't want to ruin it for you, but bear one thing in mind. Up until this point, this has been Dib's perceptions of events past. We have caught up to where Dib himself is in the narrative, which enables me to do some... neat stuff. For those of you who are confused, please read to the end. I promise... it'll all make sense. Or if it didn't, at least I got you to read my chapter to the end, so Nyah!
With that bit of stupidity over and done with, lets move on with the show.
"I am the master, come down from the edge of space and time. Flesh and steel intertwine. I am the future, sacrifice your soul and succumb to me. Led to your fate, you'll be mine. Scream but no one hears my pleas. Faceless, Madness, falling to their knees! Bow Down, in the platinum haze! Twilight Cathedrals, spreads the system plague! Forging secret thrones, in the void unseen! Merciless judgement in the Church of the Machine!" -Symphony X, Church of the Machine
I do not know why I am being forced to wait this way.
I should clarify this statement. I do know why I am waiting. I am waiting because I have not been told to move. I watch Gif in front of me, apparently bored, checking his weapon for the forth time in five minutes. The skin around his eyes is tense and darker then normal, indicating an increase in anxiety. This is also verified by the .25% increase in antennae movement. I could perscribe him a mild sedative.
I SHOULD perscribe him a mild sedative. As the team medic, his well-being is my job.
I am not going to.
Why you ask?
I do not like him.
Does this seem petty to you? It should, and that makes perfect sense. I am a petty individual.
Let us define petty, for clarification.
Petty. Of little or no importance. Inconsequential. Insignificant.
That is me.
I am not entirely sure why I am on this team, really. I think there was some hope that by including a team medic, there would be an increase in team efficiency. Some egghead bucking for influence who has never been out in the field probably ran a simulation on a control brain and saw an increase in mission efficiency. Which only makes sense... I mean, soldiers get injured, that is a fact of life. Soldiers are also not very good at putting themselves back together, especially when their guts are spread out over the floor. That is also a fact. A medic in the right place can save lives, decrease casualties, and increase morale.
On paper, that makes sense.
In reality, it amounts to nothing. Paper does not account for uncounted years of prejudice and elitism. No soldier is going to listen to a body mechanic. It is beneath them. So when I tell them they cannot, I repeat, CANNOT walk on a leg I just reattached, they do not listen. They sneer. Then they scream when the leg breaks, or the neural connection frizzes out, or any number of perfectly logical malfunctions occurs. Then they die.
Guess who gets the blame?
I am not combat trained. This is not a part of my given priorities. I can fix anything, mechanical, biological or otherwise, but I cannot shoot a laser to save my posterior.
They issued me a sidearm. I know that it is a Shooty Tek S-766 Mark II particle laser (red, my choice). I know that it is capable of three modes of fire, I know that it reloads through a rechargeable energy cell in the grip. I can break it down and put it back together again blindfolded, with one hand, in seventeen seconds.
The extent of my arms training with it is as follows; point this end at the enemy.
I think.
Does this not make any sense to anyone else? Is it really that hard to upload the appropriate information to me?
I have tried downloading it myself. I have been told such information is classified.
The team leader, Tig, shouders me out of the way and has a muted conversation with Nis, the tactical officer. It could have been worse. The team leader simply ignores me unless I am needed. Some of the other team members (Gif is one of these) are not so polite.
Gif turns to the team leader and shoulders me into the bulkhead, crowding Tig and Nis in his efforts to hear their conversation. Not having anything better to do, I go to the recently vacated viewport and look outside.
It is dark. strange and ominous shapes crowd the landscape, which is littered with thousands of junk created nooks and crannies for monsters to hide. Droplets of some unidentifable liquid run down the glass of the viewport. I frown. It is a reddish liquid with specks of solid matter in it. I note that it is falling from the sky.
There is something familiar about this.
Ah. My Pak has reminded me that this liquid is on file. A class 4 cautionary note is attached to the file.
This could affect the mission. I have to speak up.
I HATE speaking up.
"C-commander..."
They do not hear me. This partly because they do not expect me to speak, and partly because I don't really wish to be heard.
"C-commander T-Tig!"
Commander Tig glances in my direction, a look of mild surprise flickering across his features. I imagine that for him, it is as though a table had just spoken to him. I try to look authoritative.
I fail.
"What is it, Medical Drone?" That was Nis. Nis, of the black uniform, and the pale lime complexion. I catch him watching me sometimes. I do not like his stare. Some indescribable... thing stirs in his eyes when he thinks I do not see him watching me. It makes me uncomfortable.
I try for speech and can find no air to give my words life. I gasp like a grigitizik removed from the water.
They look annoyed. Gif fingers the trigger of his weapon.
Self preservation forces the words out of my clenched teeth.
"Sir... this... liquid falling from the sky. It is a class 4 solvent with cellular necrotic tendanc-"
Their eyes glaze. Tig frowns at me. "So what? What does it mean, idiot?"
I breath out hard and stare at him directly. "If you go out there unprotected, it will burn you."
All attention now focuses on the window. Tig frowns as though he had not considered this bit of information.
"How long before it stops?" He asks me.
As though I am the resident expert on this phenomenon. Oh wait, I am.
How fortunate for me.
"I-I do not know..." I mutter weakly, holding my hands out placatingly.
He narrows his eyes at me. Then he turns to the rest of the team. "Suit up. Full environmental gear, you have five minutes."
He turns to me. "Medical Drone Vic?"
I perk up just a little. Perhaps some words of praise? Maybe just an acknowledgement of my competancy?
"Suit up. You're going first."
I should have known.
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I have a damn cramp.
If you're familiar with this kind of pain, you know what I'm talking about. You wake up in the middle of the night, when all is peaceful and the house is quiet, stretch serenely, and suddenly the big muscle in your calf decides it would much rather contract like a startled clam. The resulting pain is so agonizing that all you can do is gape at it like an idiot until it goes away.
I have such a cramp, and all is NOT right with the world.
It might seem redundant, but I wish those fuckers down there would do something. I mean, they're here for a reason, right? They can't very well find out who sent them a prank phone call without actually LEAVING THEIR FUCKING SPACE CRA-
Wait. What if they don't HAVE to leave their ship? What if they're scanning the area right now?
Christ I'm so fucking dumb... of COURSE they've got some kinda detection gear. All this planning and I miss THAT? It's like... planning a bank robbery and then getting caught because you forgot to fill the getaway car up with gas.
Calm down. Nothing we can do about it now. Just deal with it.
Gaz... if you don't have anything constructive to say, then shut the fuck up.
This isn't a game.
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Combat Technician Jen stops fiddling with the scanner controls and turns to Commander Tig. I would very much like her job. SHE is a valued member of the team. She is combat trained, and operates the various scanning and interface equipment.
Of course, this is not what I was intended for. The Tallest decided that I would be a medical drone, and so, medical drone I am. I am very good at my job.
For what it is worth.
Which is, apparently, not much. I find it somewhat ironic that if I were not doing the periodical maintenance and inspections required of her equipment, that she would be as useless as I am perceived to be; SHE cannot fix her equipment if it breaks.
I suppose it is also due the fact that she is taller than me. Only two inches, but taller nonetheless.
Still, it could have been worse. I could have been a table-headed service drone.
Jen is speaking, and it grabs my attention. Regretfully, our jobs sometimes crossover, especially where lifeform detection and identification is concerned. Or as Gif would put it, marking the doomed and finding out where it hurts the most.
Gif considers himself an artist. I am not sure if that is his idea of a joke.
"Sir, initial scan reports numerous instances of biological matter, but no advanced forms of life."
Commander Tig scratches the base of his antennae thoughtfully. "There is something alive out there, then? I thought this planet was a trash site." He turns to me. Expectantly.
It takes me a moment to snap to attention.
"Er... planet LB426, designated Dirt, is a waste disposal depot planet so designated due to the hazardous nature of its weather patterns. All indigenous life was scoured off following standard conquest protocols. No slave races are registered to this planet."
I thought about it. I am not supposed to give my opinion on things, but if I do not provide some explanation for the life currently residing on this planet, despite the fact that it was last surveyed approximately fifteen years ago by an Invader washout Tak, and this information is obviously out of date, Commander Tig will think that I am withholding information from him. I do not know why he thinks I would do something like that, but I do not wish to be punished again.
Hesitantly, I continue. "However, the possibility exists that some lower life form may have found itself a part of the trash dump, and found enough nutrients to flourish here."
Tig eyes me suspiciously. "So what you are saying is... some alien FILTH managed to tamper with highly advanced Irken technology, and is now lying in wait to ambush this team?"
Jen snorts derisively. "Any HIGHER lifeform would have shown up on the scanner. She is obviously misreading her data."
Tig shakes his head. "I thought so. Medical Drone Vic, when we return from the mission, remind me that you are to be given 24 punishment cycles."
I hang my head. "I was only trying to-"
He is not listening to me. He seldom does, even when he asks for my input. Now I have several hours of agonizing pain to look forward to once this mission is done.
Sighing, I pull on my helmet and step into the airlock. I draw my sidearm, hoping I am holding it in the right direction. I hope for alot of things. I hope this environmental suit works as it is supposed to in this hazardous environment. I am not sure if it will, of course, I have maintained it to the best of my ability, but sometimes, things do not work as they are supposed to. I hope there really is not something waiting to tear into my fragile personage.
Unbearable pain may not be much to look forward to, but it is far better than dying on some garbage dump of a world.
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This cramp is goddamn unbearable. That's it. I have got to massage it. No helping it. I need...
Hold on a second... did that thing just open?
It did! I slip down the side of the hill on my belly an inch at a time (which is alot more difficult then it sounds, on this greasy pile of crap) my eyes on the small figure making its way out of the hatchway to that not quite right ship. The figure is in some sort of suit, but I can tell its YOU. Well... probably not you, Zim but...
The figure is about three or four feet tall, carrying what appears to be a very lethal looking pistol of some sort. It pauses in the rain, looking unsure of itself, lifting a gloved hand and watching the rain fall on it.
I wonder what's going on through that insectile head. Is it afraid? Is it angry? It's rather surreal seeing someone move... someone who's actually there.
Even if it's one my races murderers. Ridiculously, I have a suicidal urge to rush down there and greet it. Have a conversation with someone who isn't me.
I stifle that impulse, squash it down. This isn't first contact, this is war. I now know what all those books I read written by soldiers who'd actually served in the wars they wrote about meant when they said that the waiting was the worst part. The euphoria I feel is almost... intoxicating. I have to fight to keep from moving any faster than I already am, and I probably shouldn't be moving at all. I wonder how many ambushes ended in failure because some dumb schmuck couldn't sit still long enough.
I pause and watch carefully as four more suited Irkens make their way out of the ship. These take up a very professional looking perimeter just forward of the first Irken's position. I note that two of them are shorter then the others, but about the same height. The tallest one is still only just over five feet tall.
If what was true for the higher ups is equally true for the combat teams, that would be the leader.
Well mister team leader. Lets see how you handle several weeks of planning and trap laying coupled with several years of frustration and rage.
Oh god I... I think I'm enjoying this.
If not then... why am I smiling?
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I am not enjoying this. This is the part of every mission that I dread. That first few minutes as the ship is exited, and the perimeter is checked. I have nothing to do but wait, in this most tension filled of times; I am useless until someone gets hurt, and worse, I am expendable.
Well I suppose I am always expendable, but there are instances where I am LESS expendable.
The suit radio crackles, this strange, deadly weather phenomenon is playing havoc with our communications.
CRSSSHHHBRK "-Not seeing any sign of infiltration... just random bits of junk." This from Tactical Officer Nis. It is hard to tell with him, but I believe he is somewhat bored.
"I'm tellin' you, this is nothing but some damn technical foul-up because some egghead like HER," Gif is, of course, directing this at me, "Didn't do their damn job before they got themselves killed."
"Maintain radio silence, Gif. No unneeded transmissions. I shouldn't have to tell you this every time." Commander Tig inserts firmly. I do not know why, but his admonishment of Gif gives me a small thrill of satisfaction... it is not for my sake, but I can almost pretend it is.
That is... remarkably sad.
A loud sigh, this one from Jen. "Commander, I'm not picking up anything but random static and ghost biological traces. I think this "liquid" of hers is screwing up my equipment."
As if this is MY fault.
"Keep scanning, and watch your step. Something doesn't feel right about this." Tig notes. I heard that he turned down an offer to take the Invader test. I am at a loss as to why, and he has never said, but I think perhaps it is because he ENJOYS what he does.
I take his words to heart, as he has survived several past missions (this coupled with his natural tallness make him the obvious choice for team leader since our last one got shoved out an airlock). Encounter teams are somewhere beneath Invaders but above simple guards... in fact, most Invaders are culled from ET's. I think partly because of the combat experience they inevitably receive, and partly from the hatred of all things not Irken they develop. Commander Tig has a healthy amount of both, so I watch the ground at my feet and try not to be noticed (by my own team and by any unpleasant things out there waiting for an Irken snack).
Combat Technician Jen, however, does not. Perhaps she has reached that terminal state of boredom where the mind shuts down, or perhaps she is simply too busy monitoring the scanner. In any case, one minute she is there, among us, the next she simply disappears.
The minute after that, she is screaming.
For a moment everyone stares at the hole where she used to be standing, different reactions coming from different team members. Commander Tig's helmet is flicking around, looking for some sort of outside threat. Gif has taken up a prone position, his laser rifle pointing this way and that, also searching for a threat. Nis's biomechanical movement enhancers have extended, lifting him just slightly off of the apparently treacherous ground, his own sidearm searching the hole which has opened up.
Jen is just screaming, and when I recover enough from my shock for training to kick in, I find out why.
The hole she has fallen into is not terribly deep, perhaps only two thirds her own height. This might have been enough to make her trip and sprain something, but not enough for her agonized screaming. It was even less likely considering her bulky survival suit. However, the foot long, hollow metal poles, cut at an incredibly sharp angle, which currently pierce her left shoulder and right hip would do the trick under any circumstances.
Let alone the fact that they have holed her suit, allowing the flesh destroying liquid, quite ingeniously half filling the hole and the spikes themselves, into her suit... and body.
This clinical review of her grievous injuries does not come from me, it comes from that cold, machine part of me that whispers such things. It ignores her thrashing that makes the reddish liquid tinge slightly green, the curious way that her left arm flops uselessly at a crazy angle (compound fracture, I note) at the muddy edge of the pit. It ignores these things and spurs me to action, despite my treacherous stomach and reeling sense of horror. My own extra set of limbs comes out of my pak and I brace its metal limbs in a tripod formation around the hole, then lower myself enough to reach past the flailing, shrieking thing that is my teammate and grip the metal pipes which pinion her. I am unable to remove them from the ground, so I remove the cutting tool from my belt and plunge my glove covered hands once again into the murky liquid. Two quick snips and the spikes are free. I cradle the quivering thing that was Jen in my arms and lift her out of the hole, laying her beside it.
Commander Tig wastes no time. "M.D. Vic, Jen's status."
"Working here, Commander." I reply, my hands and other various useful appendages at work. I have no time to answer him, not if I am going to save her.
"Almighty Tallest, get her out of that damn suit!" Gif roars, his gun ALMOST pointed at me.
"M.D. Vic-" Tig starts.
"Do you want to watch her dissolve into a little green puddle right in front of you?" I snap, quite surprised at myself, but then, I always am, when I'm working.
"Er.." Gif pales.
"I did not think so."
"M.D. Vic, get her back to the ship and-"
"That will not be necessary, Commander." I say, straightening. My antennae want to droop, but the suit will not allow them to.
"Why not?!" He roars.
"Combat Technician Jen is... dead."
"What?!" Gif thunders, grabbing the front of my suit. I wince because it hurts, and look down as submissively as possible.
"T-the liquid... it got into the w-wounds. I could not stop it from dissolving her tissues... the contact area fully necrotized in seconds, there was nowhere to p-put the bandage... she l-lost too much blood."
"GIF, CALM DOWN! THAT IS AN ORDER! VIC, FIND HER SCANNER, I WANT A FULL SCAN, AND I WANT IT TWO MINUTES AGO!" This is the most angry I've ever seen Tig.
I almost hate to say this, but...
"I-I do not know how to use the scanner."
"I DON'T GRIBDING CARE, VIC! FIGURE IT OUT!"
"Quiet."
Everyone stops and looks at Nis, who has just spoken in that quiet, methodical way of his. He is staring off into the distance, shielding his faceplate with one gloved hand.
Gif and Tig immediately cover that area with their rifles.
"what is it, what-"
"Shhh." Nis whispers slowly.
"Something is out there."
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I admit, the pit was a good idea. Actually, it worked a little too well, but then, I hadn't expected it would be raining when they showed up. I can't imagine being impaled with effectively acid covered spikes hip deep in an acid pool could have been very comfortable.
Good. I hope it was fucking agonizing. I hope it was the worst possible squirming-oh-my-god-please-kill-me sort of pain possible.
Of course, I could hear it screaming, but if there were words, I couldn't make them out through the thick suit it wore. One of them, the first to leave the ship actually, somehow managed to get its fallen companion out of the pit, and appeared to be trying to patch it up. Whatever was going on, it didn't seem to work. It did provide a nice distraction though, and while they were busy watching their teammate scream, bleed, and smoke, I made my way closer, clutching my makeshift detonator in one hand and my pipe weapon in the other. As I get closer, more details become apparent to me.
Damn it. The friggin' thing had the fuckin' audacity to die on me.
I'm sorry, did that sound somewhat compassionate? Allow me to explain. I was HOPING that it'd be grievously wounded but survive. That necessitates at least one of them to carry the wounded, which would have meant one less gun pointed at me, thank you very much. Compassion has no place on THIS battlefield, no sir.
Wow, it's a mess. Really butchered itself on those pipes. I wonder how they got them loose? I arc-welded those damn things to that friggin' plate at the bottom the pit. Oh well. Spider-boy (the one that's on his little spiderlegs right now) is looking off into the gloom in the opposite direction of me. In fact, the whole team is looking that way. I wonder what they see.
Oh well. Since I have an opportunity... I might as well take it.
Need to get them away from the damn ship. What better way then a little chaos?
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"What is it Nis, what do you see?" This from Gif. He sounds eager. Of course, this is his favorite part. He seems to have completely forgotten about Jen, or rather, Jen's corpse lying at his feet.
"Something... moved in that clump of trash over there. I think-"
Whatever Nis thought at that moment immediately became irrelevant. In any case, it was also probably wrong, because I managed to see a blur of moment, just out of the corner of my eye, and then it was upon us, from the completely opposite direction that Nis was pointing (so much for tactics). It towered over us like a mountain of living garbage, a fast moving, ferocious thing, and yet oddly silent, as though it was aware that quietude was a necessity. It swung something in one hand that whistled through the air like living thing, striking Nis in his upper back just above his pack. Not completely stable on his biomechanical appendages, Nis shot through the air like a cannon shell, releasing a single pained, wheezing grunt as he tumbled several yards away. The force he must have been struck with was incredible, to throw him so far, and yet he still managed to get off a couple of shots.
Unaimed, of course.
The superheated beams of coherant light spat hot fizzing little steam clouds of the liquid into the air, startling us all and setting several small fires that immediately went out. "It" took off at an incredible loping pace at an oblique angle from where Nis had fallen, shrieking and whooping like an alarm klaxon. Gif and Tig immediately opened fire on it, but the drifting moisture and the dissipating clouds of steam (not to mention the suddenness of its arrival and departure) caused them to strike only trash, adding more chaos to the fray.
Baying like deranged SIR units, the two burlier members of the team took off after their prey.
Of course, they did not notice that "it" was running in the opposite direction of the ship, but I certainly did. Unfortunately, Nis undoubtedly needed immediate medical attention, and my duties (as my Pak so thoughtfully reminded me) lay with him, rather than finding safety.
I picked my way through the entirely too hazardous terrain towards where Nis had been bludgeoned.
Strange though... I could almost swear that it had been yelling-
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"COME ON YOU COMBAT BOOT WEARING, GREEN SKINNED, MANTIS LOOKING SONS OF BITCHES!" I screamed, gestulating wildly. Not the best insult I could come up with, but in times of stress, one makes do I suppose.
I think I dislocated something in my shoulder when I batted that strange looking one out over the hill, but fuck if he didn't clear some serious territory. I don't have time to be proud of myself, because here comes fatty and tall-boy, and they look a bit steamed about me using their companion as a piƱata. Fucker almost shot me too, but I imagine it's a little hard to hit someone from upside down with the shit knocked out of you. Still, his friends aren't under any such limitations, so I know I've gotta beat feet.
I do the worlds most inspired Gene Kelley impression, only I don't much feel like singin' in THIS rain.
Fuckers are going for it! They're really following me! Well two of them are... I don't know where the other one went. That's not good, but I'll figure it out, I'm making this up as I go along. A THWACK! noise and a scream of pain tell me that one of my booby traps has found a booby. Hehe. I dive into a pile of trash and turn to look, just as several beams pass overhead. I freeze for a second, and fatty comes into view, and he looks like he's breathing hard. That slender, deadly looking little rifle swings this way and that, telling me he doesn't know where I am.
"Where are you, you piece of disgusting alien FILTH! I'll get you! You killed Jen, you BASTARD!"
Funny, it never really occurred to me that they might have names. I mean, intellectually I figured, well duh, but it's just... a little odd.
Fuck that, this is war. No compassion. NO. FUCKING. COMPASSION.
I pocket my detonator, then leap out of my cover with a scream, weapon held high in both hands. Bringing my weapon hard, I am surprised and painfully shocked when he parries it overhead with his rifle, that dark faceplate just translucent enough for me to see the narrowing of his alien eyes. He quickly hops back, then brings the rifle to the ready position, snapping off a shot at my chest.
Luck. That's all it is. Just luck.
I happened to have the pipe close to my chest, and the bolt strikes it right between my hands, searing it in half and lighting my shirt on fire. I drop the scalding hot pipe like a... scalding... hot pipe, and beat out the flames, rolling to the side to avoid another shot.
The Irken grins nastily behind his faceplate and snaps up on his spider legs to get a height advantage. I scrabble in between his spider thin legs and spin quickly. Fighting against Zim, I learned a valuable lesson, and that lesson is that something on four extra legs does not turn very quickly, and I use this to my advantage, standing up to my full height and surprising it, then grabbing its stubby little legs and yanking it hard into the floor. This seems to stun it a bit, and I'm certainly not going to give it a chance to recover. I grab its bulbous head and slam it into the hard, trash covered ground.
I do it again.
And again.
When I look at my hands and I see green stuff staining them, then I stop.
It's not moving.
I just... killed an Irken with my bare hands.
What the... hell is wrong with me?
War. No compassion.
I pick up the rifle and shoot it once to make sure it's dead (and that the rifle still works). Amazingly, it works like I thought it would, and there is no recoil at all. It's like playing laser tag.
He.
Heh hehe HA HA HA!
Ok, that wasn't funny.
Before you even say anything Gaz, no you don't get a turn.
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I hear shots in the distance and hear a scream of pain over the radio. It is not very nice of me, but I hope it is Gif and not Tig. Not that Tig is any nicer to me, but at least he does not actively enjoy making my life a nightmare world from which there is no waking.
I spot Nis and judging from the angle at which his lower body is aligned with his upper body, that he is not going to be walking with his lower set of legs any time soon. His faceplate is cracked, but not so badly that the deadly liquid can get in. There is blood on his forehead, and his eyes are staring off into space, either stunned or badly concussed.
"Tactical Officer... can you hear me?" I mutter, leaning over him.
Apparently he can.
His gloved hands grab my upper arms painfully and he pulls himself up to just scant inches from my startled face. Our faceplates are almost touching.
The flicker of that nameless something I had seen in his eyes is an inferno.
"Medical Drone Vic. How nice of you to... care for me." He says sibilantly, his claws making indentations on the material of my suit. I try to shake him off.
I fail.
"T-T-Tactical officer N-Nis... you have to let me h-h-h-help-" I stutter frantically, straining to be rid of this... obviously very deluded Irken soldier.
He is much stronger than me. He smiles. "I see you. Watching me. I know... what you want..."
"What are you talking about?! L-let go of me! I have to-"
He is strong. Terribly strong. With only his upper body he bears me to the ground, dragging himself painfully on top of me, his damaged faceplate making scrabbling noises against mine.
"Want to help me? You can help me. You have just. What. I. NEED!" His releases one of my arms and reaches for the seals on my suit. I become frantic.
"NO! NO! TACTICAL OFFICER, I CAN'T!! L-LET GO! LET-" I slam my hand against his faceplate and he grimaces, then backhands me.
HARD.
I am stunned. The world has become a crazy patchwork of sounds and sensations, reeling sickeningly in my head. He is going to... going to...
A sharp FFZZZZZT! noise captures my attention immediately and I glance down in shock.
I have seen the effects of a laser blast to the head. It is not pretty. There is no projectile to penetrate the flesh, and make a mess in that way, but the contents of the Irken skull were never meant to be instantaneously superheated. Nis' visor had a large melted hole in the front, the chromatic lens fully darkened in an autonomic response to intense radiation in a vain attempt to protect the wearer's eyes. Through the hole I can see the steaming remains of Nis's head, spit open from the internal pressure and sizzling. No blood of course. The heat cauterizes the wound almost instantly.
It is still not something I want to see after being...
What... was he thinking?! What was he trying to...
Wait, who fired that...
I shove Nis' body away from me and skitter backwards on my posterior, looking up...
And up...
And up...
It is tall. Amazingly tall, at least as tall as the Almighty Tallest, 6 feet or more. It is thinner then I had originally thought, painfully thin, but so covered in rags and trash that said detrious was almost indistingishable from its actual bulk. It has hands, pale, soft looking things that were none the less unsheltered from the liquid which ran from them and onto the laser rifle (Shooty TZ-5000 Mk. V tactical Laser Cannon, and if I am not mistaken, Gif's weapon. Somehow, this does not comfort me) held in a most professional manner, steam still slowly rising from the focusing lens inset into its muzzle. Its face was the most alien of all in that it was so familiar, a boxlike contraption giving it a disturbingly Irken visage, and yet the long strands of thousands of little black... what, antennae? Growths? Parasites? Which hung lifeless from beneath the trash covering its head.
It stared down at me, alien and unknowable, and I was petrified.
Mighty Tallest, it is...
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Hideous.
So I've seen Irkens before. I never really thought about how absolutely unpleasant they are. Insectile and... small, but all sharp angles and claws and... yeeeeooockk.
Their females aren't much better, at least, I think this one's a female. It's certainly shaped female, sort of. At least, I HOPE it's female, considering what that other one looked like it was trying to do to it.
I HOPE it's not what I think it is, but while I may not have gone through puberty during a period in which any appropriately sexed (or anyone, for that matter) individual was around, I DO know what horny looks like, and that's what I saw.
It looks... scared. It... she... lost her pistol somewhere. No, there it is... not too far away. Probably got knocked out of her hands when this one grabbed her. She's not even looking at it, she's looking at me.
I wonder what I must look like to her?
Especially since right now I look like shit even by MY standards.
Oh well. It doesn't matter.
I should shoot her. She'd shoot me, I'm just "filthy alien scum", to her. No compassion.
Why does the thought of... killing her make me so nauseous, then?
When did IT become a HER, goddamn it?
Ok, so there's a perfectly logical reason not to kill it. I might need it, I mean, how the hell am I supposed to pilot that ship, anyway?
Ok so...
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Now what?
This is the thought that runs through my head. I mean, I am defenseless. Even if I could get to my gun, which I have apparently lost... I do not even really know how to FIRE it... and it is so strong, and so fast...
Still, I wish it would do something... I mean, it is just standing there, LOOKING at me.
Is it trying to decide if I am.... tasty?
I hope not.
I think... I think it is thinking. It is obviously intelligent. It has set these traps, isolated us effortlessly, and it is able to pick up and instantly use complex Irken weaponry, something even I am not capable of.
That is a depressing thought. Even this alien... THING, is more advanced than I am.
A sound draws my attention and behind it I can see the Commander, rifle held in one hand, the other hand clutching a wound that pours green from his side. My eyes widen..
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SHIT! FUCK! The glare on the faceplate obscures it but I catch just enough... only my many years of observing Zim enables me to catch the telltale widening of the female's eyes. I turn, but I'm gonna be too late and I know it, I knew I shouldn't have waited, waiting in this kinda situation is fucking stupid!
I turn, but not nearly quick enough.
Not by a long shot.
And this is NOT a long shot. There he is, the taller one, looks like he caught my swinging spiked "log" trap, only because he's a little taller than your average Irken, he got a nice belly wound instead of his fucking head taken off. The bastard is only ten feet away.
He can't fucking miss.
And so, without further adieu, he pulls the trigger.
