Aviator - An Invader Zim story inspired by Redout.
Summary:
Zim becomes an unwilling racer pilot in the SRRL games that attract skilled aviators and ruthless speedsters from around the universe. He is a participant in the most lethal AG games on record where pilots don't make it past a day. Chained to the cockpit, made to serve his term, Zim begins to realize that he can't survive the speeds, let alone the competition.
Disclaimer:
I do not own the IZ characters or Redout. However this story and this idea is mine.
Warnings:
Character angst. Gore. Swearing.
Dib07: Hey all! Welcome again! Here is another experimental chapter. God knows where I'm going with this. Thanks to you guys for reviewing, Zim, the fantastic experience that Redout is, and an amazing playlist. I couldn't help but have another go at it.
A special thanks/shout out to (in no order): Invader Johnny, CryptidCoffee, awesomelol2264, Zim'sMostLoyalServant, RandomDragon2.0, Larrimeme and VelociraptorLove!
Larrimeme
'horrifying you beyond measure' are very good words for this, not just for the story but for star ship racing in a nutshell! XD The g-forces alone are nightmare inducing. I had to research it - and its not pretty.
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 One:
-x-
'They can say what they say, but you need a heart to have heart like you do
You're too careful to truly not care. I don't believe that it's true.
You might shed some tears but these modern fears won't hold you down.
I know you're not over even if they think this time you're done.'
Modern Fears – Electric Youth
-x-
He went to stand by the zenial barrier, close to heaving his guts out. Cold and shaky claws hugged the railing to keep him from tipping over while his head was a pounding war drum, watery fuchsia eyes out of focus. He was still reeling from the enormous shock of the g-forces that made his body want to rattle apart.
Perhaps the equilibrium part of his brain had burst.
Speed was relative – flying through space did not have the same effects when the g-forces of planets were applied. Heck, you couldn't even feel motion when you were in a vacuum.
He looked to the silky reds and purples of the sky, seeing the stars and distant moons noxiously spinning. Closing his eyes reinforced the vertigo and the gyrating circles pulling him inwards and outwards.
Shake it off...
It's just another obstacle...
I... I am... destabilising...
Going up to one of the Wardens to tell them that they'd make a mistake, that he needed to get back to his station on Earth did little to compensate him and his situation. It wasn't long before he erupted, nostril slits flaring, teeth breaking into a snarl as he lost patience and self-restraint. As the workers, pilots and staff looked on, they'd watch him being dragged away again, heels squeaking along the hard packed dirt of the Platform, his screams perforating the air as the Warden promptly 'escorted' him back to his quarters.
They locked him in when he became more confrontational than the Wardens had patience for. The Platform was well guarded, with detention cameras circling the immediate and exterior perimeters. These security measures were originally put in place to protect the expensive AG racing ships from vandalisms and thievery as competition and ship exclusivity became ever more distinct and distinguished. Once the games took off though, it soon became a popular punishment for prisoners from various galaxies, like the gladiatorial games on Earth.
He was free to eat where he liked in the small but lavish district the Platform provided, with recreational activities to help divorce you from the constant threat of explosion and death with sex, drugs, alcohol and theatre, but Zim spent almost all of his time assessing the electrically charged plasma fencing bordering the establishment. Every camera was a functioning eyelet that covered each area down to a cubic spec with no blind spots to note. He tirelessly looked for ways to hack into and overcome these measures, having to deal with his rage and boiling confinement with every step.
He watched them mill around, pilots pausing just long enough to brag to each other of their long-standing achievements and bravado, but their grimaces and side glances revealed what they really felt about each other.
At least they were free to go as they pleased, floating from one hub to the other, retiring to ports in cozy beds while he remained at the platform, stuck with the quarters the Wardens had 'arranged' for him.
He remembered lifting the visor from his eyes when the Tallest had hailed him, knees half bent, claws clutching an exorozer as sparks bled from the machine he had been in the middle of repairing in his base.
A screen had descended from the ceiling to reveal them.
"Is this thing on?" Red had squinted as if he was peering into a particularly dark and sordid room.
Purple did not have the same trouble. "Ah Zim! There you are! I think it's about time we sent you to your doom... I mean... to your final mission!" He was smiling, a grin best reserved for cold triumphs and base pleasures.
"Mission, my Tallest? But I'm already..."
"Yes of course, soldier! That is why we've picked this one especially for you! You wouldn't mind participating in the SRRL games, would you?"
"SRRL... games?" He pulled the visor all the way off, antennae rising to better hear them.
"It stands for Solar Redout Racing League! It's the fastest racing antigravity league ever created!"
"Wait, wait," Red was shaking his head at his peer, looking pale in the overhead lights of the Massive's bridge. "We didn't discuss this!"
"Are you kidding me? Was your brain switched on at all during the last two hours?"
Zim approached the screen, looking up at his two leaders he hadn't seen in months. Rarely did he see them argue, or be at odds with each other for any length of time.
Red stood a little off to the side of the screen, his long arms dangling loosely by his sides as Purple turned back to Zim's image onscreen. "You'll be racing in a levitating ship, on magnetic tracks! If you crash, there might be nothing left of you!"
"But... why?"
The view of the Tallest disappeared for a moment in light of an SRRL promotional clip. Exuberantly sleek single-manned ships blasted down a speedway, the force of their passage shaking the camera recording them. The tails of their stern flashed for one micro-second, the next clip showing a ship careering around a bend at too great a speed, and when it hit the barrier, the ship became a blinding purple super nova.
The clip ended and Tallest Purple was back peering at him expectantly. "Well, what do you think, Zim?"
"They're... fast."
"You like fast."
"I do." His comment was noncommittal, and was just a tired acceptance of the fact.
"You're an Elite, so winning a few races should be easy for you. You'll be sponsoring the Irken race," Purple had then turned to his head-scratching peer, "how many 'wins' did the Kialen say?"
Red folded his arms. "I can't remember! You try keeping up with his clicks and clacks! My PAK wasn't built to understand that much nonsense all at once!"
"Does he have to come first in every race?" Purple asked. "Surviving is enough, right?"
"Does it have to be Zim?" Red returned with about as much exhaustion as a sleepwalker.
"Hey!" Zim had dropped the exorozer tool to raise his hand. "What about my mission here, on Earth?"
"But you don't ever stay there, do you?" Red returned more sombrely. "Look, Zim, this is hard..."
Purple poked him suddenly in the ribs with the butt of his elbow, causing Red to snarl derisively back. After a moment he turned to the little soldier patiently waiting. "The Kialen aren't to be messed with, Zim. Aside from those we've crushed and obliterated, they've remained our biggest threat. But they'll consider a truce, if each member of the opposing side participates in the SRRL games. You know what that means, don't you?"
"Urm... no?"
Red looked uneasy. "You'll be locked in the cabin for the duration of each race."
"Wait... what...?"
"Cut transmission already!" Purple snapped to someone off-screen. The viewscreen had then gone black...
Darkness began to turn the silky red cream of sky into a brooding burgundy as if the sun was literally bleeding to death. He sank down to his knees, dented PAK pressed against the railing as he watched the last pilots depart to fulfil their base desires.
He was used to planet hopping and passing alien cities, wastelands and exhibitions of varying cultures, but being stuck here, without the freedom to leave was slowly smothering him.
Eyes simmering, he looked across to the hangars beyond, squinting when renewed hatred flashed through his core.
He hated the Efreet.
The Voot Runner was as familiar to him as his uniform; each and every inch was an extension of himself. He knew where everything was without ever looking for it, and could have piloted it blind.
The Sulha however, with its butterfly-delicate hull and front heavy bow and engines, was a daunting horror complete with unordinary instrumentation that consequentially had him drowning in the deep end. The cabin may as well have been filling up with water for all the dread it gave.
Shaky claws plucked at the material of his black and purple gelded uniform that an SRRL Sulha racer had to wear in the cockpit's superheated confines. Each uniform was colour-coded to their ship. It was supposed to cool the body, and wick away sweat, but it felt more like steel clamping on his ribcage – and the material wasn't at all breathable. When he was finally able to leave the simmering cockpit after a Warden had freed him from the Efreet, his body cooled too quickly, leading to violent shaking as hypothermia became the next extreme.
The other pilots did not seem to be effected as he was. They wrapped themselves in aluminium sheeting, drank cool fluids and were either strolling or staggering away to medical or the nightclub in seconds while Zim sat in medical, wrapped to the nines in thermal blankets.
When he looked to the stars glittering back, he did not recognise them.
He refused to let the injuries and dents to his self-esteem trouble him no more than defeat had ever troubled him on Earth.
The claws of his left hand wouldn't steady. The manacles had made the bone of that wrist angrily sting and hurt. He would bunch his claws into a fist or hold it with his other hand, but after relaxing them the tremors always returned.
Kurtis, the human of the bunch, habitually liked to stroll too close, his white-hot gaze piercing him to the bone as if Zim was a curious phenomenon that needed to be reconfirmed.
Zim would snarl back, making sure he showed his teeth to the giant.
He could hear the rampant squall and noise of the nearby nightclub, sex dens and theatres. Visitors and not just racers would come to Anxanum to sample the explicit pleasures on offer. With death always a turn or a drop away, no one held reservations or judgement, and binged heavily on substances or things more intimate.
Zim watched the night sky fill with florid pink fireworks and neon shades as the revelling denizens whooped and celebrated.
Growing cold and achy, he rose with difficulty to his feet, hand still hanging onto the zenial rail.
The soldier in him stirred with curiosity and suspicion. He had never delved any deeper into Anxanum's sordid affairs, effortlessly avoiding that side of the district as his competitors partied all night long.
The strafing lights were an assault on his eyes and splitting head as he wandered down the curved metal street, smelling the metallic sting of booze and the sugary aftertaste of aldar on his tongue. The lights were limited to bright saturating greens, deep-throated reds and blisteringly cold pinks as the nightclub boomed with strange music.
Decking the side streets around the pulsing nightclub as punters staggered in and out were smaller establishments selling drinks that were illegal in other quadrants, especially the Irken-controlled regions. Drugs came as side dishes or snacks. The air would be almost grey with toxicity as aliens smoked or snorted highly addictive substances, while others injected a chemical mix directly into their veins.
"Come here, honey..." Cooed a vortian as she swung from a steel column in the light of the nightclub's throat. Zim hurried on, throwing startled looks from over his shoulder. It wasn't long before he almost walked into a patheios, an alien of comely blue fur, tall ears and claws for hands. Her velvet snout wrinkled up to show smiling teeth as her claws invitingly reached out for him.
"No no no! I don't want your services!" He snapped, hurrying backwards to keep away from her yearning grasp.
"Aww, don't be shy little bean! Have some fun! You look worn out!"
He darted round the corner, gasping for breath. When he eventually had the courage to peek out, he saw the patheios creature still looking his way.
He feared they'd have him, even if he didn't have any credit or monies to pay them with.
He unconsciously massaged his wrist where the restraint had left a dark emerald mark.
It was hard to stay hidden: keeping to the shadows to avoid the lavishers didn't exactly work when he had a PAK that vibrantly pulsed in the dark.
There was more cooing and murmuring from the next streetside corner, of two beasts having a conversation or were making out on the curb. Zim didn't go over to find out which it was and hurried to the glass dome nestled in a corner under a branch of fluorescent blue lights. He wasn't sure if he should believe his luck. He touched the responding VACANT screen panel, his gloves reacting with the glass. The door swung open silently and the screen panel changed to OCCUPIED. He hesitantly stepped in, feeling the squeezing claustrophobia when the door closed at his back.
He reached for the transceiver, his left hand a rebellious, shaky nuisance. He closed his teeth down on it to try and keep it still.
"Let's see... outgoing call... twelve hundred points?"
Like he was going to pay. The booth had minimal tamper-proof security, so it was a trivial matter of pulling out the wires from the control box and adjusting the frequency so that he could make any call he liked. He was a little messy cutting away the right wire with shivery claws, but when he planted the transceiver to his skull and bent the microwire to his mouth, the relief intermingled with uneasy triumph when the call connected.
A video screen blared to life opposite him, filling with temporary static. Since it had never been built with tiny Irkens in mind, Zim had to strain to look up at it. As the screen cleared, it showed the inside cockpit of Dib's stolen Irken spaceship. But no one was there.
"Come in, stink beast, where are you?" He warily looked through the glass, hoping no lavishers would come this far from the nightclub.
Come on, come on!
What are you even doing?
"Dib...? DIB!"
There was movement, a rustle of boots hitting the chassis maybe, and as he stared a young man was looking sideways at him as he struggled to fit his gangly body into too small a cabin. "Zim? Where the hell are you? You've been gone..."
"Look, there's no time! I need you to come and get me out of here!"
"Wait, wait! Get you out? Are you stuck somewhere?" He had finally finished fidgeting, having awkwardly settled into a rather uncomfortable cockpit that forced his knees up.
"Let me do the talking! I need..."
"Whooh, slow down there space monster. What makes you think I'll 'help' you?" His smile was borderline devilish, the whites of his teeth shining out of his top lip.
"You think I'm going to argue, with you of all things?"
Dib chose this particular moment to draw closer to the screen. "I've never seen you look so..."
"Awful?"
"No, no, I was gonna say... tired..."
"Is Gir there?"
"Oh, he's meddling with my things as usual." Dib cocked his head at him, slowly drawing back into the seat. "So what if I do help you, if you're stuck?"
"Dib, please, this isn't funny!"
"You can make a ship out of a trash can, Zim. And you have this annoying habit of getting unstuck of every situation." He leaned back a little more, folding his arms and looking way too pleased with himself.
"Anxanum! This... this beastly place is called Anxanum! I'll give your putrid ship the coordinates!"
Dib feigned boredom. "Uh huh. I bet you're locked in someone's garage again. If that PAK of yours is still having problems, I can give it a look..."
"No, no this isn't about that right now! Dib, the races! The... the exploding!"
"Look, every garage has a rusty old lock or a loose bit of boarding. Just look around, will you!"
"Can't you see where I'm standing?" And Zim haphazardly flicked his hurting wrist at the glass booth around him.
"It looks like you're standing in a dark, smelly old garage."
"Ughhh!" He tore off the control panelling without realizing, awareness only coming in slow, gradual doses as he stared at the sparking, crumpled wires.
-x-
The club was an oily factory of starship fuel fumes and body odour, all overwashed and saturated in the effluvious ordure of narcotics. Rainbow flashes of striking neon penetrated every shadow and surface, melting his vision into tortured afterimages and spools of striking, obnoxious colours. His senses were teased open and spilt apart: a noisy, chaotic battleground would have been serene in comparison.
Zim drew his eyes to the punters, a soft, slow sneer peeling his lips apart. To be detained – here - with these fuckers for even a minute was sickening!
Didn't they realize who he was?
Heretics! They're all heretics!
He stood in the fumes and interchanging smoky lights of deep-seated purples and nefarious greens as aliens and god-knows what else shuffled and stomped around, their many languages a dizzying clatter of noise and animalistic barks that his PAK struggled to assimilate.
He coldly looked to the bar and the greasy back walls where bottles of strange glittering blue liquids hung upside down, suspended. The bartender was a halcyon: a big, sweaty pig-like creature that came from the fetid slums of the planet Kila. They were hardworking, and loyal to anyone who paid them, but Zim's Irken standards couldn't care less how diligent they were, they would always be brutish barbarian idiots who belonged to the mud huts they came from.
The pilots, revellers and interstellar travellers were morphing, flittering poltergeists that did not appear consistent and solid. They flashed in and out of each other, blue lights glistening off swinging, sweaty hips and arms, velvet furred lavishers hooking their limbs around their chosen, two bodies melting together before pulling apart.
The scene hurriedly dispersed all sense of recognition and belonging.
Zim tucked his chin down, having never felt so far from home.
"Get out the fucking way!" His PAK could just about catch the sum of the command as he was bodily thrown aside by some ogre. His bulk filled his vision as readily as an eclipse as he was pushed. The hulk of it, all horns and scaly skin, was swarming its way through the dancing throng.
"Hey! Screew you!" He picked himself up, running claws along his newly bruised arm when the rejoining challenge had his antennae climbed to their peaks.
"What'd you say you tiny little shit?"
His spooch painfully clenched, claws splayed as he swerved towards staying and facing up to the bastard. Retreating had its advantages, but it came at a cost; a price he was not quite willing to pay. As the loaf of a thing came lumbering over, he paled, the smile playing on his lips weak and twitchy. "You might wanna watch where you're going next time!"
"Or what? Worried you might get squashed little bug?" He spoke through tusks that jutted out of slimy lips. Part ogre, part ork, probably...
There was a violent crash of glass and a tiny figure scurrying away behind the thing's hoary bulk. He looked, thinking he had seen something of a human child when a granite-hard fist pulverised his midsection. Zim went down without so much as a moan, claws grabbing at his spooch, slipping sideways and landing on his side while the punters regarded him with faint amusement.
"New bloods always gotta make a fuss these days." The voice, silky smooth, cut through the fog and din of blaring music. Boots, of chrome polish and black tar pits, stood like solid monoliths before his flinching eyes. He strained to look up, the pale, leering face staring back transmogrifying into Dib's for a moment, and a singular thought rushed through the static to the fore: since when did Dib start growing black fuzz on his face?
"If you can't endure the Club, you'll never endure the race." A hand, shimmying slightly, the fingers blurring, reached down, and he stared at the shape as if it had no business being there.
Scrapings of sense that had been knocking around in his head jerked him back to the world and he smacked the offered hand away.
The face broke into a grin, a chuckle purring out of his throat. "So it's like that, is it?"
"Y-You...! You pilot the E... ESA..." The... Lancer... Cold horror began to creep in as he looked into the eyes of his would-be murderer. The blue and green lights shifted, the porous fog lifting to reveal the tall, gangly human being. His hair was black and tussled, strands of it sticking to his sweaty forehead. The lights flashed on his suit's signature colours of red, white and black.
"That's right. Gotta say, I'm impressed you're still here." His cold eyes of shiny silver flashed to his PAK for a second, "How did they put you back together?"
He could feel the anger flash upwards, greasing his armpits in a cold sweat. He staggered upright; worried his feet wouldn't quite support him when he successfully balanced himself out. "Next time it'll be you nose-diving into a barrier!"
"You're a snarky one, ain't you?"
"What are you even doing here? You belong on that stinkin' rottin' Earth with the rest of your beastly kind!" He gave the human an icy glare, hoping the threat in his eyes and stature would be enough, but the human merely swatted his sneering aside as if he was no more intimidating than a kitten.
"I'm not the one who's lost." He said with that ugly, knowing smile. "You should clean yourself up. What is that on you? Blood?"
"Get out of my way!" He pushed through the grime of bodies to the bar that was more of an island too far out to swim for. Pulsations of light and sound stabbed his aching skull with his eyes being perpetually bombarded by lightning flashes that robbed the sane of their balance and orientation.
The black bar swam into existence. Glasses chinked in resounding laughter. Travellers from other worlds whispered dark prophecies.
The halcyon lifted its snout to him, its tiny eyes dark droplets of oil.
Zim pulled down the collar of his black and purple tunic to try and stave off the fever-sweat clinging to his chest. He was just beginning to feel something wet on his lips. "What do you have that's decent around here?" He reached for one of the stools, having to employ his three PAK legs to lift him high enough to reach it.
The halcyon snorted, its hot breath smelling of tobacco blowing into his face. "Grog, lots and lots o' grog. Though it looks like it won't take much o' the stuff for you to pass out."
Just as Zim raised his hand to argue, the halcyon was pouring out a long measure of yellow into a small but dainty looking crystal chalice.
Is that all I get?
He reached for it before the bartender had finished and threw his head back, feeling the liquid burn on the way down.
Though he was unfamiliar with the alcohol, he could already feel it working. The welcoming heat floated into his chest and bubble-wrapped his skull from the pain.
Curse that fucking Efreet! I hate it! It's like getting into a glass coffin... They cheated me! Who is this other 'Kalian' racer? I bet they don't even exist!
He tried stretching a tad to relieve the ache in his arm, but even the burning comforts of the 'grog' could not relieve the fever as it oozed through his system like a neurological poison.
"Another, pig thing!"
"You're not a racer, are you?" The bartender huffled over, happily pouring out another measure.
"What do you mean? Of course I am!"
The halcyon snorted laughter. "Good one. Next they'll have itty bitty tadpoles piloting an Asera."
A droplet of green suddenly appeared on the polished back top of the bar. Zim stared at it, perplexed. When he touched it, it was still warm. Bringing his claw to his face confirmed its origin.
-x-
Zim unfastened the small silver clasp at the back of his throat and let the suffocating attire fall around his ankles. Padding on bare feet across the ceramic floor of the washroom, he briefly inspected himself for any bodily flaws. Using his forefinger and thumb, he tugged a web of skin on his left forearm above the elbow and pried it away, feeling the skin rip.
He was flaking everywhere. Irken did not shed like this.
A flake of skin flapped annoyingly at his ankle. He pulled aggressively, leaving a streak of flesh that promptly started to bleed.
The PAK whirred constantly, addressing each new issue as it multitasked like a computer with too many programs running.
Zim turned to face the long, empty honeycombed chamber with an array of shower heads with a big drainage system on the floor that drained into a water tank below. The walls were a dull, stained metal that gave off a terrible cold.
His wary fuchsia eyes narrowed, lips tight across his teeth.
He hit the button and a spray of hot water spat out of the shower head, causing him to shriek. He propelled himself out the way, holding himself as water violently glugged and choked out of the pipes. For a moment the water was a muddy brown, and after another coughing spurt the water ran out, clean and hot. Bodily shuddering from nerves and cold, Zim gingerly reached out with his claws, retracting them the moment the water touched him.
As steamy hot water sputtered and gushed, he drew back, wildly inspecting his claws and feet for damage. His skin wasn't burning or peeling...
Zim stiffly looked up at the thin cascades of water, a furrow appearing on his forehead between his eyes.
He padded over to the deluge on the floor, feeling the warm water seep between his bloodied toes. The heat took on a more pleasant sensation as it drained away all the sweat and blood. He relaxed a little more beneath it as excess water ran along his scuffed arms and bony chest.
This isn't so bad...
The grime was drained into the water tanks below as he stood in the spray of hot water, his eyes falling shut as the moment lasted. The severity twisting him into knots was softening, though there wasn't much left to hold on to.
Rivulets of blood joined the cacophony of water like the fading ruby tails of the sun as it melted away.
What if I go to the hangar, avoid the Wardens, and blow up the Sulha? I can't race if I have no ship to race in...
Zim stepped out and stood under a massive dryer. Gusts of warm air dried all moisture on his pale jade skin and when it was over the vents closed up and Zim went to his assembly of new clothes. They were identical, with that infuriating gelded collar with the Sulha's signature colours. He was supposed to wear a badge on his left breast depicting his class, but he always ripped it off, even the replacements he was sure the Wardens kept sticking back on.
He slipped on the garment, pushing on his boots and gloves last to hide the mark on his wrist. Then he took an assertive look at himself in the flat, plain mirror before he had second thoughts, allowing himself a tentative nod when a perfectly normal Irken peered back.
There has to be a way out of this!
He felt repudiated... discarded...
Please... let me out of here...