Couldn't think of much for this particular prompt. It was either an arcade game, or one other something. The one other something won.
TWO GUNS
"This is unfair!"
Pushing his glasses up a little and squeezing the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Dib replied, "Zim, it's a duel. A duel is anything but unfair. I mean, think about it – you won't be the only one at risk."
A distrusting glare focused on the Earth weapon in his hand, Zim shook his head stubbornly. "Zim shouldn't be at risk at all!" he snapped, holding the pistol out at arm's length as though it was covered in filth.
"It doesn't work like that, and you know it," Dib huffed with a roll of his eyes, adjusting his glasses and examining the gun in his own hand. He was sorely tempted to fire it then and there, put a stop to the never-ending cycle that had become his life. He didn't, though; he was more honorable than that. More importantly, if Zim could control the urge to just shoot his enemy and be done with it, then so could Dib.
"Ehn?"
"Never mind. Let's just get this over with."
A glance between the weapon in his hand, Dib, and the pistol that Dib held, before finally Zim let out a grating sigh and nodded. He knew it was fair – one bullet per gun, one gun for each, ten steps, one shot, and at the end of it all, one winner – he just didn't like the thought of possibly losing this final confrontation.
All Zim would gain from his enemy's death was one less obstacle, one less thing to keep him from taking Earth for the Irken Empire; he was just trying to do his job. Truly, Dib stood to gain the most from this, the safety of his planet and the body of an alien, the proof he'd struggled for long and hard. He'd be assured lifelong glory and respect, while if Zim succeeded...a standing ovation, maybe. A pat on the back, a 'good work, soldier', perhaps a medal or a little trophy. Then, he would be summarily shipped out to the next planet, and start it all over again. Such was the nature of his Empire.
With an iron grip on the handle of the primitive weapon, Zim glared down at it, hardly even noticing when the other boy's back pressed against the curved metal of his PAK. He shouldn't have agreed to this.
Dib, meanwhile, was having his own second thoughts. Trembling just slightly, pistol clenched tightly in his hand, there seemed an infinite amount of ways this could go wrong. The number one thing, of course, was the possibility of his own death. The second thing was whether or not he could really live with killing another person, especially – which surprised him – if that person was Zim. He'd practically grown up with the Irken...
As the paces began, time seeming to drag by, Dib swallowed thickly before something came to him, easing the tension somewhat.
Didn't Zim have terrible aim?
When the tenth step came, and he whipped around with his pistol at the ready, another thought came unbidden, just as he pulled the trigger.
Would a simple, primitive weapon be enough to kill Zim?
When it was over, Dib stood as the victor, and found himself to be relieved by more than just one of the answers to those questions.
Yes, Zim had terrible aim.
And no, a simple bullet was not enough to kill him.
...Happy ending?