Zim tried once more to stop his body from shaking. He could not stop crying now that the floodgates had been opened, and he hated feeling so vulnerable now.

"Crying is weak, crying is weak," he whispered to himself, repeating it over and over. "Shove it down."

He grasped his antennae in a fit of desperation. He screamed, a sound filled with anguish and emotion. He fell to his knees and pulled out his stolen gun, setting the barrel against his head. "STOP FEELING THINGS!"

The weak die, and only the strong survive. That's what he had been taught during his training. That's what he was raised to believe. So that's what he had thought for so long.

He set down his gun and pulled out his experiment. He wanted to do it. He wanted it so bad right now. If he was transformed, then all of these emotions would be gone forever. He would be nothing except a killing machine, a literal monster.

Zim Inserted the needle into his arm, placing his thumb on the plunger. He took a deep breath, trying to summon enough courage to inject the substance into his body.

He sat there for several minutes, frozen on his knees, the needle in his arm. Do it, his inner voice whispered, do it now, and your suffering will be at its end.

His hand shook, and his mouth was dry.

Zim sighed and pulled it out of his arm. He wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to die just yet.

He collected himself and stood up, picking up his gun from the ground and tucking it into his waistband. He sniffed and started walking in a random direction, not really having a destination in mind. He took a few more drinks from his bottle, the alcohol within it not doing much to calm his nerves.

Zim stopped in front of a café, thinking that some food might help to clear his mind a little. He pulled on the door and found it locked. Sighing, he finished his alcohol and threw the bottle in the trash.

He pulled out his gun and shot the lock off, then opened the door and entered.

The place was empty at first glance, and he slowly walked around the main area, keeping silent and moving cautiously.

He heard a shuffling behind the counter near the pick-up station, and Zim tensed, slowly approaching that area. He whistled once, a bird call of sorts, and waited a few seconds to see if anyone else was around. When no one appeared, he continued approaching the counter slowly.

He looked over the edge of the register and saw a Screwhead cowering on the floor. It looked up and saw him.

"Please," it begged in a soft feminine voice, "Don't hurt me!"

Zim rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Do you know who I am?"

The Screwhead nodded. "You're Zim."

Fair enough. "Do you know what I've done?"

Another nod. "Terrible things."

"Okay," Zim shrugged, banging his gun against the counter. "Stand up."

The alien did so, rising on trembling legs. A name tag pinned to their shirt read 'Lyra.'

"Are you the chef too, or do you just take the orders?" Zim asked calmly, putting away his weapon.

"W-What do you want?"

Zim sighed. "Food, obviously! I'm hungry, and there doesn't seem to be anyone else here! So do you know how to cook the food, or not?"

Lyra mumbled something incoherent, and Zim leaned in closer. "I didn't catch that. Please repeat."

"Y-yes, I know how to make a few of our food items!" The Screwhead squeaked. "Sometimes I prepare the food when the regular chef isn't working! What would you like me to make?"

"Stop acting so frightened!" Zim snapped. "If you just give me what I want, you will not be hurt." He glanced up at the large menu hanging above the register. "Uh, I guess the Vort dogs will do."

"Three-fifty, sir," Lyra said softly.

Zim rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a few credits. "I think I'm getting a little low on money at the moment, so I hope this covers the cost." He set the credits on the counter.

Lyra collected the money and counted it. "Still two credits short, sir," she said.

Zim reached behind him, where she had seen him stash the gun, and her eyes widened in fright. "But, t-that's okay, I can cover the rest!" She squeaked out.

The Irken's hand reappeared holding another bag. "No need, I just remembered that I have a few more." He put the necessary amount onto the counter and put away the rest. "I think that's enough now. How long will it take for you to make?"

The Screwhead sputtered.

Zim chuckled. "We're just two people having a conversation. Don't be so unnerved, it is making me uncomfortable. Everything is fine." He sniffed and glanced outside. "Everything is alright."

Lyra quickly nodded. "Very well, sir. I will get your food ready for you." She went into the kitchen area in the back of the building and turned on the fryers.

Zim wandered around the eating area for a few minutes, finding a place to sit near the exit, so that he would be prepared in case anyone tried to come in and surprise him. Or if he was somehow forced to make a quick getaway.

He drummed his hands against the tabletop, waiting impatiently for his food.

Several minutes passed, and the Irken was beginning to get frustrated. He got up from his seat and once again moved toward the front counter, his prosthetic fingers twitching impatiently. How long did it take to cook a single order of Vort Dogs?

Zim considered getting up and going to check on the progress of his food.

He stared out the window. The streets were barren and deserted, not a single civilian in sight. It was beginning to rain, and the clouds were dark and dreary. He frowned. He assumed that most of the aliens here worked certain jobs, so they had to get out of their homes at some point to go to them.

The Irken looked at the ticking clock over the front entrance. It was five minutes past noon, and he was not going to wait much longer.

Zim could hear nothing from the kitchen, and that only served to solidify his suspicions. He knew they had called the authorities to retrieve him now. He slammed his hand down on the table in frustration. He should have known. Why didn't he prepare himself for this scenario as well?

He had to improvise.

Just as Zim slid out of the booth and stood up, however, the cook came out of the kitchen, food in tow.

"Your food is ready, sir!" Lyra said, her voice full of worry as she stopped at his table and set down the plate of Vort Dogs. "I apologize for the wait, I was also making you a side dish of fries to go with it!" She set that down, as well.

Zim was confused. "Fries? But I didn't order any-"

"Compliments of the chef, sir!" Lyra cut in politely. "Which at the moment is me!"

Zim sat back down in the booth, allowing himself to relax slightly. "Oh. Well, I appreciate the gesture, at least."

He pulled the plate of fries over to himself and grabbed a bottle of ketchup, squirting it on his plate. Dipping a fry in the condiment, he looked at the alien across from him, and gestured to the opposite side. "Please, sit."

"I'm still on the clock, sir, I have things to do."

"Do you see anyone else here now?" Zim asked, spreading his arms. "Are there any other tasks that demand your immediate attention?"

"Not that I am aware of, sir."

Zim nodded. "Exactly. The only thing demanding your attention at the moment is me." He gestured to the booth again. "So, sit. I would like to speak with you."

"About what, sir?" Lyra asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

The Irken bit into his Vort Dog. "I want to ask you a question."

"Yes?"

Zim hesitated, then asked: "Have you ever killed anyone before?"

"No," Lyra said, surprised at the sudden turn of topic. "Why would I ever need to do something like that?"

Zim shrugged. "Self-defense, maybe," he turned away from the window and stared directly at her. "Or, just because you want to. There does not have to be any reason to kill something."

Lyra suddenly felt very scared. "Are you going to-?"

"Kill you?" Zim cut in. "No, I won't do that. I definitely could, though. But I won't, not unless you give me a reason to do so."

Lyra nodded. "S-so what do you want me to do?"

"I just want you to listen," the former Elite hissed. "As I tell you my story."

"Your story, sir?" Lyra asked, surprised. "For what purpose?"

"So that you can pass it on," Zim explained. "So that I may be remembered through you, and hopefully others, when I am no longer here. When or if I am killed."

"I…I understand." Lyra said softly.

"Have you ever lost someone you loved?" Zim asked, dipping his fries in ketchup.

The cashier/cook nodded. "Hasn't everybody?"

Zim hummed. "Fair point," he said calmly, taking a sip from his drink and eating another fry. "But have you ever watched them die in front of you? Have you ever held them while they took their last breath? Smelled the stench of their blood as it soiled your uniform?"

"I can't say I have," Lyra said nervously. "That would be a horrible thing to see."

"I had a friend," Zim began, "Who I trained with in the academy on Irk. He was a fellow Irken like myself, and he was the perfect fit for me. We had so much in common. A love of inventing, and a desire to please our Tallest, among other things."

"He sounds like he was a good guy,"

Zim nodded. "Well, maybe not to you, but in my eyes, he was my best friend. We would spend time together after our training was done each day, drawing up blueprints for different inventions, and building them together. He made so many beautiful things, some of them sentient." He took a bite of his Vort Dog. "I even kept one of his creations as a pet."

"Interesting. What did your pet do?"

Zim chuckled. "It fed on electricity. Got into the walls a few times and drained all the power from the entire building. Luckily, they had a backup generator. Eventually, his gift was discovered and destroyed, but Cheem would just make me something else to have."

"That was his name?" Lyra asked. "Cheem?"

"Yes," Zim confirmed. "And I had to kill him to complete my training. His blood was all over my clothes, and I couldn't get the smell out of them for many months after. Sometimes I still think I can smell it, but I know that it's all in my head."

Lyra sighed. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Don't be sorry," Zim said. "His PAK is still in the Academy, and everything that made him who he was is on there. So he is not truly dead yet. Just his body."

"Still, what you had to do would traumatize anyone else." She said, her voice filled with sympathy. "Most people would not be able to handle it."

"I didn't either, at first," Zim said. "I wanted to be alone all the time after it happened, and I didn't really talk to anyone else for a few weeks, except for my superiors, and even then I only gave them basic answers to simple questions."

Lyra listened patiently, sympathy on her face.

"I don't like to feel emotions anymore," Zim continued. "And maybe that's part of it."

"You can still change," Lyra said softly, reaching out to take his hand. "You can still do the right thing."

"Everyone keeps saying that," Zim snarled, pulling away. "But its not true. If your hand touches me again, I'll cut it off, by the way."

Ignoring that last sentence, Lyra continued. "As long as you are alive, you have the ability to change, to rethink your future decisions. You can have a second chance to do it right."

"You don't understand! People like me don't get second chances," Zim said softly, listening to the rain beat down on the roof and windows. "They always die at the end of every story, and I will, too."

"Are you sure?"

Zim watched the drops of rainwater roll down the window. "Quite sure. I have come to terms with my imminent demise, though, and I have a plan in place for it."

"Which is?" Lyra prodded, curious now.

"Oh, I can't tell you that," Zim said, finishing his Vort Dog with one final bite. "But I CAN tell you, that I have everything sorted and ready, and no one will expect it."

The Screwhead nodded, but said nothing.

Zim turned his attention to the various sugars and creamers set against the wall. He picked one up, examining the label. A tense silence hung in the air for a few seconds, and just as it was about to become unbearable, he broke it.

"I've decided that I would like some tea," The Irken announced, his attention still on the packets. "Will you make some?"

Lyra nodded again. Anything to get a break for a moment. She quickly rose from the booth and went to the soft drink dispenser, grabbing a coffee cup and filling it with water. "Hot or cold?" She asked over her shoulder.

"Hot, if you don't mind," came the response, once more distracted. "I am feeling… not like myself today."

Lyra finished preparing the drink and brought it over to him. Thunder boomed overhead, loud and startling.

Zim took it immediately, sipping on its contents. He set it back down and grabbed some of the packets, pouring three sugars and some honey into his cup. He grabbed a spoon and stirred it, transfixed on the contents swirling within.

"I have… been thinking about it," he started slowly, his spoon clinking against the metal of the coffee cup.

"About what?"

Zim sipped from his cup. "If someone were considering changing their ways, how would that be possible?" He wondered aloud. "Where would they start?"

Lyra was at a loss. "Well, I suppose they would start by… apologizing, I guess. Making amends."

Zim made a face of disgust. "That's… not what I want to do at all."

"That's how people begin to make amends for the things they've done," Lyra shrugged. "There is no other way."

Zim sipped his tea, eyes boring into hers while he drank. He set the cup down. "You are… a compassionate creature."

"Yes, I am," Lyra confirmed. "That's how I was raised to be."

"Compassion is weak," Zim stated. "It makes YOU weak. The strong have no sympathy."

"Then you'd be nothing but a monster," the other alien countered, "if you were to have no sympathy for your crimes."

Zim scoffed. "I am not as vile as you think."

"You like to kill people," Lyra said, surprised by her own bravery. "And you seem to enjoy it. Tell me how that in itself is not monstrous."

"I am also not killing anybody," The Irken said. "I am freeing them."

"How so?"

"They don't belong here," Zim explained, his fries half gone now. "They are hiding from their true nature."

Lyra was confused. "I'm afraid that I don't understand."

"That's because you're not LISTENING!" Zim snarled, banging a fist on the table.

Lyra flinched at the action.

Zim took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to relax. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer and more composed.

"No one is actually kind," he explained quietly. "At our core we are all savage beings. We are brutal, and we are selfish. We pretend to be kind, but we are not. We never will be."

"Is that what you truly believe?" Lyra wondered.

"It is," Zim nodded. "Because it IS true."

He took out his experiment. "Allow me to demonstrate. Do you have a test subject I could use? A rodent or small animal?"

"I thought you said you weren't going to tell me your plan," Lyra said.

"I guess I've changed my mind," Zim said. "Just one will do."

"I think we have a dead mouse in the kitchen," Lyra responded slowly. "I was just about to discard it when you walked in."

"Go retrieve it, and bring it back here," Zim ordered. "I will do the rest."

Lyra got up and walked behind the counter and into the kitchen area, leaving the door open slightly, and came back out a minute later with the mouse in her hands.

"Set it on the table, please," Zim instructed, picking up the syringe of liquid.

The Screwhead did so, stepping back a few steps in case anything undesirable happened.

Zim inserted the needle into the dead mouse and pressed the plunger down halfway.

He stepped back as well, and waited. A minute passed. Then two.

When it was closing in on three minutes with nothing happening, Lyra took a step towards it, but Zim quickly put an arm out in front of her.

"Wait," he said. "Sometimes it takes a few minutes."

"I don't think it's going to-" Lyra started, but stopped when she saw the mouse begin to twitch.

When the creature's eyes finally opened, they were grey and dull, completely devoid of color.

It jerkily righted itself, and spittle began to drip from its small mouth as it emitted barely audible hisses.

"Looks like everything is good so far," Zim muttered, mostly to himself. "I just don't have the final ingredients yet, so I hope it doesn't-"

Then the mouse spotted them, and leaped off the table towards the duo.

Zim swatted at it with the barrel of his gun, and hit it dead-on, flinging the creature away from them.

Lyra yelped and backed further away, shaking with fear.

"It's okay, it won't bite you," Zim said calmly. "I'll have to kill it soon."

The mouse ran at them again, opening its jaws. It leaped, and the Irken kicked it away, sending it flying back again.

"What happens if it bites you?" Lyra yelled, overtaken with fear.

"Nothing, as far as I know," Zim said, drawing his knife. "But if you are ever attacked by something like this, then it wouldn't be a good thing."

The undead mouse jumped up onto the table closest to them, and crouched, preparing to leap at them again. Just as it coiled it's legs to prepare itself, Zim struck it with the blade of his knife, stabbing it through the head.

It dropped to the floor, still twitching. Zim stomped on it three times to make sure that it wouldn't get back up again, scraping the corpse across the ground.

It continued twitching faintly, what remained of its limbs flailing wildly.

It tried to get up, but Zim had broken one of its legs when it had been smashed into the floor.

The now deformed mouse, its innards now exposed and smeared across the floor, made one last attempt to get to them as it swiped at the two with its small hands, tail lashing about as it began hissing aggressively.

"Why won't that thing die already?" Lyra wondered aloud.

"It IS dead, technically," Zim murmured to her. "But I will agree that this one has been the most difficult to kill."

"There were others before this one?" Lyra questioned, shocked.

"Of course!" Zim replied. "A few dozen, in fact. Don't worry, no aliens were harmed in the experiments. Just small animals like this one."

"What… what does it eat?" Lyra asked softly, fearing she already knew the answer.

"It feeds on…" Zim hesitated for a moment, then continued: "…it eats the flesh of the living. All of them did."

"And this…THING… is what you will turn into?!" Lyra blurted our in horror, gesturing to what remained of the still-animate rodent.

Zim nodded slowly. "In a sense, yes," he said, gazing at the creature. "But I just won't look like that. I will still resemble my current form, it will just be my insides that change." He looked towards Lyra. "Everything inside of me, all of my organs except for my PAK, will cease to function. Everything else will be-"

He was interrupted by a screeching noise, and he glanced back at the mouse to see it flailing harder than before, mouth open wide as it screamed in agony.

"BACK, BACK!" He yelled, pushing Lyra away. He ran for the edge of the building just as the mouse, with one final high-pitched wail, exploded into bits. Small chunks of internal organs, brain matter, and fur launched high up into the air, raining down on them in a small hail. An incredibly strong stench of death permeated throughout the room, causing Lyra to gag in disgust when the smell hit her.

"Yeah," Zim said, noticing her retching. "You get used to it after the first ten tries or so. I was hoping that it had stabilized by now, but I guess it needs more work. I don't want to end up like our little friend here."

"This is a lot," Lyra said, forcing down the urge to vomit. "I can't do this."

"You seem genuine," Zim said, glancing her way. "I am curious to know more about you."

"What do you think of me so far?"

Zim studied her with curious eyes. "I think I know. You like to help people, yes? To do good things?"

She nodded. "I do."

"So help me," Zim said. "Help me preserve my legacy."

"How?"

"I will leave you alive to tell this story." Zim exclaimed. "And when I die, which I know will be soon, you can explain it to them. Can you do that?"

Lyra sighed. "I… guess I could."

Zim nodded. "Very good." He pushed his plate away, the dish now empty, and slid out of the booth. "Thank you for the fries. They were delicious."

"You're welcome," Lyra answered, collecting the dish. "What will you do now?"

"I don't know," Zim said. "But maybe I'll come back and visit this place again soon. You have good taste in food."

He headed towards the front door. "You might want to clean up the mouse guts as well. They're making the place smell gross."