Starfall
Summary:
Zim is different after the tragedy, suffering a depression that Dib can't seem to break. When he disappears one day out of the blue, Dib is left searching for answers.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the IZ characters, this story however is mine.
Warnings:
Zim angst: Depression. Anorexia.
Dib07: Ahhh well, this is gonna be a little different, in a good way though! (I hope!) but eh, well...! I still hope you enjoy. I've recently lost someone dear to me, and it's been rough, but writing keeps me going, and I hope my stories lift your spirits too, whatever you're doing and wherever you are.
little side-note:
If you're new to my stories then I welcome you!
Please review, same as always, it might make new chapters appear faster!
Chapter 1: Disappearing
-x-
'All the beauty in your face
When all the anger separates us
Smile when you're not afraid to die
But I'm afraid with each goodbye
Lost the sun above my head
Lost myself in things
I said
And war is all you ever seen
Your war behind the screen'
Lapse - Black Math
-x-
Zim? You there?
Its day 25.
Gir's really annoying. Why'd you leave him behind? You never leave him behind.
Answer me!
Okay. I get it. You're busy... doing something.
I broke into your house by the way. I'm not apologizing for it. Your security sucks.
Have you moved away and gone someplace else? I saw the news. That wasn't you, was it?
This isn't funny anymore!
Where the hell are you? I'm gonna find you and I'm gonna kill you!
I hate you! You hear me? I hate you! I hope you're dead and in pieces somewhere!
...Zim?
...you there?
His eyes took on an empty cast as he stared at a glowing screen, hair stirring in the winds, his black scythe swinging to and fro like a wild pendulum. The rooftop tiles rattled in tune with the wind as the sun winked at his lonely vigil before sinking away to cast shadows in the wake of its farewell.
His satellite picked up anything and everything that travelled through the planet's cold and lonely stratosphere. Whenever there was so much as a blip, his heart would lift before disappointment quickly snuffed out hope when it was just another aeroplane coming in to land, of government satellites transmitting and receiving signals, of floating space debris, NASA probes and NASA anything that infiltrated his surveillance and infuriated his patience. He was unable to sleep, stuck to this relentless and torturous vigil.
The messages he sent to the answering void always ended up as pathetic, desperate bargains and pleas. He looked towards the stars, his chest filling with a cold emptiness that made him feel hollow.
He remembered how cold that night had been when he went to knock on the purple and skewered door, but it was when he noticed the broken window that he began to really worry.
The screwdriver he used to break in with rolled out of loose and trembling fingers as he surveyed an empty two room frontier.
Leaves, twigs and rain had got in through the broken window, leaving puddles that emphasised the dereliction as shafts of frosted moonlight fell from the window. Leaves scarped across the dusty chequered flooring where a couch stood in cold shadow. Dust motes clung in the air like spiralling constellations in miniature. Worm-like tubing hung from the ceiling in lifeless reams that looked suddenly ancient.
Staring at the neglect only deepened the hole in his chest.
The walls strangely didn't glow, and the rooms were too quiet as if the house was holding its breath. The clock on the mantle ticked like a prodigious heartbeat with little else save the rush of the traffic outside.
Gir appeared in the silver-strewn darkness, looking a little lost and disorientated. At the time he hadn't given him much attention as cold blasts of panic detonated his calm. "What's going on, Gir?"
"He's not home." Gir had muttered.
He had taken the robot by the shoulders. "Where is he?"
"I dunno."
Dib tried to get down below, worried Zim might have got stuck somehow... or had done something to himself. The punishment would be inconsequential, he'd take whatever the Irken would do to him if he was wrong.
He had spread the palms of his hands on the walls, trying to see if anything would click to reveal hidden entrances. The bin, the usual mode of transportation to the conduit had been welded shut. After a time he removed the bin from the floor only to find a sheet of metal over the passageway. Retrieving his tool bag from the car he set up the drill and chiselled through it millimetre by millimetre, pouring water over the drill piece to keep it from overheating, but it snapped anyway, and after his hundredth drill bit he set it to one side, eyes hotly glaring at the tiny hole he had made. Trembling with exhaustion and mania, he started to shout and scream for Zim to answer him.
He then looked to the tube-laced ceiling, deciding to break through to the hangar.
Settling a ladder upon the wall by the supersized blank TV screen, Dib started drilling and hammering, bits of plaster and sheathes of metal sprinkling his face and clothing. He wondered, not for the first time, how Zim was able to access the upper floor when there were no doors or ladders to take him there.
As he worked, he tried to master the intermixing dread already surfacing if he were to discover if the Voot was still docked.
The interconnecting tubes got in the way, he had to cut some down to access the ceiling. Lattices of alien design, barely seen and impossible to feel as near-invisible lines of circuitry ran and crisscrossed along the ceiling in pulsing pinks, whispered along the material. Almost regretfully he punched a hole through the material and a junction of 'power nerves' to tunnel through the metal rafters of the hangar's sturdy foundation.
Every inch he overcame, every time he pushed through that little bit more, his imagination conjured what he didn't want to see, and when he nearly broke through, he stepped down the ladder's metal rungs to run a gloved hand over his forehead, smearing plaster dust across his face. He was not sure if he wanted to see what was up there.
What if he's gone through with it... The question kept popping into his head. No, no he wouldn't... that's not who he is... it's not just not...
His efforts to get through the last layer barely eased the frenetic despair as he broke through. He popped his head into the opening and looked around, heart in his throat.
Lights winked on when the motion detectors identified movement, bathing the interior in a cold and lonely purple glow.
The confirmation of what he had known all along did not blunt the pain.
The vacant podium, somehow still shiny and clean, looked especially large and empty without a Voot Runner perched there. Cobwebs were nestled in the spaces and corners of the hangar, and though the lips of the roof were tightly and compactly closed, it was still cold and airy, inciting a melancholy that settled with the dampness he could feel on his skin.
He sat on the podium, dully looking around, eyes tiredly picking out individual nodules or struts or tubing with numbed discernment. He half hoped that the roof would start to suddenly crank open as the base prepared itself for Zim's arrival, but the stillness was pensive, eternal. The only life he had brought to the place was his own; his breath stirring the dust that had settled over a period of weeks... maybe even longer...
Where have you gone? What could make you leave so suddenly?
Maybe you planned a short trip... but something happened, preventing you from coming home...
His hopes and reservations seemed only to feed the grief.
Don't I deserve some closure Zim? A goodbye would have been nice. Or would that have been too final for you?
He clasped his gloved hands together, feeling the lonely weight of the roof above as the wind whipped and mourned.
Every deceptive gust of wind and ache of the house's bones made him think that the sound was the roof's axels parting open, that the Voot was closing in...
I don't miss you, Zim. I'm glad you're gone. The world is...
The rage and pain became unbearable. He buried his face in his hands, knocking the glasses off his nose.
There was something hunched in the far corner, behind crates and boxes of spare tubing and robot arms. He woodenly approached it, eyes settling on the burnished and familiar shape of the instrument's neck and scroll that looked bizarrely out of place amongst cold and colourful alien paraphernalia.
He bent down and picked it up with that same numbed surprise at the slender elegance of a violin.
He held it firmly, almost wanting to snap its neck. Instead his fingertips stroked the wooden seams and rivets, tracing silky contours and lines.
Beyond the superseding numbness he entertained ideas of unearthing the lower labyrinthine floors by packing the house with explosives.
He imagined what might keep a solider from his post. Maybe another war had broken out somewhere in the universe. He wasn't so well versed in Irken culture and their enterprise. For all he knew Zim had been summoned to attend an evaluation, or perhaps the Empire was going through new rulings and proceedings as it went through a revolutionary change where soldiers were decommissioned, or executed.
Perhaps the rage had weeded through his foundations, the despair finally breaking down every wall, and he had done away to... to die...
No. No, he wouldn't leave Gir... And he wouldn't leave me...
But the unknowing of it all was undoing him.
That blue drink... what was in it?
"Computer?" He called into the lofty and silent hangar, "...are you there?"
...
He headed outside where a dark grey dawn began to replace the darkness.
Russet and sorrel leaves covered a coarse and tussled lawn where young meadow flowers bloomed, the grass so long it was starting to droop like wheat, the tree a bare skeletal thing of crooked fingers and spine. The budding leaves hadn't returned with the spring to clasp the old tree in drapes of green, and now it stood there like something dark and ominous. Dib looked up at it and felt a chill blow through him.
The eaves of the roof dripped with ice-melt, with twinklings of frost glittering from the wiry satellite dish. The house seemed to lean through the seasons, drooping lower and lower as snow hugged its roof, with the windy days of autumn carrying flocks of crows that would roost on the near-vertical steeple of roof. Icicles would hang, ivory white, from the long, fantastical arm of the satellite. When it got so bad, and Zim's little front porch became choked in ice, he would come out and clear it with a shovel.
The flag pole would creak and sob in the wind, the sounds like those of dying wolf. The tattered remnants of flag, with the slogan 'I LOVE EARTH' had long blown off.
~Weeks earlier ~
"You've got to take better care of it." He didn't even know why he said it. He knew the idiot wouldn't listen. Most of the things he said were quickly disregarded as if the advice he willingly gave were only ever insults.
The tip of the screwdriver slotted into the head of the rivet, tightening the bolt until it was perfectly sealed. Dib drew back, brushing fingertips greasy with oil on the fabric of his shirt to regard his work. It was a beautiful thing, really. Hiding the wires and suane circuits were smooth panels and exterior casings to conceal the less-than-pretty particulars.
He picked it up, the weight sitting nicely in his palms, the metal wrist and claws clacking smoothly. The ball-joint that made the wrist pivoted all the way round, the claws exact replicas of the real thing with every joint and synthetic tendon responding perfectly to his manipulations.
Zim exhaled through near-invisible nasal slits, his curved eyes rarely alighting on the appendage. When it looked like he was struggling, with words or his feelings, he would clutch at the tall, narrow vial and drink more of that bright blue cocktail. The liquid was super charged with bubbles like something of a frothing potion. How he drank it without coughing all over the place was a mystery.
Classical music played from subtly placed amplifiers. He had been trying to guess who the composer was, certain it had to be either Mozart or Brahms. He was even closer to asking the grouch, but a furtive look in his direction sunk the question immediately.
Zim drew breath softly; eyes mostly veiled red mirrors in the chamber's overly harsh pink lighting. He recognised the restraint as Zim went to sip from the vial again, eyes averted, the port in his shoulder covered with a blanket that flowed down to his hip. He never liked to show it whenever the arm was detached.
Though the warmth in the chamber was palpable, enough to make him uncomfortably sweat, even the hum of the nearby hubs and generators were not enough to ease the chilled silence between them. It was times like these when he hoped Gir would waddle in just to break the tension.
"Zim?"
Reflective eyes jerked his way, the line of his lips hard, rigid strokes. "What...?"
Dib held his eyes even when it was unnerving. "You okay?"
"Of course I am." He tried to smile to soften the lie, but the smile he managed was pensive.
Dib set the appendage down gently on the work surface even though the arm could afford a good deal of punishment. "It just needs some maintenance now and then." He couldn't believe he had to remind a mechanic of mechanics and the basic requirements involved.
"I know!" His voice, at times calm and constrained, was a cutting whiplash.
Dib leaned back in his overly small seat, the narrow width of its backrest digging into the bottom of his spine. He was tempted to unburden some home truths, but he knew where that would get him.
Without even looking, Zim was aware of where his eyes were straying. "Stop staring."
"I'm sorry...! I didn't mean..."
Zim tipped the vial all the way back, swallowing the last of the colourfully bizarre and glowing concoction.
He knew what was in those dulling fuchsia eyes. Shallowly buried hatred, fear. Something was barely holding on.
He was worried about going home, leaving Zim here, what he would find when he returned.
"You gonna sit there all day, space jerk? Come on. Let's get this back in."
"I'd rather not."
"Oh sure. You're gonna work one-handed for the rest of your senile old life?"
"I am not senile."
"Uh huh." He put on a smile but the usual teasing was not working.
Reluctantly, legs stiffly moving, Zim drew away from the seat and made his way over to the bench. Only partially had he layered it with a blanket and cushion, both of which he would soon have the computer tidy away as if he could erase the situation, and the memory.
He shifted into position, the patchwork blanket trailing down his side like a shawl.
Dib approached, holding the mechanical arm out with both hands. When Zim shot him a look, the fear and resentment were huge dark clouds marbling his eyes. The top furrow of lip went up, knees drifting together towards his chest. The claws of his hand clenched hard as he drew them into a fist, knuckle ridges seeming to pop out through shiny skin.
Velvet lines of antennae lifted smoothly, like independent indictors helplessly channelling emotions Zim otherwise was unwilling to show.
"You should lean back..."
"No." The Irken's answer was cold, an abrasive growl rumbling deep in his throat and chest.
Dib took a moment to breathe when he felt a similar tension building in his chest. Getting it over with was the only way out of this.
He knelt by the bench to even his height with Zim's, taking longer than necessary to overlook his work when there was no imperfection to note. It was better to never announce when he was about to 'plug it' in. In the second that it took, Zim would tense up, and the pain would be worse.
"You gotta remove the blanket." He wanted to be gentle, but he knew that was sadly impossible.
The growl deepened. Sharp hooks for claws snatched it away, ripping the blanket to reveal the port. Like a metal hole, it sat in what remained of the shoulder. Where flesh met the metal rim capping the hole were interweaving ribbons of scarring that branched all the way to Zim's collarbone and neck on that side. The hole itself was garlanded in delicate connectors that would connect the synthetic network of nerves to Zim's brain once the arm was successfully inserted.
Zim kept his gaze focused on anywhere else, but his features tightened, his cheekbones looking more pronounced beneath his eyes, lips opening to reveal a wall of teeth. Rich avocado green was peppering the bench beneath the fist he was clenching.
Dib's stomach clenched into tightening knots, nausea rippling through him.
He was not prepared for the pain, even if Zim was.
He aligned the adjoining shoulder joint with the port, trying not to think what should happen if he got the alignment wrong by an eighth of a degree. "Hey, what is in that blue shit you drink?"
His shimmering wine-colored eyes above the stretching sneer began to soften. "Do you want a taste?"
It was enough.
He snapped it home.
Zim's scream was a panic-wracked wail, antennae erect as stalks, his body going completely taut as if he had an electric current cutting through him. Dib struggled to hold him down as pain crucified the Irken to the bench, back of his skull hitting the backboard, body falling into a jerking, flailing contortion. His eyes were impossibly wide, pupils vanishing into dark red mirrors that reflected nothing save Dib's own pale, sweat strewn face.
"Breathe! Breathe you bastard!"
His voice must have slipped through the pain. Zim took a ragged breath, only to bring his natural arm to his mouth, teeth biting down into bone. His eyes curved into watery crescents, chest hitching.
"There, you see?" Dib said gently as the cries simmered into shock-induced sobs that were mixed with relief.
Seeing him like this broke every illusion Zim had ever crafted. His indomitability was dust in the wind, the inviolable walls nothing more than sticks snapping apart.
He picked up the flimsy blanket and took pains tucking it around the Elite's shuddering bones. "If this is all you have for blankets I'm bringing my own. I don't care if you think they're stinky."
Teeth clattering together, Zim's attempts to speak ended in a hard swallow. Tears made silvery tracks in the deepening crevices under his eyes.
He looked about the chamber, waiting for Zim to adjust.
He had grown familiar with some of the rooms. The lurid pinks and purples almost always reminded him of a brothel. The close ceiling and walls did not sit well with his imminent claustrophobia either, or the opinion that Zim's base was more like a personal prison. He did not much enjoy being without natural daylight, or fresh air on his skin for long. Zim may be used to working and living underground in a cave-like system that was incredibly modern, well-lit and hygienically sterile, easily losing hours if not days at a time, but not him.
Not that it wasn't fascinating. There were so many chambers and arterial passages that seemed to wrap around other passages, questionable compartments and repositories you could get lost in... but sometimes nothing beat strolling across the grass and looking up to see the clouds.
Dib kept his attention on other things, knowing the Irken did not like to be watched and doted on as if concern exemplified weakness.
After a few minutes the Elite sat up with effort, head bowed, eyes downcast as if he was still calibrating. Though the human didn't want to stare, he couldn't help but glance at the mechanised arm. It now functioned as if it had always been a part of him. Claws and wrist joint pivoted and turned almost naturally, only the faintest whirring giving it away. But his gaze established the disheartening emptiness in Zim's eyes.
He didn't know what to say.
The Irken stared vacuously at the turning wrist before clacking the metal spikes for claws together. His inspection hardly lasted four seconds before he was swinging his legs to the side of the bench and standing. Red droplets for eyes gormlessly glared out of hollow cavities for seconds longer.
"Well?" He stood up too, keeping close, hands on his hips. "Does it meet your specifications?"
"I suppose." His reply was flat. Guarded. The arm he had bitten into had inevitably bled. Dib could see the dark saturation through the pink of his sleeve.
"Good." He pursed, feeling that discomforting pressure rise again. "Now how about we head back upstairs, get something to eat?"
Zim's laughter was a single and bitter bark. "You go and do your foolish human things."
"Urm, okay." I should be used to his rebuking by now. "See you up there, maybe?"
His dark, livid eyes might as well have said: 'not a chance.'
Dib cursed under his breath as he made his way to the surface. The trip was taken in stages of walking down a narrowed, weaving passageway while trying to avoid being hit in the head by the overhanging pipes. Then it was a quick walk across a bubbling, hissing room full of noxious yellow steam to the conduit. The conduit was something of a torpedo, weightlessly propelling him to the surface at god knows what speed. Before he had time to blink the glass doors would open and he'd be stepping into pale amber sunshine thrown by the windows.
Gir was at the kitchen counter wearing an apron that trailed all the way down to the floor. The spoon he was using to stir with was so big that he had to hold it with both hands.
"What are you making?" He asked with a glance while his main focus settled on the fridge. Light fell on him when he opened it to see shelves crammed with packets of noodles of questionable flavour, jelly tarts, the remains of a pizza, and what could be a slab of festering butter that was growing its own ecosystem. A meticulous row of standard purple packs, each stamped with the black Empire insignia, had been designated on the lower shelf. The more 'normal' edibles seemed to be allocated for Gir who really had no preference since he seemed to like Lego blocks just as much as he liked slurping cereal.
He grabbed one of the chilled poop colas at the back, (knowing Zim would charge him for it) popped it open and guzzled it down as Gir tried to stir a strangely grey mixture in a bowl big enough to swallow him. Dib could hear his aggravated grunts as if the mixture he was trying to stir was setting concrete.
"You need help with that?" He looked over the robot's little shoulder to see things floating in the near-solid liquid. They looked a lot like bath toys.
"You wanna get the lippystick?" He asked.
"Lipstick?"
Gir shrugged before putting his weight behind the spoon. There was a crack as the wooden handle snapped. "Oooh..." He mumbled in a disappointed child-like way.
The mess he was making was evidence of his lacklustre cooking. A saucepan had been left on the dining table, complete with raw fish, parts of a chicken and a dog's rubber chew toy. He certainly did not envy Zim's position of doting father/nanny who was doomed to constantly clean up after the robot.
He approached the lounge, locating the jacket he had left draped over the couch.
His departures were usually quiet and subdued ones without as much as a goodbye. He tried not to let it get to him, reminding himself that humans had different preferences to stupid, stubborn aliens.
He snapped the door home at his back, the sunshine warming his pale skin before he walked down a leaf-strewn porch, not knowing that was the last he'd see of Zim.
Dib07: There you have it. It's something anyhow XD Thanks for reading, hope it wasn't too painful!