Author's Note: Ugh. I've gotten distracted from this story again. Sorry.
Zim belongs to Viacom and Nickelodeon, and the glorious Jhonen Vasquez.
I'll sic my dog on flamers. He drools. A lot.
=== DOOM ===
The landscape of the city flies by my window as I stare out moodily. I should be in my room, trying to figure out how to stop Zim and studying that live feed. I keep my earbuds in as I listen to Britt Nicole, to drown out the oldies that my dad plays on the radio. I feel a tap on my left shoulder.
Speak of the devil.
I look at Dad. He points to his ear, then to the iPod in my hand. I pause the song and pull an earphone out.
"Yeah?" I say when he doesn't speak.
"You know I don't like it when you have your earplugs in," Dad says. "You can't hear yourself think with those things in your ears."
"I can hear my thoughts perfectly fine, thank you," I snap, with more anamosity than I intended.
Dad rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean. I wanna talk to you, and I can't really do that when you're listening to your music."
I hum, my interest already lost, and turn my eyes back to my window.
Talking has never been my dad's strength. Yelling, certainly, but we really haven't talked since Mom died. Once upon a time, Dad and I could tell each other anything and everything. Back when he would sneak me into R rated movies at six years old and gaze at the stars with me on school nights. Back when Mom was alive and we were all happy.
Thinking about it almost brings the tears to my eyes, but I swallow the lump in my throat and force the memories into a special channel in my mind, flipping back to Zim and the bombs.
"How's Dib been? I haven't seen him in a few days. You two fighting?" Dad asks, trying to start casually.
"He's fine. No, we're not fighting," I answer both questions without emotion. Dad sighs in defeat.
"Look, I might seem oblivious to you, but I know what's going on here," he says. "You're mad at me, and you're jealous of Chrissie."
"Jealous?" I murmur, the word like venom on my tongue. "Why would I be jealous of her?"
"You don't have to deny it; it's plain to me," Dad says in a measured tone.
"I am not jealous of anybody," I say slowly, pronouncing every word with emphasis. "Least of all your wife. The only person that I wanna be in their shoes might, might be Dib, or Raemi, but I'm not jealous."
"Are you sure?" Dad asks.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can tell the difference between envy and anger, Dad," I say snidely.
My attention is pulled to the street as we slow down to obey a red traffic light. A woman walks her dog down to the crosswalk. She wears a pink blouse, black slacks, and six-inch high heels, and she doesn't seem very happy about walking the little brown dog with short legs and a pressed-in snout. Maybe it's not hers. Maybe she just doesn't like the dog. I think it's cute. I wonder what it's name is. It looks like a Vincent to me, or a Vincenza.
"In any case," Dad continues, acting as if the banter between us was nothing of terrible importance, "you're not happy, and part of that's my fault."
Finally, you get something right, I think but I hold my tongue.
"I haven't been much of a father. I let Chrissie take over your upbringing when you needed me."
With a strange pang in my chest, I realize that I have missed my dad. He's never at home, and when he is, he's yelling at the kids or catching up on lost sleep from working extra shifts. He's not the happy-go-lucky, break-the-rules-for-fun kind of dad he was when I was young.
"And you are mad at me, for one reason or another. I don't want you to be. You know what I'm trying to say?"
A Mac truck pulls up next to us at the red light. I glance up at the driver. He's old, in his fifties. The bags under his eyes mean one of two things- he's pulled an all-nighter, or he's been a driver a long time. He looks down at me and smiles. A kind old man who drives a semi. He must have grandchildren. I wonder if he sees them often. I have a feeling he's a great grandfather, the kind every kid wants to have, or at least I do. Telling stories to his grandkids as they sit in front of him, starry-eyed and cross-legged, about his travels or his youth. "Back when I was your age, we didn't have all these fancy, new-fangled electronic device things you kids got. We had a hoop and a stick and a dog."
The thought makes my lips quirk up slightly in an impercievable smile.
"No, not really," I reply to Dad, suddenly aware he's talking. "You're kinda beating around the bush."
"What I mean is, I wanna make it up to you, these last few years. And I wanna start this week, today," Dad says. The light turns green and he presses on the gas pedal.
Today. "Hey, what's today?" I ask. It's been days since I've seen a calendar.
"Monday," Dad answers.
"Monday," I repeat. The last bombing was on Thursday. It's been five days and Zim hasn't done a damn thing. What's he playing at? Does he know we're onto him? Probably not. We haven't exactly been advertising it, against Dib's wishes. As far as Zim knows, we're totally oblivious. I hope, at least. So what's taking him?
I glance at the clock. It's almost noon. Frowning, I turn on the radio and turn to my station; it doesn't play a specific genre of music, it plays the biggest hits in music. Ellie Goulding plays on the radio, one of my favorite songs.
My dad talks, but I don't hear him much. I'm listening to the song, seeing a picture unfold in my mind's eye.
Dib and I are young, sitting in front of an older man in a rocking chair. Gaz is an infant and sits on his lap, a brown dog with a crushed snout lays at his feet. He tells us stories of poverty, war, love, his adventures on the road.
The car lurches to a halt, ripping me from my thoughts. "Dad!" I shout as I grip the handlebar above the door- I call it the Dad bar, because he's usually driving when I reach for it. My father is not a careful driver. I'm surprised he hasn't been in an accident yet.
Dad curses loudly at the driver who cut us off and apologizes to me. I roll my eyes as I unlock my seatbelt. "He can't hear you, ya know," I say.
"Hmm? Who can't what?" Dad asks. The car turns onto a street I'm unfamiliar with.
"That driver. He couldn't hear you; he was on his cell phone," I explain. "Kinda useless to yell."
"It makes me feel better."
I look out the window, trying to commit this new street to memory. I count the cul-de-sacs we drive by- six, before Dad turns onto another intersection. "So, where're we going?" I ask, trying to diffuse the tension that's sprung up.
Dad smiles at me. My expression turns to one of bewilderment- Dad hasn't smiled at me in years. "I know I can't change the past, and I dropped the ball with you when your mother died. But, I was hoping... well, maybe if we started doing things together... take you off the back burner, as it were..."
"I'd forgive you," I finish for him. Even I hear the sorrow in my tone.
"I wanna set things right between us. And... I'm sorry I let it get this bad."
I have to fight the tears. I want him to stop, to shut up and turn around and take me back home, or better yet let me out and I can find my way back home. Neither of us are good with this mushy, lovey-dovey 'I love you' stuff. An apology is almost too much for me to handle.
"It's... it's okay, Dad," I whisper, my voice strangled with the lump in my throat.
"No, it's not okay. I let you down," Dad says. He sounds stern, but I hear the guilt in his voice. It makes my chest hurt.
"Don't say anything else, please. Stop beating yourself up," I half-plead. "I... It's my fault, too. I should've... understood, known better."
"Let's just call it even," Dad says. We stop at a red light and look at each other. Our eyes meet. My heart sinks when I see the wetness hanging on Dad's eyelashes.
For the first time in six years, I smile at him genuinely. I haven't been alone like I thought I was. I just chose to be.
"From now on, Tia, you and I are gonna have special days. We're gonna spend more time together, and I'm gonna work on being a good father," Dad says His voice is cracking, and it brings the tears back to my eyes. I can't fight them this time. So I look away, not wanting him to see.
We won't have special days, not if I don't stop Zim. The thought almost makes me sob. Somehow I hide it from Dad.
"And I'll work on being a better daughter," I breathe, unable to speak louder. Granted we have time.
Dad presses on the gas and we go forward. The rest of the ride is in silence, but it's comfortable. I reach for Dad's hand on the stickshift. He lets me hold it. I don't know why I do it, but it makes me feel better.
We stop by McMeaty's for lunch. Dad orders a Mighty Meaty Cheesymelt and I ask for a small burger without pickles or onions. They put pickles on it anyway. I pick them off and give them to Dad. Sitting in the window seat of the stinky restaurant, I watch the traffic speed by. Cars pull in and out of the parking lot, through the drive-thru.
Maybe this town is filthy and disgusting, but it's Dib's home, and Raemi's. One day, I'll return to New Mexico, but for now my allegience is to the people I love, and a majority of them live here. And if Zim's going to take over the world, he'll start here, where his arch-nemisis lives and thrives.
Dad pulls me from my thoughts, tells me it's about time we get home. I wrap up my half-eaten burger and grab my drink as we walk out the door.
It's nearly one-thirty when Dad pulls into our driveway and he turns off the engine. I open my door, but he grabs my arm, begging me to stay with his eyes. I obey and close the door.
"I meant everything that I said today. I want to make a change. I want you to be happy, and you're not."
"Dad-"
"Let me finish. I'm your father; I only want the best for you. You understand that, right? I just want you to be happy. And it hurts me that you aren't."
"I'm happier than usual."
"I need to thank Dib for that. He's the best thing that's happened to you since Raemi, I know. Just... I love you. I don't say it all that much anymore, but I mean it."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "I... I love you, too, Dad."
He smiles and opens his door. "And try not to hide in your room so much. It's not good for you," he adds. I have to grin as I slip out of the van.
We walk in the front door. I feel alleviated, like a weight, albeit a small one, has been taken off my shoulders. I hold my head up, my eyes forward, my lips upturned slightly.
My step-mom is immediately on her feet, clinging to Dad like a lifeline. "Cameron, it's terrible!" she wails.
"Whoa! What's going on, Chrissie?" Dad asks. I set my jaw to hold back the rude comment on the tip of my tongue.
"Haven't you seen it? It's all over the news!" Chrissie drags my dad to the television, unaware I'm right behind.
On the television screen I see a man speaking into a news microphone, terror evident on his face and in his voice. "-have never seen anything like this! It's like the bombs are coming from nowhere, and no one knows where the next one will hit. Panic is flooding the streets, police are nowhere to be found, and it's utter chaos in Buckingham Palace to evacuate the royal family!"
I gasp silently. London. The home of the most prostegious family in the world. Zim's taking a big leap.
The camera shakes violently with an explosion. "We now take you to Bryan Sanderman in the helicopter. Bryan?"
The scene turns to a bird's eye view of the famous British city. Parts are on fire. "You can see the city just falling apart under the flames. It's unlike anything we've seen before, on such a level!" a different man shouts over the sound of the chopper's engines.
Another explosion bursts near the center of the city. A few seconds later, the camera rocks with the shockwaves of the thing.
It's all I can do not to scream in horror. My step-mom is not so strong. She clutches to Dad, sobbing and wailing and carrying on about such a tragedy and who could do a thing like this?
Dad picks up the remote and turns the television off. He consols Chrissie, crying hysterically in his arms, and glances at me. He almost starts, realizing I'm in the room. I meet his eyes, and he seems to understand. I bolt suddenly for the phone and dial Dib's number.
"Tia!" says Dib's voice on the end of the line.
"You see the news?" I ask immediately.
"Yeah, I'm watching it now."
"It's Zim."
"I know. Tia, we have to stop him. He's not playing anymore."
"Yeah..." I bite my lip. Now would be a fantastic time to know the details of Zim's plan, where he is, what he's using to bring London- and, by extension, the world- to its knees.
"Tia? You still there?" Dib asks.
"Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm here," I reply. I wish I weren't, though.
There's no time to think anymore, but there's nothing we can do until we figure out enough to stop Zim. Stuck between and rock and a hard place, as it were. Damn.
"Dib, come over to my house. Like, now. Two heads work faster than one," I say.
"I'll be right there," Dib says, and he hangs up. I do as well, after a moment, dread filling me at the idea of our seemingly impending failure.
Zim's finally made his move.
=== DOOM ===
Sorry the end kinda sucks. I'm being rushed to finish it.
Review and love me, please! Provided you've made it this far, of course.