Debacle (R) - Subject Zim

Summary:

All his life Dib has wanted to capture Zim and gain the victory and fame he always wanted. When his wish comes true however, not everything falls so comfortably into place.

Disclaimer:

I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine.

Warnings:

Dark themes, gore, psychological issues and angst throughout.

Dib07: Thank you to those who have reviewed your support keeps this series going. The thing about writing for me is, I struggle with anxiety and writing and having an audience helps me so much as I work out some issues, and hopefully, when you read this story it might help in terms of entertainment, to help you escape reality, to relax and just enjoy. So thank you. I did not think I would be going too far with Debacle, but here we are, with another chapter.

Cold War/character content removed as of 24.04.21

Guest

Thank you - ahhh you review was stunning -! It really cheered me up on a bad day, and I hope this reply finds you well! Ah, I concur, the last chapter was difficult in so many ways. Membrane is so tangled up by Geneva's constraints and Carlson's dictatorship, while trying to mend Zim's already shattered trust. Keeping Zim alive was definitely atonement, you chose the perfect words there! And aw the tea scene! I think, in his habitual decorum and strained attempts to act normal, he ended up confusing Zim even more! Good going there, professor! I hope, when things are revealed, you can look back and enjoy this in light of what you'll know with these two! And ah yes the flashback! There are quite a few sprinkled throughout the story, of Zim's brutal career alongside his peers! Poor Skoodge had such a tiny debut last chapter! 'Williams might be getting close to understanding the true nature of Zim's PAK' Yup! Honestly I don't know who to be more scared of at this point, Zim's up against it that's fer sure. 'The main challenge of content warnings is to warn enough so that your readers know what they're getting themselves into without spoiling the story.' I agree, I'm gonna customize/tailor the chapter warnings every chapter, and add more on when the chapter demands it and hopefully that'll do the trick! Darker chapters will warrant more warning, there is a particular 'water' scene that'll need it, lol. Thanks again, gosh you spoil me with your reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy this story! I am certainly eating up your reviews!

Zimolution

Admittedly I am having way too much fun with this too: of testing Zim and his PAK this way, and inevitably revealing a lot more about his frail biology and PAK defenses than I originally thought! I always wanted to write a separate piece about his biology/evolution but I think what will be included in this kinda has it all in one! I am excited to reveal more as things happen, particularly the up coming interrogation, as well as more of Zim's unique and fascinating biology! This is where all my crazy headcanons kinda go a bit wild! XD

Guest

Thank you so much for dropping by, and letting me know you're out there, enjoying this! It means a lot to me! I struggle with anxiety, and I think that puts demons in my head, lowering my confidence. Anyways, hope you enjoy this chapter!

Ikainica

Thank you so much, always! I am enjoying your reviews and kinda making a meal of them as I reply! You should get the replies soon, I am still dazzled quite honestly by the depth and what you notice, bring to light, are fascinated by, and question which really excites me! It's been such a long time where I've been able to discuss Zim intricacies and his world in detail with anyone and I am loving it! I hope you never tire of this story, because I am finding you too addicting!

Ragdoll

The bar was obnoxiously loud and claustrophobic in contrast to the stretches of empty corridor and lofty, sterile rooms where one's voice unfavourably echoed. The heat and bustle of bodies wasn't a welcoming transition either from the spacious comforts he had grown used to as he speedily made the trip to the bartender and back to their little table in the far corner as if he was walking bare foot over hot coals.

Their place by the window was dark and dingy, and the table looked like it hadn't been cleaned in months. The surface was tacky with suspiciously sticky residues which Torrent was careful not to touch.

Williams paid little attention to the vortex of drinking, laughter and lights. The emotions and adrenaline seemed to run effortlessly and ineffectively off of him like water on a duck's back.

He reached for the glass Torrent plunked down in front of him, but after two tepid swallows he placed it on the sweaty coaster and was content just to stare at the condensation running down the sides.

Torrent sat opposite him, heartily drinking froth and beer before wiping his lips. The ice cold of the alcohol was a pleasant relief, not just for his thirst, but for his mood.

They could hear the heavy-handed plonk of money falling out of gambling machines, accompanied by lurid music with the additional haze of drug-tinged cigarette smoke coming in wafts through the door as more patrons bumbled in from the cold. The place was greasy with drunks, old food smells and flowery perfume.

Torrent disliked coming here. It was the only bar in the middle of nowhere, with Geneva some ten miles south, and the noisy town of Lincoln ten miles to the north. And Geneva may as well have been a Transylvanian castle guarded by vampires and gargoyles. Anyone who knew of it talked about it with disdain, as if its mere presence was a blemish on their town and lives. Whenever he and the doctor went in for the occasional drink, their presence was enough to stop conversation and put ice on the mood. Their white labcoats didn't help, people stared at them as if they were Nazis fresh from Auschwitz, and they eventually came to the decision that it was better to change into more suitable clothing before they entered.

Torrent was sickened by their ingratitude. If it wasn't for scientists and their painstaking research, mankind wouldn't have got very far without vaccines and drugs specifically made to combat disease that might otherwise have been incurable. In light of this, he kept quiet where possible, as he made no other sacrifice besides marring his dignity when the time came to clean out the kennels.

Williams just sat there, looking like part of the furniture. You'd think Geneva was a fabrics factory by the sombreness of the man's body language and expression.

"Aliens!" Torrent couldn't help but shake his head, "Aliens fucking exist, man! It wasn't quite what I expected... but..."

"Keep it down!" The old doctor flicked harsh eyes of grey at him.

"I thought you'd be excited." He grew sulky. "Nothing thrills you more than an amobia..."

"It's pronounced amoeba." He stated, knowing there was a strong likelihood his colleague wouldn't know what that was.

"You're not drinking?" He had to strain his voice a little to be heard.

Williams remained looking at his glass of beer. "Doesn't it disturb you?"

He figured that the doctor was referring to the fountains of green that had erupted from the little thing, or that he was referring to the thing itself. "Other than the fact that I had to dress down to my underwear?" He paused, saw that his remark was not lifting the man's spirits. "What disturbs me is that... alien... has been free for god knows how long. What if it lived in your street? Passed your family by on the subway?"

"I do not dispute it. It's a predatory hunter in its own right."

"Yeah? So why the long and gloomy face?" He asked, watching him intently. "You've seen blood before. Granted, it hasn't been so green... and I thought it would burn me or something..."

Williams lifted his weighted glass of beer and took three heavy gulps before lowering it. "How are the kids?"

He knew he was deflecting. Torrent wasn't the keenest observer when it came to people, but even he could suss a secret when he saw one. "Tolerable, when they're asleep."

The older man had to smile. Torrent's idea of a self-fulfilling evening was sitting in front of the TV with a can of beer in one hand, watching a soccer match or a show called Spin the Dial. He would be surprised if he even remembered the names of his own children.

After a few more beers, their earlier tension softened, with Torrent stripping down to his shirt.

More revellers poured in, the music in the background a vague rhythm of murmuring beats, the lyrics too indistinct to catch.

There wasn't much freedom to talk with the clashing noise, but there was a hell of a lot more privacy than even the janitor cupboard in Geneva. "That Master Sergeant Carlson is the Keeper of all that goes on in the place! He even put cameras in the restroom, did you know that? There's even one in the fridge! I went to get a glass of juice and I saw this tiny little pea-sized...!"

"You noticed?"

"Hey, I have eyes!"

"Security has to be tight." Williams said without much concern. "Maybe it's those Russians the sergeant's so afraid of. An alien ship and its pilot make good trophies."

Torrent shrugged, and decided to pose a question that had been bothering him all day. "What the hell are they building next door? They wouldn't let me in to have a look."

It was typical of Geneva to start a project, but not so typical as to keep scientists in the dark unless it specifically required their council. Restoration and expansion was not uncommon. The building was old, and with government funding new functionality was a luxury they enjoyed.

Again the doctor's response was short and dismissive. "Carlson and the professor are supervising the build. It's something for A01. That's all I know."

He hit back the beer and placed the empty goblet by a growing row of tankards. "Sounds like they're constructing something big."

But the scientist's attention was elsewhere. He found the atmosphere and the patrons more appealing and stopped to watch them.

"Do you think this little green elf from the stars can actually speak any language? What was the professor speaking when he talked to it? Spanish?"

"German. And sometimes Latin." Williams muttered conventionally, but already his eyes were clearing from the fog that had started to settle.

"Yeah! Hey, what if we put an animal in front of it, like a dog or cat? Maybe it can translate what they're saying!" He laughed as if the suggestion was a joke, pausing only to gulp down more beer, but his friend and superior saw potential in the idea.

A being that knows and speaks any language... but how would it be profitable?

Torrent watched Williams' face tighten, his eyes looking inwards. It slowly dawned on him and his jaw dropped. "You ... you admire it!"

Williams didn't rise to challenge it, or bother refuting the claim. "In many ways, yes."

"But it's a monster!"

"As a cat is to a mouse." And he took a swallow of beer. He remained passive, and very tired. Usually they spent the evenings amicably arguing between drinks, their views opposing the other. Williams was the intellectual superior who candidly spoke about measurements, myocardial jargon and statistics. Torrent usually bickered about paychecks, the mouldy food in the cafeteria, and why it was always his turn to clean up the poop. "It is rather... perfect."

"How can something that ugly be perfect?" Again, Williams seemed to enter that tunnel where he could hear nothing, so Torrent tried a different approach. "Do you mind telling me what's really going on?"

Now it was the scientist's turn to glance over at him, eyebrows lifting, as if he was only now just beginning to notice his colleague's unusual attentiveness.

"Don't look so surprised." Torrent continued. "You're like that damn ticking clock in A01's room. You never miss a beat, but when you do, I notice."

"Careful, Torrent. If you were anymore astute you might be able to get a job as a doctor."

He wasn't sure if that was a joke or sarcasm. Williams often used them as one and the same.

"Look, whatever. I just wanna know if you found something we should know about, like a ticking time bomb in that thing's chest, or more of those mechanised legs stuffed up its ass."

"What makes you so certain we've found anything we're not divulging?"

Torrent locked eyes with the older man. "There's something going on. I don't know what it is. But the professor's acting strange, like he's hiding something... and it's the way he handles A01. Without fear, and without any concern for himself. Master Sergeant Carlson must be noticing it too."

"There... is something..." Williams drew the figure 8 with his thumb in the condensation on the table's grubby surface. "But it's not what you think."

"Then out with it for god's sake."

Williams' eyes, slightly faded from rheumatism, stared directly into his. "This is a delicate matter, and doesn't concern you."

"Yeah, yeah." He chided, sceptical, and gave him his best cavalier smile. "Confidentially and all that bogus stuff. But if whatever you find helps protect colleague safety..."

Williams was giving him one of those startled, confused looks, trying to second guess his friend's concerns. It was true that Torrent and the professor had never seen eye to eye, and when Torrent wanted something, he got pushy, tending to dirty his hands just to get it.

"Come on, Wills! I work beside you! I have to breathe in the same air that fucking bug-thing is breathing! Is it really all that confidential?!"

He leaned forward. "Professor Membrane is an old friend of mine. You would never be able to understand why he does what he does."

"Cut the crap! You and I both know it isn't normal to behave that way around a new and hostile alien species! Have you seen the way they look at each other?"

"Yes, I've noticed. Maybe the two crossed paths once upon a time. You did say one can unwittingly pass A01 on a subway, and when the alien knew his son...?"

"Uh huh. Sure." You seem awfully calm about it, old man. He took another slurp of cold beer, knowing he wouldn't swallow something so simple, and wondered what Williams really thought. "And those readouts? You've been glued to them all day."

Williams looked rueful, and desperate, as if he really wanted to confess his theories even when it went against the code. Finally he leaned forwards as if the knowledge was too painful to keep to himself, "I have reason to believe that A01 is older than we thought. There is evidence of past injury and repair, its body has been able to endure the stresses of damage, but the blood test revealed that there are elements of a c-reactive protein and troponin that may indicate the presence of an ongoing inflammatory process in its body. This could mean any number of things, such as pericardial effusion, osteoarthritis, a blocked thyroid, cancer, infection... But because the creature has no liver, we don't know what's producing it, and why."

"Maybe it just has a cold."

Williams blinked at him, perhaps at his blatant disregard. Then he seemed to gather himself. He often shrugged on the cloak of a scholarly teacher, and rattled on as if he was presenting his case to eager elementary students in front of a blackboard. "It could be argued that A01 is dehydrated, out of condition... and since it's the only one of its kind there is nothing else to compare it to. The CBG tests are the only way to determine if a viral or bacterial contamination might have entered the creature's body... The x-rays revealed little..."

"You and your wizard talk!" The cardiologist yabbered out jargon as if it was his second language, "So your tests don't exactly match up. So what? The thing's a fucking alien! Maybe those taponin or proteins or whatever they're called are completely normal?"

"But we don't know!" Williams persisted, "We don't know what the PAK does! What the limitations are, and what might happen if we stress them! Anxiety, stress may have simply pushed the levels up... and A01's starving itself... which will cause a metabolic breakdown called the refeeding syndrome." He put a hand on his forehead and matted locks of grey hair. "We simply do not know enough about the Irken. Maybe there's a hidden defence mechanism at play. Professor Membrane says that he's working on it... but even he won't let me see all the paper work..."

"Then tell that Carlson jerk! If the damn thing has the flu or something, he'll postpone the interrogation and PAK-thingy test by a couple o' weeks!"

"Carlson wants A01 to be weak. It'll make it easier for him to get what he wants. The Pentagon is waiting for results."

"The fucking Pentagon?"

"I assume so, yes."

"That's a mighty big assumption."

"It just makes sense, dear boy."

"And what happens if A01 continues to refuse food?"

"Fatigue..." Williams looked at the table, and only the table, "confusion, seizures, inability to breathe, heart failure..."

"Just shove a feeding tube down its throat!"

Williams chased down dregs of beer. "What does it matter? Eventually, down the road, we're going to vivisection A01 anyway, in parts, or in one session once we have enough data." That seemed to have drained the last of Williams' energy. He got up even when he hadn't finished his drink and hastily slipped into his coat without prelude.

"Hey!" He got up, wondering what he'd said wrong. "You want your biopsies, right? Why the change of heart?"

Williams picked up his hat and walked away without answering him. But Torrent wasn't giving up. He chased after him, having to ram his way through tightening corridors of people.

When he stumbled outside, boots almost slipping on the slush ice, the doctor had gone.

-x-

He walked into the white polished room that smelt of antiseptic and window cleaner. He was clad in a long, tapering white coat that touched the black ankles of his boots, with white surgical gloves going up to his elbows.

In the amphitheatre rows of scientists peered down at him, but as hard as he looked, he could not see his father, only Carlson sitting in the front row, nodding and smiling, with the metal dog next to him, its face chrome teeth.

Dib approached the surgical table that he lay upon. The supine invader had no way to curl up and hide himself away, arms and legs stretched taut on the metal surface with cuffs holding him in place. His exposed nudity looked too dainty and smooth beneath the offensive white of the surgical lamps, traces of purple veins and minute arteries running like trailing roadmaps beneath paper-thin skin.

Around the table's edge was a shallow indent where blood would collect and drain. Beside him was a counter shiny with equipment: sterile, surgical tools pristinely and flawlessly lined in cold and precise order, their points glittering harshly beneath the amplified lights that penetrated every pore and shadow and contour Zim had.

He glanced down at the exposed and bony creature lying beneath him, looking like a sacrificial victim the Mayans practised as offerings to their Gods. Their victims had been lashed to stone slabs resembling tables to be indiscriminately cut open...

He watched Zim's little chest rapidly draw in and out, fear rising in mystifying fuchsia eyes, the green in his face paling. He looked more like porcelain without the armour, the pomposity...

There was a mutter and a murmur from the people watching. Their near-quiet chatter sounded like the rustling of leaves in the forest when the snow had blown around thin, rising trunks, their branches for hands clawing at the sun...

Dib moved to pick up a scalpel. It was feather light in his gloved hand, and seemed too delicate and thin to do much damage.

Zim began to buck and squawk, his cries sounding terrible in the quiet.

The scream filled the forest: birds clapped out of trees, the sound of purest pain tapering into wracked echoes that put ice down his spine. When he came to the clearing, the snow roaring against his ears and eyes, Zim stood crookedly in the canvas white, one leg in the bear trap.

The soldier looked towards him, eyes a warring chasm of misery and pain.

As the audience watched, as a silence hushed over him, he brought the tip of the scalpel against a green and trembling diaphragm, hating the way his enemy whined and flinched. His cries were scratchy, weak, almost like that of a child's.

Anger flushed through him. How dare his enemy show regret, fear! Pain!

You did this! You brought yourself here! You ruined everything for me! He pushed in the point of the scalpel, watching it penetrate muscle that admitted it too easily, with the deepest green you had ever seen rush to the surface, "You don't deserve to cry!"

Once you rent a hole through evil, there would surely be a release, and not just blood and the odious warm stink of guts...

He drove it deeper, hand slipping on the handle of the scalpel as the blade slipped in soundlessly. There was an accompanying gurgle as blood frothed up Zim's throat, spilling out and fluttering to the cool metal of the table beneath.

He stood there, feet sinking through snow, eyes on the blood streaming and dripping along the divots in the iron of the mantrap as green steadily channelled its way into the snow like pine-green paint. The concentrated lacerations webbing the leg suggested the Irken had already tried pushing the teeth back, only to have it smack deeper into bone.

'What will happen if I leave you here, Zim?'

The Elite stood there, eyes wide and unclouded, torn between hate, misery, desperation...

He jolted awake so violently that he actually propelled himself into a sitting position. The pillows were scattered around him, soiled with sweat. He gasped in air wildly as if he had been pushed underwater. Hands coasted around in the dark, feeling the familiarity of the mattress, the sheets...

Dustings of snow brushed past the windowpane, a silent serenade of flakes cascading from the wind's ghostly hand. He sat watching, the room dark and chilled. Shaking, heart racing, he ran a hand across a sweaty forehead, trying to forget.

He gently sat up, head whirling, remembering with vague amusement that he was still wearing his shirt and pants.

Shifting wooden-stiff legs into gear, he ambled down the stairs, blaming his recent nightmare with the tools and devices he had gathered to throw out.

It was better to be rid of them.

Cluttering the kitchen table, the crude devices looked less sophisticated than they first appeared. Many of them had not been touched in years, having been sealed in boxes in the attic. He supposed, given their nature and design, they might have fetched pretty good money.

He picked up the oval and beetle-like device, turning it slowly in his hands, wondering what life might have been like if his father hadn't been the renowned and celebrated Professor Membrane. Beneath his shadow, he seemed born to fail.

What was it like, to be normal, to have a mother, and a father who didn't work all the time?

Was it selfish to dream of another life?

He put the device down on the table with the others, unsettled with what he had made.

About five mantraps lay littered amongst the rest, most having gone black with rust.

He almost blocked the memory before it could form. He had trapped more than one creature with those things...

I didn't mean to...

I only did what was necessary...

When his eyes flickered towards the snow-encrusted window pane, he saw a little robin looking mildly back at him from the ledge. He paused, considering if it might be a Zim-robin, or a normal robin. He hadn't had time to count the species he had irrevocably let loose on the world.

When he was about to try communicating with it Gir bounced in. Having devoured the rice pudding, bottles of maple syrup and a whole box of cheese flavoured chips, Gir wiped the crumbs and honey from his metal line of a mouth to push around some of the contraptions with a metal hand. To reach the table he stood on half a dozen cushions, all of which had been saturated by his gluttonous eating and drinking habits.

"What's this thingy do?" He picked up the beetle-device the human had just put down.

Gir was likened to a child combined with a forgetful senior; he sponged up everything he saw and was told, only for all the information to come leaking back out again.

"Don't touch that!" He swiped it from Gir's little hand before softening up, not meaning to be so harsh. "It's dangerous."

"But what it dooo?"

As far as Gir was concerned, everything and anything should function to make food or toys appear. The robot had sat and stared at the empty microwave for a full minute as if he expected a juicy and dripping cheeseburger to spontaneously materialize inside the compartment.

Dib considered him, something he had been doing without being consciously aware of it. How much information Gir absorbed, and how much he didn't was relative.

He just needed someone to talk to.

He picked up the instrument with more care, looking at it with a veritable mix of melancholy and nostalgia. "It was designed to attach itself to Zim's PAK. Once connected, it would send an EMP directly into the machine." He set it down again with deliberate care. "In theory, it works. I tested it on various electrical appliances, but in the end it was never used on what it was made for."

"And this?" Without missing a beat, as if Dib had painfully admitted nothing of importance, Gir simply pointed to the next oddity on the table.

"A taser."

"This...?"

Dib let out a heavy sigh that was more rueful than angry. "A fishnet that I modified."

"To catch fish?"

"To catch Irkens." He ran a finger through the crinkles in his forehead. He wasn't sure if the furrows were the premature onset of wrinkles, or if he had been habitually frowning for so long that they had become a feature. Slowly, he began to realize how much the robot's innocence touched him, and hurt him. "Hey, Gir? Those animals in Zim's base... they must have been there for some time. Did you ever talk to them? Visit them?"

Gir nodded happily and hugged his tummy, swaying himself from side to side. "I wanted to play with them all day! But Master wouldn't let me. Master got mad when I kept letting them out."

"Letting them out, of what?" He asked gently.

"I dunno. They liked to wear bandages. But stuff came out of 'em sometimes."

"Stuff?"

"Red stuff." He confirmed without the slightest idea of what it meant.

Dib slowly leaned back in his chair. "Sounds like they were injured, Gir." Yeah, yeah, like Zim's a healer... a fucking doctor or something. God I am going crazy.

His eyes looked inwards, his mind falling away at the seams.

The anger of Zim's very existence had poisoned him of all else he might have been able to see if only he had had the patience to look beyond the tortured pathways he had wanted...

When he saw the too-still fox lying there in the mantrap, feeling the rue tighten inside, he knew he couldn't stop... that he was so close...

Beside the tools and other items were black bin liners. He meant to put all his Zim-catching projects and maiming devices into sacks and haul them outside.

The ragdoll of Zim rested on its side, and was also selected to go with the rest.

He picked it up, the head dangling back, the limbs hanging noodles. He hadn't been very competent as a seamster. Loose bits of thread hung from the slightly formed mouth and the eyes were too flat. He supposed the antennae had something of a likeness, as they were the simplest and easiest to detail. They hung like black lace, with tiny rods of metal to give them that lifelike rigidity should he choose to manipulate them.

Little holes perforated the doll's eyes, chest and neck. When he had made the dolls years ago after reading up on Voodoo practises, he had sat in the evenings, digging a needle into the thing, hoping that Zim would feel it, however far away. In his hate to create something so near perfect to the real thing in the hopes that something would work, (the Voodoo book on dark magic strongly advised that copying the person you meant to hurt was paramount), the clothes were also near-perfect replicas in miniature.

As he observed it, running fingers over something he had once despised, his thumb scrapped across something sharp. He moaned, almost dropping the doll. He inspected his thumb to see a bead of blood swell to the surface.

He discovered the needle sticking out of its PAK, huh, thought I removed them all.

"You huuurt?" Gir asked with noticeable concern.

"It's okay. I just pricked myself."

He put the doll down, asking himself why he was even discerning artefacts from the desperation of his past and started unceremoniously cramming them one by one into bin liners. When the doorbell did its usual chime, Gir clapped his hands together. "Guests!" He chirped.

"Gir, Gir you have to hide!" The sullenness in his bones melted away as he ushered Gir from the table.

"Is this a game?"

"No, I mean... yes! It's called hide and seek!"

"I love that game!"

"I'm going to count to a million! Not a sound, understand? Gir I need you to promise me!"

Gir went scuttling out the room, giggling.

The doorbell chimed again, the whole house ringing and echoing.

He pulled himself taut like a puppet with metal strings, remembering to put on a carefree mask that almost settled over the despair. If it was just the mailman, or some idiot looking for newspaper fare, he wouldn't have to pretend for long.

Dib glided to the door, chilled hand outstretched, heart lifting when the thought that it might be his father began to lighten the weight inside.

He opened the door, and it wasn't just the shock of snow hitting his system that made him stagger.

His skin paled, heart tumbling down.

Carlson peered back with that wide and disparaging grin. He was wearing one of those flight jackets with the fleece lining. "Hey there kiddo."

"C-Carlson!" He felt like he had just taken a punch to the gut. Putting the mask back on wasn't as easy.

"I swung by the area, figured I'd check up on you."

"You know where I live?" He could not stop his eyes from widening, or his heart from pounding. Why do you have to be here? Why is it always you...?

A steady cold blew inside as much as outside, engulfing him.

"You're not gonna let an old man in from the cold?" He revealed another Cheshire cat smile. Dib took slow, shuffling steps inside, and Carlson stomped snow off his boots as he bustled in. Without waiting to be told where to put what, he threw off his jacket and boots and dumped them by the door indifferently. "Nice place. This all yours?" He asked in that aged and gruff voice.

He was eyeing up the plain, unattractive photos of him and his family on the wallpaper in the hall. Their father stood at every photo session as if he was at a funeral, and though he and his sister always tried to put on their best Sunday smile, it had made them look phonier somehow.

The sombre grandfather clock tick tocked away beside the old mahogany stairs, emphasizing the quiet.

He wasn't ready for Carlson's intrusion, or to show anymore of himself to the wolf, but already the eagle-eyed sergeant had spotted the mechanical dog sitting, stone-like, in the hallway beside a potted plant.

"Nice decor."

"T-Thanks," he offered, only because he didn't know what else to say.

There was nothing else forthcoming, and Carlson stepped past the dog without another comment.

"It's quiet." The man remarked, looking around, his eyes more like penetrating x-rays. "You live alone?"

He didn't know why he was picking up on Carlson's suspicions. Maybe he wasn't probing; maybe he really had come for an amicable 'chat' so to speak. He had witnessed Zim's amputation in graphic detail, and the sergeant was probably worried or curious about his state of mind.

Dib picked up the abandoned and dripping jacket, and lacking anything else to do, unable to hide his discomfort, he spent longer than was necessary hanging it up on a peg. "It's just me."

"No wife and kids?"

Jeez, what's with this guy?

"No." He said with refrained bitterness.

Carlson must have picked up on it, for his tone lightened, but it was his sugary sweetness that made Dib feel more uncomfortable. "I live alone too. Tis the curse of being a soldier."

"I... I thought you said you had a wife?" His voice sounded small in comparison.

"Oh, she left me. Long ago. Sometimes I still speak of her as if we're together. Old habits."

So, you've checked up on me. Can you go now? Instead, he choked out, "Coffee, or...?"

"That'll be just the pick-me up I need! Make it strong, would you, boy? The coffee that autochef serves in Geneva tastes more like goat's milk that's gone bad."

He could feel those stone cold eyes observing him as a predator discerned a young girl in a bar. The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle.

When he moved into the kitchen, too late did he realize when his eyes fell on the instrumentation and leavings of an era he'd sooner bury. Carlson saw too, and his bushy eyebrows lifted. "What's this?" He reached over and picked up the EMP attacher.

Dib hurriedly began dumping anything even remotely Zim-related into the black sacks. "Nothing. Nothing! Just... garbage I'm about to throw out!"

"Hold on there, son. These are interesting pieces of equipment. Did you make all this?"

He swallowed. "Y-Yes but, it's hardly been tested, it's just stuff I made in my spare time and it's..."

"Whooh, hold on there, son. This has potential! Has your father seen any of this?"

He bit into his lip, hard, his tongue tasting the sharp tang of blood. His father's castigation was still too strong to undermine. When he had had no one else to talk to, having it all build up inside... "I... I used to show him. Then I just sorta gave up..."

"Professor Membrane has been overshadowing an undiscovered genius, I see." Carlson overlooked more of the tools and devices with hungry interest. Then he spotted the Zim doll. "What do we have here?" He picked it up in rough and bony hands, flip-flopping it from side to side to get a better look.

Dib felt no need to explain the thing, but he could clearly see the man discerning the puncture holes where needles had gone in multiple times. For just a second, very clearly, he could picture the sergeant calling the Institute to take him away, where he would be locked up with the rest of the lunatics...

"I tried... darker things..." He blurted before he had a chance to formulate a better reply, "It's not something I'm proud of. I thought, if I made a doll with his likeness, I could... I might..."

Carlson moved the doll from one hand to the other. "I've known soldiers to turn to religion, even to superstition to cope. It's nothing to be ashamed of." He lifted the doll. "May I have it?"

Dib couldn't see why he would want it. "I was gonna throw it out anyway." Uncomfortable, he turned from the table to turn the kettle on.

"You needn't be alone, kiddo." Tempted the soldier. "I could use someone like you. These, these gadgets you've made..." Tucking the doll under one arm, he tapped what appeared to be a pen, only for it to suddenly and loudly explode. It trailed about in the air like a corkscrew firework.

"You shouldn't touch them!" Dib swiped at the flying torpedo with a dishcloth, Carlson watching with an amused look on his weathered face.

"You built your own arsenal against the enemy, Dib. You are an army of one, and an ingenious inventor to boot. And your father doesn't even notice."

It was meant to be praise, and an earlier Dib would have proudly welcomed it with open arms. Now it only made him shiver.

I know only how to make machines that kill and maim. My father spent his whole life trying to find ways to heal and save.

I still remember the look on his face when I showed him my devices... at the time I couldn't understand... couldn't deal with the disappointment. I see now, why he turned away...

He managed to smack the whistling pen/missile-thing out of the air, and it wheezed and smoked, trailing its circuits on the tiled flooring like a broken insect. He covered it with the cloth even as it wriggled around. He staggered back, hitting the worktop.

Carlson moved forward to help. "Where do you keep your mugs and pot o' coffee?"

"Over there." He whispered shakily. "Top drawer. On your left."

Carlson approached the pot, continuing his buttery soft anecdote. "There is no escape from destiny, son. I know what holds you back. Every soldier feels the guilt when he has blood on his hands. It's one thing to take aim. But it's quite another to pull the trigger. That alien monster doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy. God knows how many he's killed, how many worlds that bug-eyed bastard has infiltrated."

The kettle came to a boil.

Dib thought he heard laughter close by, maybe, from upstairs.

Carlson seemed to be distracted, clanking out mugs and listening to the hiss of the steaming kettle. "One sugar or two?" The man asked.

Dib frowned. Wasn't he supposed to be serving Carlson, however uninvited? "One."

He heard the clink of silver as he turned a spoon in the rich blackness of the coffee. "There's only one way to release you."

The statement was so sudden that Dib couldn't catch it. "E-Excuse me?"

"I want you to go in there, and confront him."

"Z-Zim...?" Then, in the same breath, "No, no..." The hurt rushed up to his chest, the panic a close-second.

"A01 has no power over you, and never will again. But if you don't face him now, he'll forever overshadow your life. You've always been a man who confronts his demons. Why stop now?"

I'm dealing with a predator. He thought. Someone who knows how to survive.

Dib hesitated, lifting an eyebrow. How did he know, or claim to know so much about him? It wasn't the first time he began to suspect that Carlson had read his personal files in private. He might have done some digging on the internet, looking at the bottom of the well for anything lost and buried. It would explain how he knew his address, and that his competence in engineering may not have been a surprise. But the 'digging' would also have revealed his less than cheerful history, of beating up certain classmates, minor jail time for delinquency, anti-social behaviour and obstruction...

He looked at the floor, eyes suddenly burning.

A few days prior, the sergeant had let slip something telling, though it could just as easily have been nothing: "It takes guts to look your enemy in the face. Especially ones you once knew, ones you trusted. They're like a knife in the back. It stirs up things inside. And they want to weaken you. But you mustn't let them."

When he looked at Carlson, he saw himself in his eyes. He could have been him, if he had continued down the path he had torn into existence from the fires of hate and retribution. It was ironic, how sweet justice sounded when you did it in the wake of your own vengeance.

He ground his fingernails into the bottom edge of the countertop, teeth grinding into teeth.

He was afraid to know, afraid even to ask.

"So Zim's okay?" Please. Tell me.

Carlson seemed to tense in reaction to the alien's name as if it was a profanity. When he turned round, there was no mistaking the coldness in his smile. "Of course, son! A bump in the track isn't going to stop that thing. But you gotta understand, sympathy is a dangerous thing. It means nothing in the real world where survival is paramount. That makes the world go round. Do you think humanity would get very far if we stopped to care for every weak and bumbling little critter? We'd still be living in mud huts." He passed Dib a steaming mug of coffee. "You've got to be strong."

He pressed the warmth of the mug close to his chest, realizing that Carlson may never truly answer his question. Every answer the man had was veneered in an ironclad and bitter diligence stemming from his militarism and beliefs. Dib might as well have been talking to a priest fanatical with religion and nothing else.

With Zim locked away, he was now up against a solider of similar breed.

His willowy, broken soul would have to take that step, or remain forever fixed in place. "What if he's no threat anymore?"

"Excuse me?"

"What if the Armada aren't on their way? That he's on his own, always was?"

"Do you know what it's like to be on the battlefield, son?" He paused to fish out a cigar from one of his shirt pockets. Dib watched, wishing he would have asked permission first.

The silence was suddenly excruciating, the ticking of the grandfather clock a chiming resonance.

The ragdoll of Zim bobbed and dangled from under the man's arm.

"I'm... I'm sorry..."

"Don't apologize. War is war." He stumped the burning end of the cigar into his still hot coffee, and it gave off a steaming hiss. "All it takes is a second. You drop your guard, and you lose everything."

Dib wondered, in the back of his mind, how exactly his wife had left him. Was it his ceaseless anecdotes of the war? The pain and stigma he carried? Or was the man simply so... cold?

Carlson gave off a certain indefinable coldness. A stone from the beach would have had more warmth to it.

I wonder if his obsession drove him to loneliness...

And he wasn't sure he wanted to be Carlson's favourite if the man likely regarded everyone as an enemy. Carlson's pain was reflected in his mercilessness and festering hatred. He would go on squeezing the life out of everything until there was nothing left to squeeze.

"Look, it's getting late..." And Dib feigned looking at a wrist that had no watch.

Carlson nodded, looking rather worn himself. "I'd better head back to Geneva. See what those idiots are up to... can't leave 'em alone for two seconds..." He again looked at the glittering plethora of tech that Dib had not yet shoved into bin liners, a hand caressing the smooth shell of the EMP attacher. Finally his roughened, calloused hands settled on the net. "Hmm, this looks intricate."

"Carbon-fibre relay tech." Dib stated numbly. "It folds to miniature, but once it spreads out, it swoops to a moving target and pins itself down on them like a brick. The reinforced magnesium in the structure makes it nearly impossible to cut."

"You are remarkable... making all this, in your war against Earth's invader." He picked up the thin folds of net. "May I?" Dib nodded as the man put it into his pocket. "How much of this stuff did you actually use on A01?"

Dib looked away, "I can't remember."

Carlson noted his reluctance. As he walked past the metal dog he stooped to rub its smooth, cold head. "I could do with one o' these. Do you take commissions?"

He swore he could hear more giggling upstairs, but he was so paranoid that even birdsong outside would have sounded like Gir's tinkling laughter. "No..."

"How's the wound?"

He touched the side of his stomach tentatively. "Better, thanks."

Carlson moved down to the foyer and started shrugging stiff, rigid shoulders into his jacket. "Something you need to know, son. That kooky house of A01's has been vandalised."

He immediately put on a shocked expression, but it was harder to put a plug on the adrenaline that rose to the fore. "What?"

"Someone broke in, and blew up sections. Funny though, they seemed to have had access to detonators... explosives... Quite advanced explosives too, and not your typical amateur... and there were feathers and fur, everywhere." He stomped his feet back into his wet and dripping boots. Dib knew he was phishing, and if not on purpose than the sergeant was unconsciously doing it.

Soldiers never truly switch off, do they? Even when the dong of battle ended a century ago.

"What was damaged?" He asked, imitating the perplexed, naive idiot, even though he wasn't sure how good he was at faking it.

"Much of the interior. It's a mess."

"Weren't the police supposed to be keeping an eye on the place?"

Carlson sighed, and took a few moments straightening his flight jacket. "This is what happens when you rely on others, son. They always fuck up. Well, I better be off. Remember what I said. About confronting A01. It'll do you good, I promise. Oh, and thanks for the doll."

He watched him walk down the thin scraggly porch to his truck with that stiffness to his shoulders as if there was a rod of metal inside them. When he closed the door, he peeked out through the curtains to watch him drive away. Even then, he couldn't be sure he had truly gone and wasn't parked round a corner somewhere, monitoring him with the spy equipment he had secretly put in place.

"Is he gone?" Came a small chirp.

Dib turned round to see him, heart softening in relief. "Yeah. He's gone. You did good, Gir."

"Who was heee?"

Dib shrugged. "Someone who doesn't know how to quit."

"Annnd you?"

"Me, what?"

He finally cocked his silver head at him.

"I'm fine, Gir. Really." For a moment he wanted to tell him what was really on his mind when he shortly realized who it was he was talking to.

Though the temptation was there to call his father, he merely sat on the sofa in his tired old lounge, eyes staring vacantly at the phone. Even when Carlson had long gone, the coldness he left behind lingered as snow scurried past the windowpane.

"There's only one way to release you... go in there, and confront him."